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liiera-.'-ea  l^v  TLoxier, 


S.:;EHiEXAIV  or  ThJL  r. 


ij?»«a'  3TnXer 


F.! -pn;    ::'  iT  the BanOfTiZti'r  -R^.]  i 


OLi@[i^i 


3magiiiatbe 


AND    OF 


SCOTLAND 


WITH 


A  GLOSSARY   OF  SCOTCH  ¥OKDS. 


Old  tales  I  heard  of  wo  or  mirth, 

Of  lovers"  sleifrhts,  of  ladies"  charms. 

Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors"  arms  ; 

Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old, 

By  Wallace  \Yight  and  Bruce  the  bold. 

SIR    WALTER    SC07T.. 


VOL,  II. 


av  ilark: 


ROBERT  T,  SHANNON,  36  PARK  ROVY. 


1^48. 


W^Q--^ ; 

CONTENTS    OF    VOL.   II. 

/    ■ — / 

; 

Page. 

Page. 

A  Biting  Evidence 

328 

The  Profligate 

190 

A  Passage  in  the  Life  of  St.  Kentigern 

332 

The  Rothesay  Fisherman 

199 

A  Vagaiy  of  Fortune 

216 

The  Miser  of  New  Abbey  . 

219 

The  Pirate      .         .       '.        .        . 

235 

Duncan  Schulebred's  Vision  of  Judgment 

581 

The  Laird  of  Ballachie 

243 

Dura  Den 

290 

The  Seeker 

248 

The  Persecution  of  the  McMichaels    . 

257 

Early  Attachments        ,        .        .        . 

23 

The  Persecuted  Elector 

260 

Ellen  Arundel         ... 

365 

The  New  Firm      - .            ... 

267 

The  Sabbath  Wrecks      . 

270 

Fauconberg,  or  the  Emigre 

368 

The  Stone  Breaker     .... 

275 

The  Mistake  Rectified     . 

285 

Johnny  Brotherton's  Five  Sunny  Days 

424 

The  Returned  Letter 

296 

Judith  the  Egyptian        .... 

43 

The  Clergyman's  Daughter     . 

303 

The  Deserted   Wile    .... 

305 

Lady  Rae    .;.... 

319 

The  Intended  Bridegroom 

312 

Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  an  Aged  Spin- 

The Bride         .           .         .        v        . 

336 

ster           .        .        .        .        . 

359 

The  Poacher's    Progress 

352 

The  Soldier's  Wife     .... 

381 

May  Darling,  the  Village  Pride 

513 

The  Irish  Reaper            .         .        .        . 

388 

Mr.  Samuel  Ramsay  Thriven 

62 

The  Story  of  Dugald  Glen 

The     Laidley    Worm    of    Spindleston 

392 

Peden's  Farewell  Sermon    . 

253 

Heugh              .... 

399 

Phebe  Fortune 

343 

The  Heroine            .... 

410 

Polwarth  on  the  Green 

193 

The  Restored  Son      .... 

428 

The  Floshend  Inn    . 

444 

Ringan  Oliver         ... 

88 

The  Widow  and  Her  Son    . 

460 

The  Schemer 

464 

The  Dominie's  Class  .... 

3 

The  Scottish  Hunters  of  Hudson's  Bay 

480 

The  Old  Irish  Beggar  Woman 

19 

The  Heiress  of  Insanity    . 

496     1 

The  Enthusiast            .... 

35 

The  Goodman  of  Dryfield 

529 

The  Wooers            

52 

The  Gipsy  Lover        .... 

544 

The  Double  Bedded  Room 

78 

The  Cateran  of  Lochloy 

548 

The  Guidwife  of  Coldingham 

95 

The  Adventures  of  Launcelot  Errington 

The  Recluse  of  the  Hebrides 

105 

and  his  Nephew  Mark 

557 

The  Minister's  Daughter 

109 

The  Mountain  Storm      .        .        .        . 

573 

The  One  Armed  Tar 

151 

The  Mysterious  Disappearance 

594 

The    Reformed        ..... 

159 

The  Gentle   Shepherd     .         .        .        . 

597 

The  Broken  Heart      .... 

169 

The  Victim  of  the  Statute  Book 

601 

The  Hypochondriac         .... 

174 

Paying  of  Debts 

618 

}      The  Hermit  of  the  Hills    . 

407 

TALES  OF  THE  BOEDEfiS, 


■■•'O   •- 


THE   DOMINIE'S    CLASS.* 


"  Their  ends  as  various  as  the  roads  they  take 
In  journeying  through  life." 


There  is  no  class  of  men  to  whom  the 
memory  turns  with  more  complacency, 
or  more  frequently,  than  to  those  who 
'^  taught  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot." 
There  may  he  a  few  tyrants  of  the  birch, 
who  never  inspired  a  feeling  save  fear  or 
hatred  ;  yet  their  number  is  but  few,  and 
I  would  say  that  the  schoolmaster  is 
abroad  in  more  senses  than  that  in  which 
it  is  popularly  applied.  He  is  abroad  in 
the  memory  and  in  the  affections  of  his 
pupils  ;  and  his  remembrance  is  cherished 
wheresoever  they  may  be.  For  my  own 
part,  I  never  met  with  a  teacher  whom  I 
did  not  love  when  a  boy,  and  reverence 
when  a  man  ;  from  him  before  whom  I 
used  to  stand  and  endeavor  to  read  my 
task  in  his  eyes,  as  he  held  the  book  be- 
fore his  face,  and  the  page  was  reflected 
in  his  spectacles — and  from  his  spectacles 
I  spelled  my  qu — to  him,  who,  as  an  elder 
friend,  bestowed  on  me  my  last  lesson. 
When  a  man  has  been  absent  from  the 
place  of  his  nativity  for  years,  and  when 
he  returns  and  grasps  the  hands  of  his 
surviving  kindred,  one  of  his  first  ques- 
tions to  them  (after  family  questions  are 

*  This  tale  has  been  written  from  the  circum- 
stance of  The  Tales  of  the  Borders  having 
already  been  adopted  as  a  lesson  book  in  several 
schools. 


settled)    is — "  Is    Mr. 


my 


)ld 


schoolmaster,  yet  alive  .^"  And,  if  the 
answer  be  in  the  affirmative,  one  of  the 
first  on  whom  he  calls  is  the  dominie  of 
his  boyhood  ;  and  he  enters  the  well-re- 
membered school — and  his  first  glance  is 
to  the  seat  he  last  occupied — as  an  urchin 
opens  the  door  and  admits  him,  as  he 
gently  taps  at  it,  and  cries  to  the  master, 
(who  is  engaged  with  a  class,)  when  the 
stranger  enters — 

"  Sir,  here's  one  wants  you.  ' 
Then  steps  forward  the  man  of  letfr-rs, 
looking  anxiously — gazing  as  though  he 
had  a  right  to  gaze  in  the  stranger's  fa  ?e  ; 
and,  throwing  out  his  head,  and  particu- 
larly his  chin,  while  he  utters  the  h 'si- 
tating  interrogative — ^^  Sir  .'"'  And  the 
stranger  replies — "  You  don't  know  >  le, 
I  suppose  .''  I  am  such-an-one,  who  was 
at  your  school  at  such  a  time."  The  in- 
stiller  of  knowledge  starts — 

"  What !"  cries  he,  shifting  his  spec'  a- 
cles,  "  you  Johnnie  (Thomas  or  Peter, 
as  the  case  may  be)  So-and-so } — it's 
not  possible !  O  man,  I'm  glad  to  =-8e 
ye  !  Ye'll  mak  me  an  auld  man,  whetlier 
I  will  or  no.  And  how  hae  ye  been,  nn' 
where  hae  ye  been  .^" — And,  as  he  spea :.s, 
he  flings  his  tawse  over  to  the  conier 
where    his    desk    stands.       The    young 


TALES  OF   THE   BORDERS. 


stranger  still  cordially  shakes  liis  hand,  a 
few  kindly  words  pass  between  them,  and 
the  teacher,  turning  to  his  scholars,  says 
— "  You  may  put  by  your  books  and 
slates,  and  go  for  the  day  ;"  when  an 
instantaneous  movement  takes  place 
through  the  school ;  there  is  a  closing  of 
books,  a  clanking  of  slates,  a  pocketing 
of  pencils,  a  clutching  for  hats,  caps, 
and  bonnets — a  springing  over  seats,  and  a 
falling  of  seats — a  rushing  to  the  door,  and 
a  shouting  when  at  the  door — a  "  hurra 
for  play  /" — and  the  stranger  seems  to 
have  made  a  hundred  happy,  while  the 
teacher  and  he  retire,  to 

"  Drink  a  cup  o'  kindness 
For  auld  langsyne." 

But  to  proceed  with  our  story  of 
stories.  There  was  a  Dr.  Montgomery, 
a  native  of  Annan,  who,  after  he  had  been 
for  more  than  twenty  years  a  physician  in 
India,  where  he  had  become  rich,  visited 
his  early  home,  which  was  also  the  grave 
of  his  fathers.  There  were  but  few  of  his 
relations  in  life  when  he  returned — (for 
death  makes  sad  havoc  in  families  in 
twenty  years) — but,  after  he  had  seen 
them,  he  inquired  if  his  old  teacher,  Mr. 
Grierson,  yet  lived  ? — and  being  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  the  doctor  proceeded  to 
the  residence  of  his  first  instructor.  He 
found  him  occupying  the  same  apartments 
in  which  he  resided  thirty  years  before, 
and  which  were  situated  on  the  south 
side  of  the  main  street,  near  the  bridge. 

When  the  first  congratulations — the 
shaking  of  hands  and  the  expressions  of 
surprise — had  been  got  over,  the  doctor 
invited  the  dominie  to  dinner  ;  and,  after 
the  cloth  was  withdrawn,  and  the  better 
part  of  a  bottle  of  Port  had  vanished 
between  them,  the  man  of  medicine  thus 
addressed  his  ancient  preceptor  : — 

"  Can  you  inform  me,  sir,  what  has  be- 
come of  my  old  class-fellows  ? — who  of 
them  are  yet  in  the  land  of  the  living  ? 
who  have  caught  the  face  of  fortune  as 
she  smiled,  or  been  rendered  the  '  sport  o' 
her  slippery  ba' .?'     Of  the  fate   of  one 


of  them  I  know  something,  and  to  me 
their  history  would  be  more  interesting 
than  a  romance." 

"  Do  ye  remember  the  names  that  ye 
used  to  gie  ane  another?"  inquired  the 
man  of  letters,  with  a  look  of  importaijce, 
which  showed  that  the  history  of  the 
whole  class  was  forthcoming. 

^'  I  remember  them  well,"  replied  the 
doctor  ;  "  there  were  seven  of  us :  Soli- 
tary Sandy — Glaikit  Willie — -Venture- 
some Jamie — Cautious  Watty — Leein' 
Peter — Jock  the  Dunce — and  myself." 

"  And  hae  ye  forgot  the  lounderings 
that  I  used  to  give  ye,  for  ca'iu  ane  ani- 
ther  such  names  .^"  inquired  Mr.  Grierson, 
with  a  smile. 

"  I  remember  you  were  displeased  at 
it,"  replied  the  other. 

^'  Weel,  doctor,"  continued  the 
teacher,  "  I  believe  I  can  gratify  your  cu- 
riosity, an'  I  am  not  sure  but  you'll  find 
that  the  history  of  your  class-fellows  is 
not  without  interest.  The  career  of 
some  of  them  has  been  to  me  as  a  recom- 
pense for  all  the  pains  I  bestowed  on 
them,  an'  that  o'  others  has  been  a  source 
o'  grief.  Wi'  some  I  hae  been  disap- 
pointed, wi'  ithers  surprised  ;  but  you'll 
allow  that  I  did  my  utmost  to  fleech  and 
to  thrash  your  besetting  sins  out  o'  ye  a'. 
I  will  fij'st  inform  you  what  I  know  re- 
specting the  history  of  Alexander  Ruther- 
ford, whom  all  o'  ye  used  to  ca'  Solitary 
Sandy,  because  he  wasna  hempy  like 
yoursels.  Now,  sir,  hearken  to  the  his- 
tory of 

SOLITARY  SANDY. 

I  remarked  that  Sandy  was  an  extra- 
ordinary callant,  and  that  he  would  turn 
out  a  character  that  would  be  heard  tell 
o'  in  the  world  ;  though  that  he  would 
ever  rise  in  it,  as  some  term  it,  or  be- 
come rich  in  it,  I  did  not  believe.  I 
dinna  think  that  e'er  I  had  to  raise  the 
tawse  to  Sandy  in  my  life.  He  had 
always  his  task  as  ready  by  heart  as  he 


THE  DOMINIE'S   CLASS. 


could  count  his  fingers.  Ye  ne'er  saw 
Sandy  looking  over  his  book,  or  nodding 
wi'  it  before  his  face.  He  and  his  lessons 
were  like  twa  acquaintances — fond  o'  each 
other's  company.  I  hae  observed  frae 
the  window,  when  the  rest  o'  ye  would 
hae  been  driving  at  the  hand-ba',  cleesh- 
in'  your  peerie-taps,  or  endangerin'  your 
legs  wi'  the  duck-stane,  Sandy  wad  been 
sitting  on  his  hunkers  in  the  garden, 
looking  as  earnestly  on  a  daisy  or  ony  bit 
flower,  as  if  the  twa  creatures  could  hae 
held  a  crack  wi'  ane  anither,  and  the 
bonny  leaves  o'  the  wee  silent  things 
whispered  to  Sandy  how  they  got  their 
colors,  how  they  peeped  forth  to  meet  the 
kiss  o'  spring,  and  how  the  same  Power 
that  created  the  lowly  daisy  called  man 
into  existence,  and  fashioned  the  bright 
sun  and  the  glorious  firmament.  He  was 
once  dux,  and  aye  dux.  From  the  first 
moment  he  got  to  the  head  o'  the  class, 
there  he  remained  as  immovable  as  a 
mountain.  There  was  nae  trapping  him  ; 
for  his  memory  was  like  clock-work.  I 
canna  say  that  he  had  a  great  turn  for 
mathematics  ;  but  ye  will  remember,  as 
weel  as  me,  that  he  was  a  great  Grecian; 
and  he  had  screeds  o'  Virgil  as  ready  aff 
by  heart  as  the  twenty-third  psalm. 
Mony  a  time  hae  I  said  concerning  him, 
in  the  words  o'  Butler — 

'  Latin  to  him's  no  raoredifficil, 
Than  for  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle.' 

The  classics,  indeed,  were  his  particular 
hobby  ;  and,  though  I  was  proud  o'  Sandy, 
I  often  wished  that  I  could  direct  his 
bent  to  studies  o'  greater  practical 
utility.  His  exercises  showed  that  he 
had  an  evident  genius  for  poetry,  and 
that  o'  a  very  high  order  ;  but  his  parents 
were  poor,  and  I  didna  see  what  poetry 
was  to  put  in  his  pocket.  I,  therefore, 
by  no  means  encouraged  him  to  follow 
out  what  I  conceived  to  be  a  profitless 
though  a  pleasing  propensity  ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  when  I  had  an  opportunity 
o'  speakin'  to  him  by  himsel,  I  used  to 
say  to  him — 


^  Alexander,  ye  have  a  happy  turn  for 
versification,  and  there  is  both  boldness 
and  originality  about  your  ideas — though 
no  doubt  they  would  require  a  great  deal 
of  pruning  before  they  could  appear  in  a 
respectable  shape  before  the  world.  But 
you  must  not  indulge  in  verse-writing. 
When  you  do  it,  let  it  only  be  for  an  ex- 
ercise, or  for  amusement  when  you  have 
nothing  better  to  do.  It  may  make 
rhyme  jingle  in  your  ears,  but  it  will 
never  make  sterling  coin  jink  in  your 
pockets.  Even  the  immortal  Homer  had 
to  sing  his  own  verses  about  the  streets  ; 
and  ye  have  heard  the  epigram — 

'  Seven  cities  now  contend  for  Homer  dead, 
Through  which  the  living  Homer  begged    his 
bread.' 

Boethius,  like  Savage  in  our  own  days, 
died  in  a  prison  ;  Terence  was  a  slave, 
and  Plautus  did  the  work  of  a  horse. 
Cervantes  perished  for  lack  of  food,  on 
the  same  day  that  our  great  Shakspeare 
died  ;  but  Shakspeare  had  worldly  wis- 
dom as  well  as  heavenly  genius.  Camoens 
died  in  an  alms-house.  The  magical 
Spenser  was  a  supplicant  at  Court  for 
years  for  a  paltry  pension,  till  hope  de- 
ferred made  his  heart  sick,  and  he  vented 
his  disappointment  in  these  words — 

*  I  was  promised  on  a  time^ 
To  have  reason  for  my  rhyme : 
From  that  time  unto  this  season, 
I  i-eceived  not  rhyme  nor  reason.' 

Butler  asked  for  bread,  and  they  gave  him 
a  stone.  Dryden  lived  between  the  hand 
and  the  mouth.  Poor  Otway  perished 
through  penury  ;  and  Chatterton,  the  in- 
spired boy,  terminated  his  wretchedness 
with  a  pennyworth  of  poison.  But  there 
is  a  more  striking  example  than  these, 
Sandy.  It  was  but  the  other  day,  that 
our  immortal  countryman,  Robbie  Burns 
— the  glorie  o'  our  age — sank,  at  our  very 
door,  neglected  and  in  poverty,  wi'  a 
broken  heart  into  the  grave.  Sandy,' 
added  I,  '  never  think  o'  being  a  poet.  If 
ye  attempt  it,  ye  will  embark  upon  an 
ocean  where,  for   every  one   that  reaches 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


their  desired  haven,  ninety  and  nine  be- 
come a  wreck.' 

On  sucli  occasions,  Sandy  used  to  listen 
most   attentively,  an'  crack  to  me  very 
auld-farrantly.     Well,    sir,    it   was   just 
after  ye  went  to  learn  to   be  a  doctor, 
that  1  resolved  to  try  an'  do  something 
to  push  him  forward  mysel,  as  his  parents 
were  not  in  ability  ;  and  I  had  made  ap- 
plication to  a  gentleman  on  his  behalf,  to 
use  his  influence  to  procure  him  a  bursary 
in  ane   o'  the  universities,  when  Sandy's 
faither  died,  and,  puir  man,  left  hardly 
as  meikle  behind  him  as  would  pay  the 
expenses  o'  his   funeral.       This   was   a 
death-blow  to  Sandy's  prospects  an'  my 
hopes.     He  wasna  seventeen  at  the  time, 
and  his  widowed  mother  had  five  bairns 
younger.     He  was   the   only  ane  in  the 
family  that  she    could  look   up  to  as  a 
bread-winner.    It  was  about  harvest ;  an', 
when  the  shearing   commenced,  he  went 
out  wi'  ithers  an'  took  his  place  on  the 
rig.     As  it  was  his  first  year,  an'  he  was 
but  a  learner,  his  wages  were  but  sma' ; 
but,  sma'  as  they  were,  at  the  end  o'  the 
season  he   brought  them   hame,  an'  my 
puir  blighted  scholar  laddie  thought  him- 
sel  a  man,  when  he  placed  his  earnings, 
to  a  farthing,  in  his  mother's  hand. 

I  was  sorry  for  Sandy.     It  pained  me 
to  see  one  by  whom  I  had  had  so  much 
credit,  and  who,  I  was  conscious,  would 
make  ane   o'  the  brightest  ornaments  o' 
the  pu'pit  that  ever  entered  it,  throwing 
his    learning  and  his  talents    awa,   an' 
doomed  to   be  a  laboring  man.     I  lost 
mony  a  night's  sleep  on  his  account ;  but 
I  was  determined  to  serve  him  if  I  could, 
and  I  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  him 
appointed  tutor  in  a  gentleman's  family 
o'  the  name  o'  Crompton,  owre   in  Cum- 
berland.    He  was  to   teach  twa  bits  o' 
laddies   English  and   arithmetic,    Latin 
and  Greek.  He  wasna  out  eighteen  when 
he  entered  upon  the   duties  o'  his  office ; 
and  great  cause  had  I  to  be  proud  o'  my 
scholar,  an'  satisfied  wi'my  recommenda- 
tion ;  for,  before  he  had  been  six  months 


in  his  situation,  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  gentleman  himself,  intimating  his 
esteem  for  Sandy,  the  great  progress  his 
sons  had  made  under  his  tuition,  and  ex- 
pressin'  his  gratitude  to  me  for  recom- 
mending such  a  tutor.  He  was,  in  con- 
sequence, kind  and  generous  to  my  auld 
scholar,  and  he  doubled  his  wages,  and 
made  him  presents  beside  ;  so  that  Sandy 
was  enabled  to  assist  his  mother  and  his 
brethren. 

But  we  ne'er  hae  a  sunny  day,  though 
it  be  the  langest  day  in  summer,  but, 
sooner  or  later,  a  rainy  ane  follows  it. 
Now,  Mr.  Crompton  had  a  daughter 
about  a  year  younger  than  Sandy.  She 
wasna'  what  people  would  ca'  a  pretty 
girl,  for  I  hae  seen  her ;  but  she  had  a 
sonsy  face  and  intelligent  een.  She  also 
forsooth,  wrote  sonnets  to  the  moon,  and 
hymns  to  the  rising  sun.  She,  of  a'  wo- 
men, was  the  most  likely  to  bewitch  puir 
Sandy  ;  and  she  did  bewitch  him.  A 
strong  liking  sprang  up  between  them. 
They  couldna  conceal  their  partiality  for 
ane  anither.  He  was  everything  that 
was  perfect  in  her  een,  and  she  was  an 
angel  in  his.  Her  name  was  Ann  :  and 
he  had  celebrated  it  in  every  measure, 
from  the  hop-and-step  line  of  four  sylla- 
bles to  that  o'  fourteen,  which  rolleth  like 
the  echoing  o'  a  trumpet. 

Now,  her  faither,  though  a  ceevil  an' 
a  kind  man,  was  also  a  shrewd,  sharp- 
sighted,  an'  determined  man  :  an'  he  saw 
the  flutter  that  had  risen  up  in  the  breast 
o'  his  daughter  and  the  young  tutor.  So 
he  sent  for  Sandy,  and  without  seeming 
to  be  angry  wi'  him,  or  even  hinting  at 
the  cause — 

*  Mr.  Rutherford,'  said  he,  '  you  are 
aware  that  I  am  highly  gratified  with  the 
manner  in  which  you  have  discharged 
the  duties  of  tutor  to  my  boys  ;  but  I 
have  been  thinking  that  it  will  be  more  to 
their  advantage  that  their  education,  for 
the  future,  be  a  j)ublic  one,  and  to-mor- 
row 1  intend  sending  them  to  a  boarding- 
school  in  Yorkshire.' 


THE  DOMINIE'S   CLASS. 


7 


*  To-morrow  !'  said  Sandy,  mechani- 
cally, scarce  knowing  what  he  said,  or 
where  he  stood. 

*  To-morrow,'  added  Mr.  Crompton ; 
*  and  I  have  sent  for  you,  sir,  in  order  to 
settle  with  you  respecting  your  salary.' 

This  was  bringing  the  matter  home  to 
the  business  and  the  bosom  of  the  scholar 
somewhat  suddenly.  Little  as  he  was 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  some- 
thing like  the  real  cause  for  the  hasty  re- 
moval of  his  pupils  to  Yorkshire  began 
to  dawn  upon  his  mind.  He  was  stricken 
with  dismay  and  with  great  agony,  and  he 
longed  to  pour  out  his  soul  upon  the  gentle 
bosom  of  Ann.  But  she  had  gone  on  a 
visit,  with  her  mother,  to  a  friend  in  a 
different  part  of  the  country,  and  Mr. 
Crompton  was  to  set  out  with  his  sons  for 
Yorkshire  on  the  following  day.  Then, 
also,  would  Sandy  have  to  return  to  the 
humble  roof  of  his  mother.  When  he 
retired  to  pack  up  his  books  and  his 
few  things,  he  wrung  his  hands — yea, 
there  were  tears  upon  his  cheeks ;  and, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit,  he  said — 

'  My  own  sweet  Ann  !  and  shall  I 
never  see  thee  again — never  hear  thee — 
never  hope  !'  And  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  his  forehead  and  pressed  it  there, 
repeating  as  he  did  so — '  never  !  oh, 
never  !' 

I  was  surprised  beyond  measure  when 
Sandy  came  back  to  Annan,  and,  wi'  a 
wo-begone  countenance,  called  upon  me. 
I  thought  that  Mr.  Crompton  was  not  a 
man  of  the  discernment  and  sagacity  that 
I  had  given  him  credit  to  be  ;  and  I  de- 
sired Sandy  not  to  lay  it  so  sair  to  heart, 
for  that  something  else  would  cast  up. 
But,  in  a  day  or  two,  I  received  a  letter 
from  the  gentleman  himself,  showing  me 
how  matters  stood,  and  giving  me  to 
"understand  the  why  and  the  wherefore. 
■' '  O  the  gowk  !'  said  I,  '  what  business 
had  he  to  fa'  in  love,  when  he  had  the 
bairns  an'  his  books  to  mind.' 

So  I  determined  to  rally  him  a  wee 
thought  on  the  subject,  in  order  to  bring 


him  back  to  his  senses ;  for,  when  a  haf- 
flins  laddie  is  laboring  under  the  first 
dizziness  o'  a  bonny  lassie's  influence,  I 
dinna  consider  that  he  is  capable  o' 
either  seeing,  feeling,  hearing,  or  acting 
wi'  the  common  sense  discretion  o'  a 
reasonable  being.  It  is  a  pleasant  heat- 
ing and  wandering  o'  the  brain.  There- 
fore, the  next  time  I  saw  him — 

'  Sandy,'  says  I,  ^  wha  was't  laid  Troy 
in  ashes  r'  He  at  first  started  and  stared 
at  me,  rather  vexed  like,  but,  at  last,  he 
answered,  wi'  a  sort  o'  forced  laugh — 

'  A  woman.' 

'  A  woman,  was  it  ?'  says  I ;  '  an'  wha 
was  the  cause  o'  Sandy  Rutherford  losing 
his  situation  as  tutor,  an'  being  sent  back 
to  Annan .'" 

'  Sirl'  said  he,  and  he  scowled  down 
his  eye-brows,  and  gied  a  look  at  me  that 
would  hae  spained  a  ewe's  lamb.  I  saw 
that  he  was  too  far  gone,  and  that  his  mind 
was  in  a  state  that  it  would  not  be  safe 
to  trifle  wi' ;  so  I  tried  him  no  more 
upon  the  subject. 

Weel,  as  his  mother,  puir  woman, 
had  enough  to  do,  and  couldna  keep 
him  in  idleness,  and  as  there  was  naething 
for  him  in  Annan,  he  went  to  Edinburgh 
to  see  what  would  cast  up,  and  what  his 
talents  and  education  would  do  for  him 
there.  He  had  recommendations  from 
several  gentlemen,  and  also  from  myself. 
But  month  after  month  passed  on,  and 
he  was  like  to  hear  of  nothing.  His 
mother  was  becoming  extremely  unhap- 
py on  his  account ;  and  the  more  so  be- 
cause he  had  given  up  writing,  which 
astonished  me  a  great  deal,  for  I  could 
not  divine  the  cause  of  such  conduct  as 
not  to  write  to  his  own  mother,  to  say 
that  he  was  well  or  what  he  was  doinor  • 
and  I  was  the  more  surprised  at  it,  be- 
cause of  the  excellent  opinion  I  had  en- 
tertained of  his  character  and  disposition. 
However,  I  think  it  would  be  about  six 
months  after  he  had  left,  I  received  a  let- 
ter from  him  ;  and,  as  that  letter  is  of 
importance  in  giving  you  an  account  of 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


his  history,  I  shall  just  step  along  to  the 
school  for  it,  where  I  have  it  carefully 
placed  in  my  desk,  and  shall  bring 
it  and  any  other  papers  that  I  think 
may  be  necessary  in  giving  you  an  ac- 
count of  your  other  schoolfellows." 

Thus  saying,  Dominie  Grierson,  tak- 
ing up  his  three-cornered  hat  and  silver- 
mounted  walking-stick,  stalked  out  of  the 
room.  And,  as  people  generally  like  to 
have  some  idea  of  the  sort  of  person  who 
is  telling  them  a  story,  I  shall  here  de- 
scribe to  them  the  appearance  of  Mr. 
Grierson.  He  was  a  fine-looking  old 
man,  about  five  feet  nine  inches  high — 
his  ao-e  mi^ht  be  about  threescore  and 
fifteen,  and  he  was  a  bachelor.  His  hair 
was  white  as  the  driven  snow,  yet  as 
fresh  and  thick  as  though  he  had  been 
but  thirty.  His  face  was  pale.  He  could 
not  properly  be  called  corpulent,  but  his 
person  had  an  inclination  that  way.  His 
shoes  were  fastened  with  large  silver  buc- 
kles ;  he  wore  a  pair  of  the  finest  black 
lambs'-wool  stockings ;  breeches  of  the 
same  color,  fastened  at  the  knees  by 
buckles,  similar  to  those  in  his  shoes. 
His  coat  and  waistcoat  were  also  black, 
and  both  were  exceedingly  capacious  ;  for 
the  former,  with  its  broad  skirts,  which 
descended  almost  to  his  heels,  would  have 
made  a  greatcoat  now-a-days  ;  and  in  the 
kingly  flaps  of  the  latter,  which  defended 
his  loins,  was  cloth  enough  and  to  spare 
to  have  made  a  modern  vest.  This,  with 
the  broad-brimmed,  round-crowned,  three- 
cornered  hat,  already  referred  to,  a  pair 
of  spectacles,  and  the  silver-mounted  cane, 
completed  the  outward  appearance  of 
Dominie  Grierson,  with  the  exception  of 
his  cambric  handkerchief,  which  was 
whiter  than  his  own  locks,  and  did  credit 
to  the  cleanliness  of  his  housekeeper,  and 
her  skill  as  a  laundress. 

In  a  few  moments  he  returned,  with 
Sandy's  letter  and  other  papers  in  his 
hand,  and  helping  himself  to  another  glass 
of  wine,  he  rubbed  the  glass  of  his  spec- 
tacles with  his  handkerchief,  and  said — 


"Now,   doctor,  here   is  poor  Sandy's 
letter  ;  listen  and  ye  shall  hear  it. 

'  Edinburgh^  June  10,  17 — . 
*  Honored  Sir, — I  fear  that,  on  account 
of  my  not  having  written  to  you,  you  will, 
ere  now,  have  accused  me  of  ingratitude  ; 
and  when  I  tell  you  that,  until  the  other 
day,  I  have  not  for  months  even  written  to 
my  mother,  you  may  think  me  undutifol 
as  well  as  ungrateful.  But  my  own  breast 
holds  me  guiltless  of  both.  When  I  ar- 
rived here  I  met  with  nothing  but  disap- 
pointments, and  those  I  found  at  every 
hand.  For  many  weeks  I  walked  the  streets 
of  this  city  in  despair,  hopeless  as  a  fallen 
angel.  I  was  hungry,  and  no  one  gave 
me  to  eat ;  but  they  knew  not  that  I  was 
in  want.  Keen  misery  held  me  in  its 
grasp — ruin  caressed  me,  and  laughed  at 
its  plaything,  I  will  not  pain  you  by  de- 
tailing a  catalogue  of  the  privations  1 
endured,  and  which  none  but  those  who 
have  felt  and  fathomed  the  depths  of 
misery,  can  imagine.  Through  your  letter 
of  recommendation,  I  was  engaged  to  give 
private  lessons  to  two  pupils,  but  the 
salary  was  small,  and  that  was  only  to  be 
paid  quarterly.  While  I  was  teaching 
them,  I  was  starving,  living  on  a  penny 
a-day.  But  this  was  not  all.  I  was  fre- 
quently without  a  lodging  ;  and  being 
expelled  from  one  for  lack  of  the  means 
of  paying  for  it,  it  was  many  days  before 
I  could  venture  to  inquire  for  another. 
My  lodging  was  on  a  common  stair,  or  on 
the  bare  sides  of  the  Calton  ;  and  my 
clothes,  from  exposure  to  the  weather, 
became  unsightly.  They  were  no  longer 
fitting  garments  for  one  who  gave  lessons 
in  a  fashionable  family.  For  several  days 
I  observed  the  eyes  of  the  lady  of  the  house 
where  I  taught,  fixed  with  a  most  super- 
cilious and  scrutinizing  expression  upon 
my  shabby  and  unfortunate  coat.  I  saw 
and  felt  that  she  was  weisihins;  the  shabbi- 
ness  of  my  garments  against  my  qualifica- 
tions, and  I  trembled  for  the  consequence. 
In   a   short   time,   my  worst  fears  were 


THE  DOMINIE'S   CLASS. 


realized ;  for,  one  day,  calling  as  usual, 
instead  of  being  shown  into  a  small  parlor, 
where  I  gave  my  lessons,  the  man-servant, 
who  opened  the  door,  permitted  me  to 
stand  in  the  lobby,  and,  in  two  minutes, 
returned  with  two  guineas  upon  a  small 
silver-plate,  intimating,  as  he  held  them 
before  me,  that  '  the  services  of  Mr. 
Rutherford  were  no  longer  required,' 
The  sight  of  the  two  guineas  took  away 
the  bitterness  and  mortification  of  the 
abrupt  dismissal.  I  pocketed  them,  and 
engaged  a  lodging ;  and  never,  until  that 
aight,  did  I  know  or  feel  the  exquisite 
luxury  of  a  deep,  dreamless  sleep.  It  was 
bathing  in  Lethe,  and  rising  refreshed, 
having  no  consciousness,  -save  the  grateful 
feeling  of  the  cooling  waters  of  forgetful- 
ness  around  you.  Having,  some  weeks 
ago,  translated  an  old  deed,  which  was 
written  in  Latin,  for  a  gentleman  who  is 
what  is  called  an  inn-door  advocate,  and 
who  has  an  extensive  practice,  he  has  been 
pleased  to  take  me  into  his  office,  and  has 
fixed  on  me  a  liberal  salary.  He  advises 
me  to  push  my  way  to  the  bar,  and  kindly 
promises  his  assistance.  I  shall  follow  his 
advice,  and  I  despair  not  but  I  may  one 
day  solicit  the  hand  of  the  only  woman  I 
ever  have  loved,  or  can  love,  from  her 
father,  as  his  equal.  I  am,  Sir,  yours, 
indebtedly, 

*  Alex.  Rutherford.' 

Now,  sir  (continued  the  dominie),  about 
three  years  after  I  had  received  this  letter, 
my  old  scholar  was  called  to  the  bar,  and 
a  brilliant  first  appearance  he  made. 
Bench,  bar,  and  jury,  were  lost  in  wonder 
at  the  power  o'  his  eloquence.  A  De- 
mosthenes had  risen  up  amongst  them. 
The  half  o'  Edinburgh  spoke  o'  naething 
but  the  young  advocate.  But  it  was  on 
the  very  day  that  he  made  his  first  ap- 
pearance as  a  pleader,  that  I  received  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Crompton,  begging  to 
know  if  I  could  gie  him  ony  information 
respecting  the  old  tutor  o'  his  family,  and 
stating,  in  the  language  o'  a  broken-hearted 


man,  that  his  only  daughter  was  then  upon 
her  deathbed,  and  that  before  she  died  she 
begged  she  might  be  permitted  to  see  and 
to  speak  with  Alexander  Rutherford.  I 
enclosed  the  letter,  and  sent  it  off  to  the 
young  advocate.  He  was  sitting  at  a 
dinner  party,  receiving  the  homage  of 
beauty,  and  the  congratulations  of  learned 
men,  when  the  fatal  letter  was  put  into  his 
hands.  He  broke  the  seal — his  hands 
shook  as  he  read — his  cheeks  grew  pale — 
and  large  drops  of  sweat  burst  upon  his 
brow.  He  rose  from  the  table.  He 
scarce  knew  what  he  did.  But,  within 
half-an-hour  he  was  posting  on  his  way  to 
Cumberland.  He  reached  the  house,  her 
parents  received  him  with  tears,  and  he 
was  conducted  into  the  room  where  the 
dying  maiden  lay.  She  knew  his  voice  as 
lie  approached. 

'  He  is  come  ! — he  is  come  ! — he  loves 
me  still !'  cried  the  poor  thing,  endeavor- 
ing to  raise  herself  upon  her  elbow. 

Sandy  approached  the  bedside — he 
burst  into  tears — he  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  pale  and  wasted  cheeks,  over  which 
death  seemed  already  to  have  cast  its 
shadow. 

'  Ann  !  my  beloved  Ann  !'  said  he,  and 
he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips  ;  '  do  not  leave  me  ;  we  shall  yet 
be  happy  ." 

Her  eyes  brightened  for  a  moment — in 
them  joy  struggled  with  death,  and  the 
contest  was  unequal.  From  the  day  that 
he  had  been  sent  from  her  father's  house, 
she  had  withered  away  as  a  tender  flower 
that  is  transplanted  to  an  unkindly  soil. 
She  desired  that  they  would  lift  her  up, 
and  she  placed  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
and,  gazing  anxiously  in  his  face,  said — 

^  And  Alexander  still  loves  me — even 
in  death  !' 

'  Yes,  dearest — ^yes  !'  he  replied.  But 
she  had  scarce  heard  his  answer,  and  re- 
turned it  with  a  smile  of  happiness,  when 
her  head  sank  upon  his  bosom,  and  a  deep 
sigh  escaped  from  hers.  It  was  her  last. 
Her  soul  seemed  only  to  have  lingered  till 


10 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


her  eyes  might  look  on  him.  She  was 
removed  a  corpse  from  his  breast ;  but  on 
that  breast  the  weight  of  death  was  still 
left.  He  became  melancholy — his  am- 
bition died — she  seemed  to  have  been  the 
only  object  that  stimulated  him  to  pursue 
fame  and  to  seek  for  fortune.  In  intense 
study  he  sought  to  forget  his  grief— or 
rather  he  made  them  companions — till  his 
health  broke  under  them ;  and,  in  the 
thirtieth  year  of  his  age,  died  one  who 
possessed  talents  and  learning  that  would 
have  adorned  his  country,  and  rendered 
his  name  immortal.  Such  su-,  is  the  brief 
history  o'  yer  auld  class-fellow,  Solitary 
Sandy. 

In  the  history  o' 

GLAIKIT  WILLIE, 

(continued  Mr.  Griei-son),  the  only  thing 
remarkable  is,  that  he  has  been  as  fortu- 
nate a  man  as  he  was  a  thochtless  laddie. 
After  leaving  the  school,  he  flung  his 
Greek  and  Latin  aside,  and  that  was  easily 
done,  for  it  was  but  little  that  he  ever 
learned,  and  less  that  he  remembered,  for 
he  paid  so  little  attention  to  onything  he 
did,  that  what  he  got  by  heart  one  day  he 
forgot  the  next.  In  spite  o'  the  remon- 
strances o'  his  friends,  naething  would 
baud  Willie  but  he  would  be  a  sailor. 
Weel,  he  was  put  on  board  o'  an  Ameri- 
can trader,  and  for  several  years  there 
was  naething  heard  o'  concerning  him,  but 
accidents  that  had  happened  him,  and  all 
through  his  glaikitness.  Sometimes  he 
was  fa'ing  owre  a  boat  and  was  mostly 
drowned  ;  and,  at  other  times,  we  heard  o' 
him  fa'ing  headlong  into  the  ship's  hold; 
ance  o'  his  tumblins;  overboard  in  the 
middle  o'  the  great  Atlantic  ;  and,  at  last, 
o'  his  fa'ing  from  the  mast  upon  the  deck, 
and  havino;  his  le^re  broken.  It  was  the 
luckiest  thing  that  ever  happened  him.  It 
brought  him  to  think,  and  gied  him  leisure 
to  do  it ;  he  was  laid  up  for  twelve  weeks, 
and,  during  part  o'  the  time,  he  applied 
himself  to  navigation,  in  the  elements  o' 


which  science  I  had  instructed  him.  Soon 
after  his  recovery,  he  got  the  command  o' 
a  vessel,  and  was  very  fortunate,  and,  for 
several  years,  he  has  been  sole  owner  of  a 
number  of  vessels,  and  is  reputed  to  be 
very  rich.  He  also  married  weel,  as  the 
phrase  runs,  for  the  woman  had  a  vast  o' 
money,  only  she  was — a  mulatto.  That, 
sir,  is  a'  I  ken  concernins;  William  Arm- 
strong,  or,  as  ye  ca'ed  him,  Glaikit  Willie ; 
for  he  was  a  callant  that  was  so  thochtless 
when  under  my  care,  that  he  never  inter- 
ested me  a  great  deal.  And  noo,  sir,  I 
shall  gie  ye  a'  the  particulars  I  know  con- 
cerning the  fate  o' 

VENTURESOME  JAMIE. 

Ye  will  remember  him  best  o'  ony  o' 
them,  I  reckon  ;  for  even  when  ye  were 
baith  bits  o'  callants,  there  was  a  sort  o' 
rivalship  between  ye  for  the  affections  o' 
bonnie  Katie  Alison,  the  loveliest  lassie 
that  ever  I  had  at  my  school.  I  hae 
frequently  observed  the  looks  o'  jealousy 
that  used  to  pass  between  ye  when  she 
seemed  to  show  mair  kindness  to  ane  than 
anither  ;  and  when  ye  little  thocht  I  saw 
ye,  I  hae  noticed  ane  o'  ye  pushing  oranges 
into  her  hand,  and  anither  sweeties. 
When  she  got  a  bit  comb,  too,  to  fasten 
up  her  gowden  hair,  I  weel  divined  whose 
pennies  had  purchased  it — for  they  were 
yours,  doctor.  I  remember,  also,  hoo  ye 
was  aye  a  greater  favorite  wi'  her  than 
Jamie,  and  hoo  he  challenged  ye  to  fecht 
him  for  her  affections,  and  owrecam'  ye  in 
the  battle,  and  sent  ye  to  the  school  next 
day  wi'  yer  face  a'  disfigm-ed — and  I,  as 
in  duty  bound,  gied  each  o'  ye  a  heartier 
threshin'  than  ye  had  gien  ane  anither. 
Katie  hung  her  head  a'  the  time,  and 
when  she  looked  up,  a  tear  was  rowin'  in 
her  bonnie  blue  een.  But  ye  left  the 
school  and  the  country-side,  when  ye  was 
little  mair  than  sevTenteen ;  and  the  next 
thing  that  we  heard  o'  ye  was  that  ye  had 
gone  oot  to  India  about  three  years  after- 
wards.    Yer  departure  evidently  removed 


Ir 


THE  DOMINIE'S  CLASS. 


11 


a  load  from  Jamie's  breast.  He  fellowed 
Katie  like  her  shadow,  though  with  but 
little  success,  as  far  as  I  could  perceive, 
and  as  it  was  generally  given  out. 

But,  ye  must  remember,  in  his  case, 
the  name  o'  Ventures-om^  Jamie  was 
well  applied.  Never  in  my  born  days 
did  I  know  siich  a  caliant.  He  wo'ald 
have  climbed  the  highest  trees  as  though 
he  had  been  speelin'  owre  a  common 
yet'u,  and  swung  himsei  by  the  heels  frae 
their  tapmost  branches.  Oh,  he  was  a 
terrible  laddie  1  When  I  hae  seen  ye  a' 
bathing  in  the  river,  sometimes  I  used  to 
tremble  for  him.  He  was  a  perfect  am- 
phibious animal.  1  have  seen  him  dive 
from  a  height  o'  twenty  or  thirty  feet, 
and  remain  under  the  water  till  I  almost 
lost  my  breath  wi'  anxiety  for  his  upris- 
ing ;  and  then  he  would  have  risen  at  as 
many  yards  distant  from  the  place  where 
he  had  dived.  I  recollect  o'  hearing 
o'  his  permitting  himsei  to  be  suspend- 
ed owre  a  precipice  aboon  a  hundred  feet 
high,  wi'  a  rope  fastened  round  his  ox- 
ters, and  three  laddies  like  himsei  hand- 
ing on  by  the  ither  end  o't — and  this  was 
dune  merely  to  harry  the  nest  o'  a  water- 
wagtail.  Had  the  screams  o'  the  cal- 
lants,  who  fund  him  owre  heavy  for 
them,  and  that  they  were  unable  to  draw 
him  up  again,  not  brought  some  plough- 
men to  their  assistance,  he  must  have 
been  precipitated  into  eternity.  How- 
ever, as  I  intended  to  say,  it  was  shortly 
after  the  news  arrived  o'  your  having 
sailed  for  India,  that  a  fire  broke  out  in 
the  dead  o'  night  in  a  house  occupied  b)y 
Katie  Alison's  father.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  uproar  and  consternation  o' 
that  terrible  night.  There  was  not  a 
countenance  in  the  town  but  was  pale  wi' 
terror.  The  flames  roared  and  rag-ed 
from  every  window,  and  were  visible 
through  some  parts  in  the  roof.  The 
great  black  clouds  o'  smoke  seemed  rush- 
ing from  the  crater  of  a  volcano.  The 
floors  o'  the  second  story  were  falling, 
and  crashing,  and   crackling,  and  great 


burning  sparks,  some  o'  them  as  big  as  a 
man's  hand,  were  rising  in  thousands  and 
tens  o'  thousands  from  the  flaming  ruins, 
and  were  driven  by  the  wind,  like  a 
shower  o'  fire,  across  the  heavens.  It 
was  the  most  fearsome  sight  I  had  ever 
beheld.  But  this  was  not  the  worst  o't ; 
for,  at  a  window  in  the  third  story, 
which  was  the  only  one  in  the  house 
from  which  the  flames  were  not  bursting, 
stood  bonny  Katie  xMison,  wringing  her 
hands  and  screaming  for  assistance, 
while  her  gowden  hair  fell  upon  her 
shouthers,  and  her  cries  were  heard 
aboon  the  raging  o'  the  conflagration.  I 
heard  her  crying  distinctly — '  oMy  fa- 
ther ! — my  father  ! — will  nobody  save  my 
father ! '  for  he  lay  ill  of  a  fever  in  the 
room  where  she  was,  and  was  unconscious 
of  his  situation.  But  there  was  none  to 
render  them  assistance.  At  times,  the 
flames  and  the  smoke,  issuing  from  the 
windows  below,  concealed  her  from  the 
eyes  of  the  multitude.  Several  had  at- 
tempted her  rescue,  but  all  of  them  had 
been  forced  to  retreat,  and  some  of  them 
scorched  fearfully  ;  for  in  many  places 
the  stairs  had  given  way,  and  the  flames 
were  bursting  on  every  side.  They  were 
attempting  to  throw  up  a  rope  to  her  as- 
sistance— for  the  flames  issued  so  fierce- 
ly from  the  lower  windows,  that,  though 
a  ladder  had  been  raised,  no  man  could 
have  ascended  it — when,  at  that  moment, 
my  old  scholar,  James  Johnstone  (Ven- 
turesome Jamie,  indeed  !)  arrived.  He 
heard  the  cries  o'  Katie — he  beheld  her 
hands  outstretched  for  help — '  Let  me 
past ! — let  me  past ! — ye  cowards  !  ye 
cowards  !'  cried  he,  as  he  eagerly  forced 
his  way  through  the  crowd.  He  rushed 
into  the  door,  from  which  the  dense 
smoke  and  the  sparks  were  issuing  as 
from  a  great  furnace.  There  was  a 
thrill  o'  horror  through  the  crowd,  for 
they  kenned  his  character,  and  they 
kenned  also  his  fondness  for  Katie — and 
no  one  expected  to  see  him  in  life  again. 
But,  in  less   than  ten  seconds  from  his 


32 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS, 


rushing  in  at  the  door,  he  was  seen  to 
spring  forward  to  the  window  where 
Katie  stood — he  flung  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  and,  in  an  instant,  both  disap- 
peared— but,  within  a  quarter  of  a 
minute,  he  rushed  out  at  the  street  door, 
through  the  black  smoke  and  the  thick 
sparks,  wi'  the  bonny  creature  that  he 
adored  in  his  arms.  0  doctor,  had  ye 
heard  the  shout  that  burst  frae  the  mul- 
titude ! — there  was  not  one  amono;st 
them  at  that  moment  that  couldna  have 
hugged  Jamie  to  his  heart.  His  hands 
were  sore  burned,  and  on  several  places 
his  clothes  were  on  fire.  Katie  was  but 
little  hurt ;  but,  on  finding  herself  on  the 
street,  she  cast  an  anxious  and  despair- 
ing look  towards  the  window  from  which 
she  had  been  snatched,  and  again  wring- 
ing her  hands,  exclaimed,  in  accents  of 
bitterness  that  go  through  my  heart  to 
this  day — 

'  My  father  ! — oh,  my  father  ! — is 
there  no  help  for  him  ? — shall  my  father 
perish  P 

'  The  rope  ! — gie  me  the  rope  !'  cried 
Jamie.  He  snatched  it  from  the  hand 
of  a  bystander,  and  again  rushed  into  the 
smoking  ruins.  The  consternation  of 
the  crowd  become  greater,  and  their  anx- 
iety more  intense  than  before.  Full 
three  minutes  passed,  and  nothing  was 
seen  of  him.  The  crowded  street  be- 
came as  silent  as  death  ;  even  those  who 
were  runnins;  backward  and  forward  car- 
rying  water,  for  a  time  stood  still.  The 
suspense  was  agonizing.  At  length  he 
appeared  at  the  window,  with  the  sick 
man  wrapt  up  in  the  bedclothes,  and 
holding  him  to  his  side  with  his  right 
arm  around  him.  The  hope  and  fear  of 
the  people  became  indescribable.  Never 
did  I  witness  such  a  scene  ! — never  may 
I  witness  such  a^ain  !  Havinsr  fastened 
one  end  of  the  rope  to  the  bed,  he  flung 
the  other  from  the  window  to  the  street; 
and,  grasping  it  with  his  left  hand,  he 
drew  himself  out  at  the  window,  with 
Katie's  faither  in  his  arm,  and,  crossing 


his  feet  around  the  rope,  he  slid  down  to 
the  street,  bearing  his  burden  with  him  I 
Then,  sir^  the  congratulations  o'  the 
multitude  were  unbounded.  Every  one 
was  anxious  to  shake  him  by  the  hand  ; 
but,  what  with  the  burning  his  ri^ht 
hand  had  sustained,  and  the  worse  than 
burning  his  left  hand  had  sufi"ered  wi' 
the  sliding  down  a  rope  frae  a  third  story 
wi'  a  man  under  his  arm,  I  may  say  thatf 
my  venturesome  and  gallant  auld  scholar 
hadna  a  hand  to  shake. 

Ye  canna  be  surprised  to  hear— 
(and,  at  the  time  o'  life  ye've  arrived  at, 
ye '11  be  no  longer  jealous — besides,  during 
dinner,  T  think  ye  spoke  o'  having  a  wife 
and  family) — 1  say,  therefore,  doctor, 
that  ye'll  neither  be  jealous  nor  surprised 
to  hear  that  from  that  day  Katie's  dry- 
ness to  Jamie  melted  down.  Moreover, 
as  ye  had  gane  out  to  India,  where  ye 
would  be  mair  likely  to  look  after  siller 
than  think  o'  a  wife,  and  as  I  understand 
ye  had  dropped  correspondence  for  some 
length  o'  time,  ye  couldna  think  yoursel 
in  ony  way  slighted.  Now,  folk  say  that 
^  nineteen  nay-says  are  half  a  yes.'  For 
my  part  (and  my  age  is  approaching  the 
heels  of  the  patriarchs),  I  never  put  it  in 
the  power  o'  woman  born  to  say  JVo  to 
me.  But,  as  I  have  heard  and  believe, 
Katie  had  said  iVb  to  Jamie  before  the 
fire,  not  only  nineteen  times,  but  thirty- 
eisht  times  twice  told,  and  he  found 
seventy-six  (which  is  about  my  age)  nae 
nearer  a  yea  than  the  first  nay.  And 
folk  said  it  was  a'  on  account  o'  a  foolish 
passion  for  the  doctor  laddie  that  had 
gane  abroad.  But  Katie  was  a  kind, 
gratefu'  lassie.  She  couldna  look  wi' 
eauldness  upon  the  man  that  had  not  only 
saved  her  life,  but  her  father's  also  ;  and 
I  ought  to  have  informed  you,  that, 
within  two  minutes  from  the  time  of  her 
father's  being  snatched  from  the  room 
where  he  lay,  the  floor  fell  in,  and  the 
flames  burst  from  the  window  where 
Katie  had  been  standing  a  few  minutes 
before. 


THE  DOMINIE'S  CLASS. 


13 


Her  father  recovered  from  the  fever, 
but  he  died  within  six  months  after  the 
fire,  and  left  her  a  portionless  orphan, 
or  what   was   next   door  to   it.     Jamie 
urged  her  to   make  him  happy,  and  at 
last   she   consented,  and  they  were  mar- 
ried.    But  ye  remember  that  his  parents 
were    in    affluent    circumstances  ;    they 
thought  he  had  demeaned  himself  hy  his 
marriage,  and  they  shut  their  door  upon 
Mm,  and  disowned  him  a'thegither.     As 
he  was  his  father's  heir,  he  was  brought 
up  to  no  calling  or  business  whatsoever  ; 
and,  when  the  auld  man  not  only  vowed 
to  cut  him  off  wi'  a  shilling,  on  account 
o'  his  marriage,  but  absolutely  got  his 
will  altered  accordingly,   what   did   the 
silly  lad  do,  but,  in  desperation,  list  into 
a  regiment  that  was  gaun'  abroad.     '  The 
laddie  has  done  it  in  a  fit  o'  passion,' 
said  I,  '  and  what  will  become   o'  poor 
Katie  ?'    Weel,  although  it  was  said  that 
the  lassie  never  had  ony  particular  affec- 
tion for  him,  but  Just  married  him  out  o' 
gratitude,  and  although  several  genteel 
families  in  the  neighborhood  offered  her 
respectable    and   comfortable   situations 
(for  «he  was  universally  liked),  yet  the 
strange  creature  preferred  to  follow  the 
hard  fortunes  o'  Jamie,  who  had  been 


(disowned   on  her  account,   and   she  im- 
plored the  G:Seers  o'  the  regiment  to  be 
allowed  to  accompany  him.    It  is  possible 
that    they    were     interested    with    her 
appearance,  and  what  they  had  heard  of 
his  connection,  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  been  treated,  for  they  granted 
her  request ;  and,  about  a  month  after  he 
enlisted,     the    regiment    marched    from 
Carlisle,    and    Katie    accompanied    her 
husband.    They  went  abroad  somewhere ; 
to  the  East  or  West  Indies,  I  believe ; 
biit,  from  that  day  to  this,  I  have  never 
heard  a  word  concerning  either  the  one 
or  the  other,  or  whether  they  be  living  or 
not.     All  I  know  is,  that  the   aiild   man 
died  within  two   years  after  his  son  had 
become     a    soldier,     and,    keeping    his 
resentment  to  his  latest  breath,  actually 


left  his  property  to  a  brother's  son.  And 
that,  sir,  is  all  that  I  know  of  Venture- 
some Jamie,  and  your  old  sweetheart, 
Katie." 

The  doctor  looked  thoughtful— exceed- 
ingly thoughtful ;  and  the  auld  dominie, 
acquiring  additional  loquacity  as  he  went 
on,  poured  out  another  glass,  and  added— 

^^  But  come,  doctor,  we  will  drink  a 
bumper,  '  for  auld  langsyne,'  to  the  lassie 
with  the  gowden  locks,  be  she  dead  or 
living." 

"  VTith  my  whole  heart  and  soul," 
replied  the  doctor  impassionedly  ;  and, 
pouring  out  a  glass,  he  drained  it  to  the 
dregs. 

^'  The  auld  feeling  is  not  quenched 
yet,  doctor,"  said  the  venerable  teacher, 
"  and  I  am  sorry  for  it ;  for,  had  1  known, 
I  would  have  spoken  more  guardedly. 
But  I  will  proceed  to  gie  ye  an  account 
o'  the  rest  o'  your  class-fellows,  and  I 
will  do  it  briefly.  There  was  Walter 
Fairbairn,  who  went  amongst  ye  hy  the 
name  o' 

CAUTIOUS  WATTY, 


H^e  was  the  queerest  laddie  that  ever  I 
had  at  my  school.    He  had  neither  talent 
nor  cleverness  ;  but  he  made  up  for  both, 
and  I  may  say  more  than  made  up  for 
both,  by  method  and   application.     Ye 
would  have  said  that  nature  had  been  in 
a    miserly   humor   when    it     made     his 
brains  ;   but,  if  it  had  been  niggardly  in 
the  quantity,  it  certainly  had  spared  no 
pains  in  placing  them  properly.     He  was 
the  very  reverse  o'  Solitary  Sandy.     I 
never  could  get  Watty  to  scan   a  line  or 
construe   a   sentence  right  in  my   days. 
He   did   not    seem   to    understaad    the 
nature  o'  words — or,  at  least,  in  so  far 
as  applied  to  sentiment,  idea,    or   fine 
writing.    Figures  were  Watty's  alphabet ; 
and,  from    his    earliest    yeai-s,    pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence,  were  the  syllables  by 
which  he    Joined    them  together.     The 
abstruser  points    of    mathematics    were 


u 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


beyond  his  intellect ;  but  he  seemed  to 
have  a  liking  for  the  certmnty  of  the 
science,  and  h-e  manifested  a  wish  to 
master  it.  My  housekeeper  that  then 
was,  has  informed  me^  that,  when  a'  the 
rest  o'  ye  wad  hae  been  selling  your 
copies  as  waste  paper^  for  taffy^  or  what 
some  ca'  treack-candy^  Watty  would  only 
part  wi'  his  to  the  paper  purchaser  for 
money  down ;  and  when  ony  o'  ye  took  a 
greenin'  for  the  sweet  things  o'  the  shop- 
keeper, without  a  halfpenny  to  purchase 
one;  Watty  woiild  volunteer  to  lend  ye 
the  money  until  a  certain  day,  upon  con- 
dition that  ye  would  then  pay  him  a 
penny  for  the  loan  of  his  halfpenny.  But 
he  exhibited  a  grand  trait  o'  this  dispo- 
sition when  he  cam'  to  learn  the  rule  o' 
Compound  Interest.  Indeed,  1  need  not 
say  he  learned  it,  for  he  literally  devoured 
it.  He  wrought  every  question  in  Dil- 
worth's  Rule  within  two  days  ;  and,  when 
he  had  finished  it  (for  he  seldom  had  hi& 
slate  away  from  m-y  face,  and  I  was  half 
tired  wi'  saying  to  him,  '  That  will  do^ 
sir,')  he  came  up  to  my  desk,  and  says 
he,  wi'  a  face  as  earnest  as  a  judge — 

'  May  I  go  through  this  rule  again,  sir  V 

'  I  think  ye  understand  it,  Watty,' 
said  1,  rather  significantly, 

^  But  I  would  like  to  be  perfect  in  it^ 
sir,'  answered  he, 

'  Then  go  through  it  again,  Watty,' 
said  I,  '  and  I  have  nae  doubt  but  ye  will 
h^ perfect  in  it  very  qui&kly.' 

I  said  this  wi'  a  degree  o'  irony  which 
I  was  not  then,  and  which  I  am  not  now, 
in  the  habit  of  eshibiting  before  my 
scholars  ;  but,  from  what  I  had  observed 
and  heard  o'  him,  it  betrayed  to  me  a 
trait  in  human  nature  that  literally  dis- 
gusted me.  But  I  have  bo  pleasm'e  in 
dwelling  upon  his  histm-y.  Shortly  after 
leaving  the  school,  he  was  sent  tpp  to 
London  to  an  uncle  ;  and,  as  his  parents 
had  the  means  of  setting  Hm  up  in  the 
world,  he  was  there  to  make  choice  o'  a 
profession.  After  looking  abont  the 
great  city  for  a  time,  it  was  the  choice 


and  pleasure  o^  Cautions  Watty  to  be 
bound  as  an  apprentice  to  a  pawnbroker. 
He  afterwards  commenced  business  for 
himself,  and  every  day  in  his  life  indulg- 
ing in  his  favorite  study,  Compound 
Interest,  and,  as  far  as  he  durst,  putting 
it  in  practice,  be,  in  a  short  time,  became- 
rich.  But,  as  his  STibstance  increased, 
be  did  not  confine  himself  to-  portable 
articles,  or  such  things  as  are  usually 
taken  in  pledge  by  the  members  of  his 
profession  ;  but  he  took  estates  iftpledgey, 
receiving  the  title  deeds  as  his  security,, 
and  in  such  cases  he  did  exact  his  Com- 
pound Interest  to  the  last  farthing  to 
which  he  could  stretch  it.  He  neither 
knew  the  meaning  of  generosity  nor 
mercy.  Shakspeare's  beautiful  apos- 
trophe  to  the  latter  god4ike  attribute  in 
the  Mercha7:)t  of  Venice.,  would  have  been 
flat  nonsense  in  the  etstima-tion  of  Watty, 
He  had  but  one  answer  to  every  argu- 
ment and  to  every  case,  and  which  helaicE 
to  hi&  conscience  in  all  hi«  transactions,, 
(if  he  had  a  conscience),  and  that  was — 
'A  bargain's  a  bargain!'  This  was  his 
ten  times  repeated  phrase  every  day.  It 
was  the  doctrine  b-y  which  he  swore  ;  and 
Shylock  would  have  died  wi'  envy  to 
have  seen  Watty  exacting  his  '  pound  o'' 
flesh.''  I  have  only  to  tell  ye  that  he  haa- 
been  twice  married.  The  first  time  was  to 
a  widow  four  years  older  than  his  mother,. 


wi'   whom   he 


got 


ten  thousand.     The 


second  time  was  to  a  maiden  lady  who 
had  been  a  coquette  and  a  flirt  in  her 
day,  but  who,  when  the  deep  crow-feet 
upon  her  brow  began  to  reflect  sermon-s 
from  her  looking-glass,  became  a  patro- 
niser  of  piety  and  religio^ls  instit'Ations. 
Watty  heard  o'  her  fortune,  and  o'  her 
disposition  and  habits.  He  turned  aa 
Episcopalian  because  she  was  one.  He- 
became  a  sitter  and  a  regular  attender  in 
the  same  pew  in  the  chureb.  He  began 
his  courtship  by  openisig  the  pew  door  to 
her  when  he  saw  hsr  coming,  before  the 
sexton  reached  it.  He  next  sought  her 
out  the  services  for  the  day  in  the  prayer- 


THE  DOMINIE'S  CLASS. 


15 


book — he  had  it  always  open,  and  ready 
to  put  in  her  hand.  He  dusted  the 
cushion  on  which  she  was  to  sit,  with  his 
handkerchief,  as  she  entered  the  pew.  He, 
in  short,  shewed  her  a  hundred  little 
pious  attentions.  The  sensibility  of  the 
converted  flirt  was  aifected  by  them.  At 
lensith  he  offered  her  his  arm  from  the 
pew  to  the  hackney  coach  or  sedan-chair 
which  waited  for  her  at  the  church  door ; 
and,  eventually,  he  led  her  to  the  altar  in 
the  seventy-third  year  of  her  age ;  when, 
to  use  his  own  words,  he  married  her 
thirty  thousand  pounds,  and  took  the  old 
woman  before  the  minister  as  a  witness. 
Such,  sir,  is  all  I  know  concerning  Cau- 
tious Watty. 

^' The  next  o' your  auld  class-mates 
that  I  have  to  notice  (continued  Mr. 
Grierson) ,  is 

LEETN'  PETER, 

Peter  Murray  was  the  cause  o'  mair 
grief  to  me  than  ony  scholar  that  ever 
was  at  my  school.  He  could  not  tell  a 
story  the  same  way  in  which  he  heard  it, 
or  give  ye  a  direct  answer  to  a  positive 
question,  had  it  been  to  save  his  life,  I 
sometimes  was  at  a  loss  whether  to  attri- 
bute his  grievous  propensity  to  a  defect 
©'  memory,  a  preponderance  o'  imagina- 
tion over  baith  memory  and  judgment,  or 
to  the  natural  depravity  o'  his  heart,  and 
the  force  o'  abominable  habits  early  ac- 
quired. Certain  it  is,  that  all  the  thrash- 
iag  that  I  could  thrash,  I  couldna  get 
the  laddie  to  speak  the  truth.  His  pa- 
rents were  perpetually  coming  to  me  to 
lick  him  soundly  for  this  lie  and  the 
other  lie  ;  a»nd  I  did  lick  him,  until  I  saw 
that  bodily  punishment  was  of  no  effect. 
Moral  means  were  to  be  tried,  and  I  did 
try  them.  I  tried  to  shame  him  out  o'  it. 
I  reasoned  wi'  him.  I  showed  him  the 
folly  and  the  enormity  o'  his  offence,  and 
also  pointed  out  its  consequences — but  I 
might  as  weel  hae  spoken  to  the  stane  in 
the  wa'.     He  was  Lcein'  Peter  still.    Af- 


ter he  left  me,  he  was  a  while  wi""  a  gro- 
cer, and  a  while  wi'  a  haberdasher,  and 
then  he  went  to  a  painter,  and  after  that 
he  was  admitted  into  a  writer's  office  ; 
but,  one  after  another,  they  had  to  turn 
him  away,  and  a'  on  account  o'  his  un- 
conquerable habit  o'  uttering  falsehoods. 
His  character  became  so  well  known, 
that  nobody  about  th-e  place  would  take 
him  to  be  anything.  He  was  a  sad 
heart-break  to  his  parents,  and  they  were 
as  decent  people  as  ye  could  meet  wi'. 
But,  as  they  had  respectable  connexions, 
they  got  him  into  some  situation  about 
Edinburgh,  where  his  character  and  his 
failings  were  unknown.  But  it  was  alto- 
gether useless.  He  was  turned  out  of 
one  situation  after  another,  and  a'  on 
account  of  his  incurable  and  dangerous 
habit,  until  his  friends  could  do  no  more 
for  him.  Noo,  doctor,  I  dare  say  ye  may 
have  observed,  that  a  confirmed  drunk- 
ard, rather  than  want  drink,  will  steal  to 
procure  it — and,  as  sure  as  that  is  the 
case,  tak  my  word  for  it,  that,  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten,  he  who  begins  by  being 
a  habitual  liar,  will  end  in  being  a  thief. 
Such  was  the  case  wi'  Leein'  Peter.  After 
being  disgraced  and  turned  from  one 
situation  after  anither,  he  at  last  was 
caught  in  the  act  ©'purloining  his  master's 
property  and  cast  into  prison.  He  broke 
his  mother's  heart,  and  covered  his 
father's  grey  hairs  wi'  shame ;  and  he 
sank  from  one  state  o'  degradation  to 
another,  till  now,  I  believe,  he  is  ane  o' 
those  prowlers  and  pests  o'  society,  who 
are  to  be  found  in  every  large  town,  and 
who  live  naebody  can  tell  how,  but  every 
one  can  tell  that  it  cannot  be  honestly. 
Such,  sir,  has  been  the  fate  o'  Leein' 
Peter. 

There  is  only  another  o'  your  book- 
mates  that  I  have  to  make  mention  o,' 
and  that  is  John  Mathewson,  or 

JOCK  THE  DUNCE, 

Many  a  score  o'  times  hae  I  said  that 


16 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


Jock's  head  was  as  impervious  to  learnin' 
as  a  nether  mill-stane.  It  would  hae 
been  as  easy  to  hae  driven  Mensuration 
into  the  head  o'  an  ox,  as  instruction  into 
the  brain  o'  Jock  Mathewson.  He  was  a 
dunce.  I  fleeched  him,  and  I  coaxed 
him,  and  I  endeavored  to  divert  him  to 
get  him  to  learn,  and  T  kicked  him,  and  I 
cuffed  him  ;  but  I  might  as  weel  hae 
kicked  my  heel  upon  the  floor,  or  fleeched 
the  fireplace.  Jock  was  knowledge-proof. 
All  my  efforts  were  o'  no  avail.  I  could 
get  him  to  learn  nothing,  and  to  compre- 
hend nothing.  Often  I  had  half  made 
up  my  mind  to  turn  him  away  from  the 
school,  for  I  saw  that  I  never  would  have 
any  credit  by  the  blockhead.  But  what 
was  most  annoying  was,  that  here  was  his 
mother  at  me,  every  hand-awhile,  say- 
ins; — 

'  Mr.  Grierson,  I'm  really  surprised  at 
ye.  My  son,  John,  is  not  comin'  on  ava. 
1  really  wush  ye  wad  tak  mair  pains  wi' 
him.  It  is  an  unco  thing  to  be  o'  payin' 
you  guid  money,  and  the  laddie  to  be 
getting  nae  guid  for  it.  I  wad  hae  ye  to 
understand,  that  his  faither  doesna  make 
his  money  sae  easily — no  by  sitting  on  a 
seat,  or  walking  up  and  down  a  room,  as 
ye  do.  There's  such  a  ane's  son  awa  into 
the  Latin,  nae  less,  I  understand,  and  my 
John  no  out  o'  the  Testament.  But,  de- 
pend upon  it,  Mr.  Grierson,  if  ye  dinna 
try  to  do  something  wi'  him,  I  maun  tak 
him  awa  from  your  school,  and  that  is 
the  short  and  the  lang  o't.' 

'  Do  sae,  ma'am,'  said  I,  *  and  I'll 
thank  ye.  Mercy  me  !  it's  a  bonny  thing, 
indeed  ! — do  ye  suppose  that  I  had  the 
makin  o'  your  son  .''  If  nature  has  form- 
ed his  head  out  o'  a  whin-stane,  can  I 
transform  it  into  marble  ?  Your  son 
would  try  the  patience  o'  Job — his  head 
is  thicker  than  a  door-post.  I  can  mak 
naething  o'  him.  I  would  sooner  teach 
a  hundred  than  be  troubled  wi'  him.' 

'  Hundred  here,  hundred  there  ! '  said 
she,  in  a  tift ;  '  but  it's  a  hard  matter, 
Grierson,     or  his  father  and  me  to  be 


payin'  ye  money  for  naething  ;  an'  if  ye 
dinna  try  to  mak  something  o'  him,  I'll 
tak  him  frae  your  school,  an'  that  will  be 
baith  seen  an'  heard  tell  o'  I  ' 

So  saying,  away  she  would  drive,  toss- 
ing her  head  wi'  the  airs  o'  my  lady. 
Ye  canna  conceive,  sir,  what  a  teacher 
has  to  put  up  wi'.     Thomson  says    — 

'  Delig-htfal  task 
To  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot ! ' 

I  wish  to  goodness  he  had  tried  it,  and  a 
month's  specimen  o'  its  delights  would 
have  surfeited  him,  and  instead  o'  what 
he  has  written,  he  would  have  said — 

Degrading  thought 
To  be  each  snivelling  blockhead's  parent's  slave  f 

Now,  ye'll  remember  that  Jock  was 
perpetually  sniftering  and  gaping  wi' 
his  mouth,  or  even  sucking  his  thumb 
like  an  idiot.  There  was  nae  keeping 
the  animal  cleanly,  touch  less  instructing 
him ;  and  then,  if  he  had  the  book  in 
his  hand,  there  he  sat  staring  owre  it,  wi' 
a  look  as  vacant  and  stupid  as  a  tortoise. 
Or,  if  he  had  the  slate  before  him,  there 
was  he  drawing  scores  on't,  or  amusing 
himself  wi'  twirling  and  twisting  the 
pencil  in  the  string  through  the  frame. 
Never  had  I  such  a  lump  o'  stupidity 
within  the  walls  o'  my  school. 

After  his  leaving  me,  he  was  put  as  an 
apprentice  to  a  bookseller.  I  thought 
of  all  the  callings  under  the  sun,  that 
which  had  been  chosen  for  him  was  the 
least  suited  to  a  person  o'  his  capacity. 
But — would  ye  believe  it,  sir  ? — Jock 
surprised  us  a'.  He  fairly  turned  the 
corner  on  a'  my  calculations.  When  he 
began  to  look  after  the  lassies,  ho  also 
began  to  ^' smart  up."  He  came  to  my 
night-school,  when  he  would  be  about 
eighteen,  and  I  was  perfectly  astonished 
at  the  change  that  had  taken  place,  even 
in  the  appearance  o'  the  callant.  His 
very  nose,  which  had  always  been  so 
stuffed  and  thick-like,  was  now  an  orna- 
ment to  his  face.  He  had  become  alto- 
gether  a  lively,    fine-looking  lad  ;  and, 


THE  DOMINIE'S  CLASS. 


17 


more  marvellous  still,  his  whole  heart's 
desire  seemed  to  be  to  learn  ;  and  he  did 
learn  with  a  rapidity  that  both  aston- 
ished and  delighted  me.  I  actually 
thought  the  instructions  which  I  had  en- 
deavored to  instil  into  him  for  years, 
and  apparently  without  effect,  had  been 
lying  dormant,  as  it  were,  in  the  cham- 
bers o'  his  brain,  like  a  cuckoo  in  winter 
' — that  they  had  been  sealed  up  as  fast  as 
I  imparted  them,  by  some  cause  that  I 
did  not  comprehend,  and  that  now  they 
had  got  vent,  and  were  issuing  out  in 
rapid  and  vigorous  strength,  like  a  per- 
son refreshed  after  a  sleep. 

After  he  had  been  two  years  at  the 
night-school,  so  far  from  considering  him 
a  dunce,  I  resrarded  him  as  an  amazino- 
clever  lad.  From  the  instance  I  had  had 
in  him,  I  began  to  perceive  that  precocity 
o'  intellect  was  nae  proof  o'  its  power. 
Well,  shortly  after  the  time  I  am  speak- 
ing o',  he  left  Annan  for  Glasgow,  and, 
after  being  a  year  or  twa  there,  he  com- 
menced business  on  his  own  account.  I 
may  safely  say,  that  never  man  was  more 
fortunate.  But,  as  his  means  increased, 
he  did  not  confine  himself  to  the  busi- 
ness in  which  he  had  been  brought  up, 
but  he  became  an  extensive  ship-owner ; 
he  also  became  a  partner  in  a  cotton-mill 
concern.  He  was  elected  a  member  of 
the  town  council,  and  was  distinguished 
as  a  leading  member  and  orator  of  the 
guild.  Eventually,  he  rose  to  be  one 
of  the  city  magistrates.  He  is  now 
also  an  extensive  landed  proprietor  ;  and 
I  even  hear  it  affirmed,  that  it  is  in  con- 
templation to  put  him  in  nomination  for 
some  place  or  another  at  the  next  elec- 
tion. Such  things  happen,  doctor — and 
wha  would  hae  thocht  it  o'  Jock  the 
Dunce  ? 

Now,  sir  (added  the  dominie),  so  far 
as  I  have  been  able,  I  have  given  you  the 
history  o'  your  class-fellows.  Concern- 
ing you,  doctor,  I  have  known  less  and 
heard  less  than  o'  any  o'  them.  You 
being  so  long  away,  and  your  immediate 

VOL.    TT  a 


relations  about  here  being  dead,  so  that 
ye  have  dropped  correspondence,  I  have 
heard  nothing  concerning  ye  ;  and  I  have 
often  been  sorry   on  that  account ;  for, 
believe    me,    doctor — (here    the    doctor 
pushed  the   bottle  to  him,  and  the  old 
man,  helping  himself  to    another  glass, 
and  drinking  it,  again  continued) — I  say, 
believe  me,  doctor,  that  I  never  had  two 
scholars  under  my  care,  o'  whose  talents 
I    had    greater  opinion  than  o'   Solitary 
Sandy    and   yoursel ;    and   it  has   often 
vexed  me  that  I  could  hearnaething  con- 
corning  ye,  or  whether  you  were  dead  or 
living.     Now,  sir,  if  ye'll  favor  me  wi' 
an  account  o'  your  history,  from  the  time 
o'  your  going  out  to    India,   your   auld 
dominie  will  be  much  obliged  to  ye  ;  for 
I  like  to  hear  concerning  ye  all,  as  though 
ye  had  been  my  ain  bairns." 

'^  There  is  little  of  interest,  sir,"  said 
the  doctor  ;  "  but,  so  far  as  there  is  any, 
your  wish  shall  be  gratified."  And  he 
proceeded  as  is  hereafter  written. 

THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY. 

*'  In  your  history,  sir,  of  Venturesome 
Jamie,  which  you  are  unable  to  finish, 
you  mentioned  the  rivalry  that  existed 
between  him  and  me,  for  the  afi"ections  o' 
bonny  Kattie  Alison.  James  was  a 
noble  fellow.  I  am  not  ashamed  that  I 
had  such  a  rival.  In  our  youth  I  esteem- 
ed him  while  I  hated  him.     But,  sir,  I 


do  not  remember  the  time  when  Katie 
Alison  was  not  a  dream  in  my  heart — 
when  I  did  not  tremble  at  her  touch. 
Even  when  we  pulled  the  gowans  and 
the  cowslips  together,  though  there  had 
been  twenty  present,  it  was  for  Katie 
that  I  pulled  mine.  When  we  plaited 
the  rushes,  I  did  it  for  her.  She  prefer- 
red me  to  Jamie,  and  I  knew  it  .W^hen  I 
left  your  school,  and  when  I  proceeded 
to  India,  I  did  not  forget  her.  But,  as 
you  said,  men  go  there  to  make  money — 
so  did  I.  My  friends  laughed  at  my 
boyish  fancy — they  endeavored  to  make 


18 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


me  ashamed  of  it.  I  became  smitten 
with  the  eastern  disease  of  fortune-mak- 
ing, and,  though  I  did  not  forget  her,  I 
neglected  her. 

But,  sir,  to  drop  this:  I  was  not 
twenty-one  when  I  arrived  at  Bombay ; 
nor  had  I  been  long  there  till  I  was  ap- 
pointed physician  to  several  Parsee  fa- 
milies of  great  wealth.  With  but  little 
effort,  fortune  opened  before  me.  I  per- 
formed a  few  surgical  operations  of  con- 
siderable difficulty,  with  success.  In  se- 
veral desperate  cases  I  effected  cures,  and 
my  name  was  spread  not  only  through 
the  city,  but  throughout  the  island. 
The  riches  1  went  to  seek  I  found.  But 
even  then,  sir,  my  heart  would  turn  to 
your  school,  and  to  the  happy  hours  I 
had  spent  by  the  side  of  bonny  Katie 
Alison. 

However,  it  would  be  of  no  interest  to 
enter  into  the  details    of   my  monoto- 
nous life.     I  shall  dwell  only  upon   one 
incident,  which  is,  of  all  others,  the  most 
remakable  that  ever  occurred  to  me,  and 
which  took  place  about  six  years   after 
my  arrival  in  India.     I  was  in  my  carri- 
age, and  accompanying  the  remains  of  a 
patient   to   the  burial  ground — for  you 
know   that    doctors   cannot    cure,   when 
Death  is  determined  to  have   its   way. 
The  burial  ground  lies  about  three  miles 
from  Bombay,   across  an  extensive  and 
beautiful  plain,  and  the  road  to  it  is  by 
a  sort  of  an  avenue,  lined  and  shaded  on 
each    side    by    cocoa-nut    trees,   which 
spread  their  branches  over  the  path,  and 
distil  their   cooling  juice  into   the  cups 
which  the  Hindoos  have  placed  around 
them  to  receive  it.     You  can  form  but  a 
faint  conception  of  the  clear  azure  of  an 
Indian  sky,  and  never  had  1  seen  it  more 
beautiful  than  on  the   day  to   which   I 
refer,  though  some  of  the  weather-pro- 
phets about  Bombay  were  predicting  a 
storm. 

We  were  about  the  middle  of  the  ave- 
nue I  have  described,  when  we  overtook 
the  funeral  of  an  officer  who  had  held  a 


commission  in  a  corps  of  Sepoys.     The 
coffin  was  carried  upon  the  shoulders  of 
four  soldiers  ;   before  it  marched  the  Se- 
poys, and  behind  it,  seated  in  a  palan- 
quin, borne  by  four  Hindoos,  came  the 
widow  of  the  deceased.     A  large  black 
veil   thrown  over   her  head,  almost  en- 
veloped her  person.     Her  head  was  bent 
upon  her  bosom,  and  she  seemed  to  weep 
bitterly.     We  followed  behind  them  to 
the  burial-place  ;   but  before  the  service 
was  half  concluded,  the  heavens  overcast, 
and  a  storm,  such  as  I   had  never  wit- 
nessed, burst  over  our  heads,  and  hurled 
its    fury   upon    the   graves.      The    rain 
poured  down  in  a  fierce  and  impetuous 
torrent — but  you  know  not,  in  this  coun- 
try, what  a  torrent  of  rain  is.     The  thun- 
der seemed  tearing  heaven  in  twain.     It 
rolled,  reverbed,  and  pealed,  and  rattled 
with  its  tremendous  voice  over  the  graves 
of  the  dead,  as  though  it  were  the  out- 
bursting  of  eternity — the  first   blast  of 
the  archangel's  trumpet — announcing  the 
coming  judgment !    The  incessant  light- 
ning flashed  through  the  air,  like  spirits 
winged  with   flame,  and  awakening  the 
dead. 

The  Sepoys  fled  in  terror,  and  hastened 
to  the  city,  to  escape  the  terrible  fury  of 
the  storm.  Even  those  who  had  accom- 
panied my  friend's  body  fled  with  them, 
before  the  earth  was  covered  over  the 
dead  that  they  had  followed  to  the  grave. 
But  still,  by  the  side  of  the  officer's  grave, 
and  unmindful  of  the  storm,  stood  his 
poor  widow.  She  refused  to  leave  the 
spot  till  the  last  sod  was  placed  upon  her 
husband's  bosom.  My  heart  bled  for  her. 
Within  three  yards  from  her,  stood  a 
veteran  English  sergeant,  who,  with  the 
Hindoos,  that  bore  her  palanquin,  were 
all  that  remained  in  the  burial-place. 

Common  humanity  prompted  me  to 
offer  her  a  place  in  my  carriage  back  to 
the  city.  I  inquired  of  the  sergeant  who 
the  deceased  was.  He  informed  me  that 
he  was  a  young  Scotch  officer — that  his 
marriage  had  offended  his  friends — that 


THE   OLD    IRISH  BEGGAR-WOMAN. 


19 


they  had  denounced  him  in  consequence 
— that  he  had  enlisted — and  that  the  offi- 
cers of  the  regiment  which  he  had  first 
joined,  had  procured  him  an  ensigncy  in 
a  corps  of  Sepoys,  but  that  he  had  died, 
leaving  the  young  widow  who  wept  over 
his  grave,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land. 
And,"  added  the  sergeant, ''  a  braver  fel- 
low never  set  foot  upon  the  ground." 

When  the  last  sod  had  been  placed 
upon  the  grave,  I  approached  the  young 
widow.  I  respectfully  offered  to  convey 
her  and  the  sergeant  to  the  city  in  my 
carriage,  as  the  violence  of  the  storm  in- 
creased. 

At  my  voice,  she  started — she  uttered 
a  suppressed  scream — she  raised  her  head 
— she  withdrew  her  handkerchief  from  her 
eyes  ! — I  beheld  her  features  ! — and,  gra- 
cious Heaven  ! — whom  sir  ! — whom — 
whom  didlsee,butmy  own  Katie  Alison!" 


"Doctor! — Doctor!"  exclaimed  the 
old  dominie,  starting  from  his  seat,  "  what 
do  I  hear  ?" 

"I  cannot  describe  to  you,"  continued 
the  other,  "  the  tumultuous  joy,  com- 
bined with  agony,  the  indiscribable  feel- 
ings of  that  moment.  We  stood — we 
gasped — we  gazed  upon  each  other  ; 
neither  of  us  spoke.  I  took  her  hand — 
I  led  her  to  the  carriage — I  conveyed  her 
to  the  city." 

"  And,  0  doctor,  what  then  .?"  inquired 
the  dominie. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  "  many 
days  passed — many  words  were  spoken — 
mutual  tears  were  shed  for  Jamie  John- 
stone— and  bonny  Katie  Alison,  the  las- 
sie of  my  first  love,  became  my  wife,  and 
is  the  mother  of  my  children.  She  will 
be  here  in  a  few  days,  and  will  see  her 
old  dominie." 


THE    OLD    IRISH    BEGGAR-WOMAN. 


About  twenty-five  years  ago,  there  came 
to  the  door  of  a  certain  house,  on  the 
south  side  of  Edinburgh,  a  little,  old, 
Irish  beggar-woman,  soliciting  charity. 
She  was  very  old — giving  her  age  as 
eighty-one,  and  with  every  appearance 
of  truth. 

In  her  dress,  however,  there  was  none 
of  that  squalor  and  utter  wretchedness 
which  one  so  often  sees  in  those  who  seek 
their  bread  from  door  to  door.  Her 
clothes  were  not,  indeed,  indicative  of 
anything  approaching  to  what  we  call  re- 
spectable ;  but  they  were  comfortable. 
There  wore  no  rags  ;  and  her  little  gray 
cloak  was  rather  a  snug-looking  article  : 
her  shoes  and  stockings  were  good  ;  and 
on  her  head  she  wore  a  very  clean  white 
cap.     Altogether,  there  was   something 


very  pleasing,  and  well  calculated  to  ex- 
cite sympathy,  in  the  appearance  of  the 
cleanly,  little,  old  beggar-woman. 

It  was  such  feeling  as  this  that  induced 
the  lady  of  the  house  alluded  to,  to  in- 
vite the  old  woman  into  the  kitchen,  as 
the  day  was  very  wet  and  cold.  With 
this  invitation  she  readily  complied  ;  say- 
ing, as  she  tottered  along  the  passaf^e, 
supporting  herself  by  her  staff — 

"  Thank  you,  dear— thank  you.  It's 
myself  that  will  be  glad  of  a  blink  o'  the 
fire  this  could  day.  It  is  indeed,  dear ; 
for  my  ould  bones  feel  the  could  bitterly." 

A  chair  was  now  placed  for  her  before 
the  fire  ;  when,  seating  herself,  she  delibe- 
rately placed  her  crook-headed  staff  on 
one  side  ;  and  on  the  other,  on  the  floor 
beside  her,  a  little  basket  that  she  car- 


20 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ried.  To  this  little  basket  we  should, 
perhaps,  have  alluded  before.  It  con- 
tained a  little  stock  of  merchandise — 
some  tape,  some  balls  of  thread,  and  two 
or  three  oranges ;  the  value  of  all  of  which 
would  not  exceed  one  sixpence  sterling 
money.  There  was  something  piteous 
about  this  little  basket ;  it  looked  so 
miserable — so  wretched. 

The  day,  as  already  mentioned,  being 
very  cold  and  wet,  the  little  old  woman 
was  asked  if  she  would  take  a  little  spi- 
rits. 

"  No,  dear,  thank  you.  It's  five-and- 
forty  years  since  a  dhrop  o'  speerats,  or 
anything  stronger  than  wather,  crossed 
my  lips.  Many  thanks  to  you,  dear,  all 
the  same,  though.  The  bit  o'  fire,"  she 
added,  toasting  her  little,  old,  withered 
hands  before  it  as  she  spoke — "  the  bit 
o'  fire  is  comfort  enough ;  and  a  great 
comfort  it  is  in  such  a  day  as  this." 

''  And  you  drink  nothing  but  water  .^" 
said  her  hostess,  in  some  surprise  at  so 
unusual  a  peculiarity  in  one  in  her  con- 
dition and  circumstance. 

"  Nothing,  dear,  unless  it  be  the  dhrop 
tea ;  it's  my  only  comfort." 

"  You  have  been  always  a  sober  woman, 
then?" 

"  Indeed,  and  I  may  say  I  have,  dear. 
I  never  was  given  to  dhrinking  :  I  never 
liked  it ;  but  there  was  a  time  when  I 
could  take  a  little  like  other  people.  But 
I  saw  a  scene  once  that  made  me  forswear 
it  for  ever ;  and,  from  that  day  to  this, 
I  have  never  put  a  glass  to  my  lips,  and, 
please  God,  never  will." 

The  curiosity  of  her  hostess  being  ex- 
cited by  this  allusion,  she  was  asked  what 
was  the  nature  of  the  circumstance  to 
which  it  pointed. 

"  Troth,  dear,"  replied  the  old  woman, 
''  it  was  a  case  that's  but  too  common  ; 
but,  as  it  happened  to  my  own  sister,  and 
before  my  own  eyes,  as  I  may  say,  it  made 
an  impression  on  me  that  five-and-forty 
years  has  done  nothin  to  weaken. 

"  My  sisther,  who  was  as  purty  a  girl 


as  you  could  find  in  all  Ireland — and  that's 
a  wide  word,   dear,  but  a  thrue   one — 
married  a  young  farmer  of  the  name  of 
John  Dowlan ;  as  good-lookin  a  lad  as 
you  would  see  anywhere,  and  a  well-doin. 
"  Awell,  dear,  for  six  or  seven  years 
they  lived  happily  together.     There  never 
was  a  fonder  couple  ;  and  matters  throve 
wid  them  mightily.     It  was  just  a  treat 
to  see  them.     They  were  so  loving  ;  their 
house  was  so  tidy  ;  and  everything  about 
them  so  comfortable  and  orderly  ;  their 
childer — for  they  had  two — so  clean  and 
well  dressed.     It  was  a  purty  sight.    But, 
och !  dear,  a  terrible  change   came   over 
them.     John  Dowlan  took  to  the  dhrink- 
in — the   cursed   dhrinkin.     At  first,  and 
for  some  time,  wid  some  regard  to  de- 
cency and  motheration  ;  but  it  was  soon 
from  bad  to  worse,  as  it  always  is  in  such 
cases,  dear.     Dowlan  drank  harder  and 
harder.     His  farm  went  to  rack  and  ruin  ; 
his  tidy  house  was  gradually  stripped  of 
its  comforts  ;  and  his  childer  ran  about  a? 
dirty  and  ragged  as  the  childer  of  a  Dublin 
beggar.     But  this  wasn't  the  worst  of  it, 
dear,  bad  as  it  is.     The  heart  of  her  bro- 
ken by  Dowlan's  misbehavior,  Nelly  took 
also  to  the   cursed   dhrinkin  ;   and  then 
there  was  nothing  but  fightin  and  quar- 
rellin  from  mornin  to  nis-ht. 

^'  Well,  dear,  going  one  night,  when 
things  were  in  this  way,  wid  a  tate  o'  meal 
for  the  childer's  supper — for   they  were 
now  badly  off  indeed — I  finds  the  house 
all  dark,  and  no  soul  moving  in  it.     I 
went  in  and   called   out,  but  nobody  an- 
swered me.     Thinking  there  was  no  one 
in  the  house,  I  was  comin  out  agin,  when 
I  stumbled  over  something.     I  put  down 
my  hand  to  feel.     It  was  my  sisther  lyin 
all  her  length  on  the  floor.     Believin  that 
the  poor   crathur  was  the  worse  o'  the 
dhrink,  didn't  I  raise  her  up,  and  try  to 
waken  her.    But  no  word  would  she  speak, 
and  no  motion  would  she  make.     So,  sus- 
pectin  something  wrong,  didn't  I  lay  her 
gently  down  agin,  and  run  into  a  neigh- 
bor's house  for  a  light. 


THE  OLD  IRISH  BEGGAR-WOMAN. 


21 


"  Och  !  och  !  God  be  wid  us  !  what  a 
sight  did  I  see  when  I  came  "back  wid  the 
light.  Wasn't  there  my  poor  sisther  lyin 
murdered  on  the  floor ;  her  face  covered 
wi'  blood  ;  her  long  black  hair  ail  spread 
about,  and  thickened  and  glued  together 
wid  the  life  strames  o'  the  poor  crathur; 
and  a  deep  gash  in  her  forehead :  and 
wasn't  there  John  Dowlan  lyin  in  another 
corner,  mortal  drunk,  and  a  bloody  axe 
beside  him.  And,  och!  och!  och!  wasn't 
it  the  dhrink  that  did  all  this  ?  Hadn't 
they  been  dhrinkin  and  fightin  all  day 
long  ?  and  wasn't  this  the  end  of  it  ?  It 
was,  aghra — it  was.  Now,  wouldn't  that 
si^ht  have  cured  any  one  of  dhrinkin, 
dear  ?  A  could  and  desolate  house,  with- 
out fire  or  candle  ;  a  murdered  woman  ; 
and  a  senseless  man,  lyin  more  like  a 
brute  than  a  human  crathur ;  and  two 
poor,  naked,  starving  childer  in  the  next 
room,  sleepin  on  a  lock  o'  strae,  and  not 
knowin  what  had  happened.  There  was 
a  sight  for  you  dear,  wasn't  it  ?  Is  it  any 
wonder  I  shouldn't  ever  allow  the  cursed 
liquor  to  approach  my  mouth  ?" 

"  And  what  became  of  Dowlan  ?'' 

^'  Och,  dear,  and  wasn't  he  hanged  for 
the  murder,  in  less  than  six  weeks  after, 
at  Armagh  !" 

There  was  a  peculiarity  about  the  old 
woman,  which  struck  every  one  who  saw 
her,  on  the  occasion  of  which  we  are 
speaking — these  consisting  of  several 
members  of  the  family,  including  two  or 
three  children,  whom  curiosity  had  gath- 
ered around  her.  This  peculiarity  con- 
sisted in  certain  strange,  earnest,  scru- 
tinizing looks  which  she,  from  time  to 
time,  fixed  on  the  difi'erent  individuals 
about  her. 

What  these  looks  meant,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  conjecture,  as  they  conveyed  no 
distinct  expression  of  any  particular  pur- 
pose. They  were  odd,  however,  and  re- 
markable. 

"  Now,  dears,''  said  the  old  woman, 
after  she  had  talked  herself  into  some  fa- 
miliarity with  her  auditory — a  familiarity 


which  had  been  farther  promoted  by  a 
basin  of  broth  and  a  slice  of  bread — 
"  Now,  dears,  I  will  show  you  something 
that  I  wouldn't  show  to  everybody." 

And  she  began  •  rummaging  a  deep 
pocket  which  hung  by  her  side,  and  from 
which  she  cautiously  drew  forth,  but  not 
farther  than  to  allow  of  its  being  barely 
seen,  a  small  golden  crucifix. 

^'  See,  dears, ^'  she  said,  addressing  the 
children  ;  "  do  you  know  what  that  is  .?" 

*'  Is  that  our  Savior  on  the  Cross?" 
said  a  little  curly-headed  boy  of  about 
five  years  of  age,  gazing  with  eager  curi- 
osity on  the  sacred  emblem. 

"  Yes,  dear — yes,"  replied  the  old 
woman,  stroking  the  boy's  head  kindly. 
'-  It  is,  jewel.  He  who  sufi'ered  for  our 
sins,  and  through  whose  mediation  lies 
the  only  road  to  salvation." 

For  four  or  five  years  after  this,  the 
little,  old,  Irish  beggar-woman  was  a  fre- 
quent, although  not  a  very  regular,  visitor 
of  the  family  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
where,  as  she  always  suited  her  calls  to 
the  tea  hour,  a  cup  of  that,  her  favorite 
beverage,  always  awaited  her. 

At  the  period  of  the  old  woman's  first 
visit  to  the  family  alluded  to,  their  cir- 
cumstances were  comfortable  ;  and,  for 
some  time  after,  they  continued  so. 

Misfortune,  however,  came,  how  or  by 
what  means  it  is  not  necessary  to  our 
story  to  explain.  Be  it  enough  to  say, 
that  Mr.  Arthur  was  unfortunate,  and, 
finally,  so  far  embarrassed,  that  his  house- 
hold furniture  was  sequestrated  for  the 
rent.  The  day  of  sale  came,  and  the 
fatal  red  flag  was  displayed  at  one  of  the 
windows. 

The  brokers  were  already  gathering 
about  the  door,  which  stood  wide  open 
for  all  who  chose  to  enter. 

It  wanted  yet  about  twenty  minutes  to 
the  hour  of  sale  ;  but,  as  has  been  said, 
intending  purchasers  were  already  crowd- 
ing about  the  door,  and  thronging  the 
passages  of  the  house.  Amongst  the 
latter,  feebly  struggling  to  make  her  way 


22 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


in,  was  a  little  old  woman  in  a  gray  cloak. 
It  was  the  Irish  beggar-woman.  There 
was  surprise,  and  an  expression  of  deep 
and  anxious  interest,  in  her  aged  counte- 
nance. Pushing  on,  she  found  out  the 
apartment  in  which  the  unhappy  family 
had  assembled,  and  tottered  into  the 
midst  of  them. 

The  sight  of  the  old  woman  at  such  a 
moment  gave  much  pain  to  both  Mrs. 
Arthur  herself,  and  the  other  members 
of  the  family.  They  thought  it  a  most 
unseasonable  visit. 

"  Och,  dear,  dear,  and  this  is  a  sorrow- 
ful day  wid  ye,"  said  the  old  woman  to 
Mrs.  Arthur.  "  Excuse  me  for  comin  at 
sich  a  time  ;  but  I  heerd  of  your  misfor- 
tune, and  thocht  it  my  duty,  who  had 
shared  of  your  comforts,  to  share  in  your 
distresses.  Will  you  spake  to  me  a  mo- 
ment, Mrs.  Arthur,  dear.?" 

Mrs.  Arthur  retired  with  her  to  a  window. 

"  Don't  think  it  impertinent  of  me  axin, 
dear,"  said  the  old  women  ;  "  but  what's 
all  this  for  ?     Is  it  the  rint,  dear  .?" 

Mrs,  Arthur  told  her  it  was. 

"  And  how  much  is  it  now,  jewel } 
Come  now,  dear,  don't  be  after  cryin 
your  eyes  out  in  that  way.  I  always  put 
my  trust  in  God  while  in  trouble,  dear  ; 
and,  perhaps,  he's  nearer  you  this  blessed 
moment  wid  assistance,  than  you're  think- 
in  of.     How  much  is  the  rint,  dear  .?" 

"  It  will  be  altogether  about  i320," 
replied  Mrs.  Arthur,  sobbing,  and  not  a 
little  surprised  at  the  old  woman's  inqui- 
ries, which,  but  for  the  manner  in  which 
they  were  put,  she  would  have  deemed 
impertinent. 

"  Twenty  pound,  dear.  Well,  get  me 
a  word  o'  your  husband,  as  there's  no 
time  to  lose." 

Mr.  Arthur  was  immediately  brought 
to  her. 

*'  You're  in  distress,  sir,  and  a  sorrow- 
ful sight  it  is  to  me  to  sec  it ;  but,  maybe, 
I  can  relieve  you,"  said  the  old  woman. 
'^  Put  everybody  out  of  the  room  but  the 
mistress  and  yourself." 


We  will  not  pause  to  describe  Mr.  Ar- 
thur's astonishment  at  this  address,  but 
proceed. 

The  apartment  being  cleared — 
"  Now,  dears,"  said  the  old  woman, 
working  her  hand  into  the  deep  side-pocket 
from  which  she  had  drawn  the  crucifix  on 
a  former  occasion,  and  from  which  she 
now  pulled  forth  an  old  leathern  purse — 
*'  Now,  dears,  ax  no  questions,  and  don't 
vex  me  wid  refusals  or  thanks.  Here's 
twenty  gould  guineas  ;  and  just  you  settle 
wid  the  harpies,  Mr.  Arthur,  dear,  and 
let  there  be  no  more  about  it.  You'll 
pay  me  back  again  when  you  can,  as  I 
will  be  always  comin  and  goin  about  the 
house,  as  usual.  There,  dear,"  she  added, 
handing  over  twenty  guineas  to  Mr.  Ar- 
thur, which  she  had,  in  the  meantime, 
counted  out  from  the  leathern  purse, 
"  Take  that,  and  run  away  wid  ye,  and 
clear  the  house  o'  the  spalpeens." 

Mr.  Arthur  would  have  refused  the 
money ;  but  she  would  hear  of  no  denial. 
He  hastened  to  the  apartment  where  the 
person  sent  from  the  sheriff's-officer  ta 
receive  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  and  the 
auctioneer  were.  The  sale  had  just  be- 
gun. The  first  article  had  been  put  up, 
when  Mr.  Arthur  approached  the  clerk 
and  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 

The  words  acted  like  a  charm.  The 
whole  proceedings  were  instantly  stopped : 
the  rent  and  costs  were  paid  ;  and,  in  ten 
minutes  after,  the  house  was  cleared  of 
strangers.  It  was  once  more  the  sancti> 
ary  of  Arthur  and  his  family. 

After  this,  matters  again  improved  with 
Arthur.  The  old  woman  continued  her 
visits  as  formerly ;  but  steadily  refused 
receiving  back  any  part  of  the  twenty 
guineas  she  had  advanced — always  say- 
ing, when  partial  re-payments  were  ofier- 
ed  her — 

"  Not  now,  dear :  wait  awhile  till  you 
get  a  little  easier,  and  maybcs  you'll  give 
it  to  me  when  I  am  more  in  need  of  it 
than  at  present." 

About  a  year  after,  the  old  woman  in- 


EARLY  ATTACHMENTS. 


23 


formed  Mrs.  Arthur,  one  day,  that  she 
intended  going  to  Glasgow  to  see  some 
friends  she  had  there,  but  that  she  would 
return  in  about  a  month. 

To  Glasgow  she  accordingly  went,  as 


was  ascertained  by  subsequent  inquiry ; 
but  she  never  returned,  nor  was  anything 
more  ever  heard  of  her  by  the  family 
whom  she  had  so  seasonably  relieved. 


-•-•-♦- 


EARLY    ATTACHMENTS. 


<*  It  is  a  tale  better,  perhaps,  untold — 
A  dark  page  in  the  history  of  mankind, 
Which  would  be  better  wholly  blotted  out. 
It  grieves  me  much  to  speak  of  evil  things, 
Thou  knowest — yet  thou  urgest  me  to  speak, 
Well,  then,  draw  near  and  listen." — Lady  Btdwer. 


Marion  Sommerville  was  a  nice,  live- 
ly, good-looking  girl  of  eighteen,  the 
heiress  of  the  wide  domains  of  Clarns- 
dell.  An  only  child,  she  lost  both  her 
parents  when  very  young  ;  and,  during  her 
minority,  which  was,  by  her  father's  will, 
to  extend  only  till  the  period  of  her  mar- 
riage, she  was  under  the  guardianship  of 
her  maternal  uncle.  She  was  a  good-na- 
tured girl  enough  ;  but,  having  been  petted 
when  a  child,  she  had,  what  few  women 
are  unprovided  with,  a  will  of  her  own, 
which  she  exercised  indiscriminately,  ac- 
cording to  the  dictates  of  impulse.  There 
was  a  want  of  determination  too  about  her 
as  regarded  herself ;  she  was  too  facile  of 
purpose. 

Even  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighteen, 
Marion  still  dwelt  "  with  deep  affection 
and  recollection"  on  the  happy  moments 
she  had  spent  at  the  village  school  of  An- 
derton,  some  twelve  years  before.  Al- 
though situated  about  twenty  miles  from 
her  estate,  Anderton  was  the  nearest  place 
where  reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  and 
needlework  were  taught  in  a  genteel  man- 
ner ;  and  thither  had  she  been  sent,  to  the 
care  of  her  deceased  father's  sister,  an  old 
maiden  lady,   for    the    purpose  of  being 


grounded  in  the  rudiments  of  those  polite 
accomplishments,  prior  to  her  being  doom- 
ed to  undergo  the  miseries  of  human  life, 
at  the  rate  of  eighty,  or  perhaps  a  hundred 
guineas  a-year,  in  an  Edinburgh  or  a  Lon- 
don boarding-school. 

At  the  Anderton  establishment  there 
was  a  mixture  of  girls  and  boys  ;  and,  as  is 
usually  the  case  on  such  occasions,  there 
was  a  deal  of  what  children  dignify  with 
the  name  of  "  sweethearting ;"  which  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  girls — for 
they  are  always  the  first  to  make  advances 
— putting  themselves  under  the  protection 
of  those  boys  who  happen  to  be  in  the 
daily  habit  of  going  the  same  way,  or  part 
of  the  same  way,  home.  IMarion's  com- 
panion was  a  pretty  little  fellow,  with  curly 
auburn  locks,  two  years  older  than  her- 
self, named  Arthur  Warrington  ;  and,  al- 
though it  took  him  a  considerable  distance 
off  his  own  road,  he  invariably  accompa- 
nied Marion  to  the  very  door  of  her  aunt's 
house.  Marion  felt  proud  of  his  attentions, 
and  determined  in  her  own  mind  never  to 
quarrel  with  him,  however  much  people 
might  ridicule  her  for  going  with  him. 
One  day — one  eventful  day — having  been 
rewarded  by  the  schoolmaster  with  a  half 


24 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


holiday,  or,  in  other  words,  the  school- 
master having  rewarded  himself  with  a 
few  hours'  relaxation  from  his  very  ardu- 
ous duties,  Marion  and  Arthur  thought 
they  might,  as  they  thus  had  plenty  of 
time  upon  their  hands,  go  home  by  Har- 
dy's Mill,  which  was  about  two  miles 
farther  round  than  their  usual  way.  Ac- 
cordingly they  set  off  through  the  fields  in 
high  spirits  gathering  buttercups  and 
daisies  as  they  went ;  and  it  was  late  in 
the  afternoon  ere  they  arrived  at  the  brink 
of  the  stream  below  the  mill,  which  was 
crossed  by  a  single  wooden  plank.  With 
great  glee  Arthur  ran  across  first,  and-then 
called  to  Marion  to  follow  him.  Terrified 
not  a  little,  she  began  to  creep  along  the 
plank  upon  all  fours  in  a  state  of  nervous 
trepidation  ;  and  when  about  the  middle 
of  it,  her  fears  overcame  her,  she  let  go 
her  hold,  and  fell  into  the  stream,  which, 
luckily,  was  rather  shallow  in  the  sum- 
mer-time. Instantly  Arthur  leapt  in  after 
her,  and,  with  considerable  difficulty,  suc- 
ceeded in  bringing  her  to  the  opposite 
bank,  "  all  dripping  wet."  With  a  feel- 
ing of  gratitude,  her  first  impulse  was  to 
throw  her  tiny  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
sobbed  out — "  Dear  Taddy,  I  love  you 
much  !" 

When  she  reached  her  aunt's  house 
that  night  it  was  almost  dark.  Her  aunt. 
Miss  Wilhelmina  Fizgig,  had  begun  to 
entertain  some  fears  for  her  safety,  the 
servant  maid  having  been  despatched 
about  s-ix  to  the  schoolhouse,  to  ascertain 
whether  Miss  Marion  had  been  "  kept 
in  ;"  but,  the  dominie  and  his  wife  having 
gone  out  to  tea,  no  one  was  visible  but  a 
little  soot-bedizened  girl,  with  her  wiry  hair 
done  up  in  choicest  whiteybrown,  who 
acted  as  maid-of-all-work  to  thp  ^family  : 
and  she  "  didna  ken  naething^ about  it." 
Thus  was  Miss  Fizgig's  servant  compelled 
to  return  as  wise  as  she  went.  Another 
hour  having  elapsed,  during  which  Miss 
Fizgig  had  repeatedly  pulled  up  her 
drawing-room  window,  and  vainly  peered 
out  into  the  road,  for  the  purpose  of  ob- 


taining the  first  view  of  the  little  culprit, 
and  the  first  tidings  of  her  approach,  the 
maid-servant  was  desired  to  leave  off 
scouring  the  dishes  in  the  kitchen,  and  to 
perform  the  same  operation  to  the  country 
round,  and  more  particularly  to  the  vil- 
lage of  Anderton.  These  directions  the 
maid-servant  promised  implicitly  to  obey  ; 
but,  like  Mrs.  Maclarty,  not  being  over- 
willing  to  be  "  fashed"  with  the  perform- 
ance of  what  she  deemed  superfluous 
labor,  the  more  especially  at  a  time  when 
she  was  momentarily  expecting  a  call  from 
her  pro-tempore  sweetheart,  John  Dowdle, 
who,  when  he  had  nothing  better  to  do, 
made  love  to  her  purely  for  the  sake  of 
the  supper  and  aquavitse  with  which  she 
was  wont  to  regale  him,  made  a  feint  of 
leaving  the  house  by  the  front,  but  almost 
immediately  returned  by  the  back  door. 
At  eight  o'clock  she  once  more  went  out, 
and  came  in  again  instantly,  carrying  the 
information,  that  "  she  couldna  see  Miss 
Marion,"  up  stairs  to  her  mistress,  who 
thus  allowed  herself  to  be  egregiously  de- 
ceived into  the  belief  that  "  the  faithful 
creature"  had  actually  done  as  she  had 
desired  her. 

In  about  half  an  hour  more,  the  young 
lady  made  her  appearance  in  propria  per- 
sona. She  was  well  rated  by  her  aunt  for 
her  extraordinary  want  of  punctuality^ 
and  for  the  consequent  trouble  she  had 
occasioned  ;  and,  after  Miss  Wilhelmina 
Fizgig  had  scolded  her  trembling  little 
niece  to  nearly  her  heart's  desire,  she 
caught  her  up  by  one  of  the  arms,  and 
nearly  jerked  it  off  in  an  attempt  to  im- 
press with  effect  upon  her  mind  the  un- 
paralleled evil  of  the  deed  of  which  she 
had  been  guilty.  As  for  the  frock  and 
trousers  she  had  on,  they  were  now  ren- 
dered hardly  fit  for  the  meanest  drudge  to 
wear — at  least  so  said  Miss  Fizfricr,  who  con- 
eluded  the  evening's  amusements  by  call- 
ing Marion  "  a  little  pest,"  and  sending 
her  suppcrless  to  bed.  The  next  morning 
she  was  packed  off  to  her  uncle  at  Clarens- 
dell.     From  that  time  Marion  had  never 


EARLY   ATTACHMENTS. 


25 


seen  Arthur  ;  yet  she  thought  not  of  him 
but  with  delight,  and  ended  by  fancying 
herself  desperately  in  love  with  him. 

Having  been  invited  to  spend  a  day  or 
two  with  a  friend  of  her's,  whose  father's 
house  was  in  the   immediate   vicinity  of 
Clarensdell,  Marion  rose  betimes,  and  set 
out  immediately  after  breakfast,  accom- 
panied  by   her    waiting-maid,    Barbara. 
Part  of  her  road  lay  through  the  wood  of 
Blantyre  ;  and,  when  about  the  centre  of 
it,  she  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  meet  a 
young  gentleman  coming  in  the    opposite 
direction.     This  was  the  more  remarkable 
as  the  hour  was  so  early,  and  the  road  not 
much  frequented.     He  saluted  her  with  a 
"Good  morning,  madam!"    and  passed 
on.     There  was  something  in  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  ay,  and  in  the  features  of  his 
face  too,  which  struck  Marion  as  being 
familiar  to  her.     She  could  not,  however, 
bring  herself  to  recollect  where  she  had 
seen  him.      It  was  strange  that  an  incident 
so  commonplace   as  this  could  make  any 
lasting  impression  upon   Marion's  mind  ; 
but  so  it  was — she  could  not  for  the   life 
of  her  banish  the  recollections  of  the  form 
and  voice  of  the  stranger.     It  was  unac- 
countable even  to  herself.     He  haunted 
her  waking  thoughts  all  that  day,  and  her 
dreams  all  that  night.     The  next  morn- 
in2j  it  was  still  the  same.     Marion  became 
silent   and    contemplative.      Her  friend, 
Miss  Falkland,   could  not  imagine  what 
had   come   over  her,  but  looked   forward 
to  an  entertainment  which  her  father  in- 
tended giving  the  ensuing  night  as  a  thing 
to  raise  Marion's  depressed  spirits.      And 
it  did  so  ;  for  at  that  entertainment  Marion 
again  beheld  the  stranger  who  had  passed 
her  in  the  wood  the  preceding  morning. 
He   paid  her  very  great  attention  ;  and, 
when  together,  they  were  as  happy  a  cou- 
ple as  were  in  the  room  that  night.     They 
invariably  danced  together,   to  the  great 
annoyance    and   envy    of    sundry    young 
ladies    and   gentleman,    who    were    sadly 
shocked  at  the  monopoly. 

Once,  during  a  sprightly  conversation 


with  the  gentleman  of  the  wood,  Marion 
smiled  one  her  sweetest  smiles.  He 
started.  She  gazed  at  him  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"Pardon  me!"  he  exclaimed;  "but 
when  you  smiled  then,  you  called  up  be- 
fore me  the  image  of  a  little  girl  I  once 
knew." 

"Indeed!"  said  Marion,  while  her 
heart  fluttered  as  she  spoke. 

"  Yes  !"  said  the  stranger  with  enthu- 
siasm. "  She  was  the  sweetest,  kindest, 
prettiest  child  I  ever  met  with." 

"  And  pray,"  inquired  Marion,  "  what 
may  have  been  the  name  of  the  little  di- 
vinity .?" 

"  Marion  .?"  was  the  reply. 
"  What  else .?" 

"  Really,  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman, who,  Marion  felt  assured,  was  no 
other  than  Arthur  Warrington.  "  I  never 
knew  her  by  any  other  name  than  Marion. " 
"How  odd!"  exclaimed  Marion,  not 
wishing,  as  yet,  to  acknowledge  her  iden- 
tity. 

Shortly  after  this  the  party  broke  up, 
and  Marion  retired  to  her  couch  that 
night  in  much  better  humor  with  herself 
and  everybody  else  than  she  had  been  for 
the  last  two  days. 

A  week  elapsed  ere  Marion  Sommerville 
again  beheld  Arthur  Warrington.  She 
was  strolling  in  the  same  wood  in  which 
he  had  so  suddenly  re-appeared  ;  and,  ere 
she  was  aware  of  any  one's  approach  Ar- 
thur was  again  by  her  side.  He  spoke  ; 
and  Marion  felt  she  loved  him.  His  con- 
verse was  chiefly  about  the  Marion  who 
had  been  his  school  companion  in  days 
gone  by.  He  said  that  now  being  in  a 
situation  to  marry,  he  should  like  to  look 
upon  Marion  again  ;  and  if  he  saw  in  her 
the  same  being  he  had  once  seen,  if  he  be- 
held the  same  perfection  in  the  woman  as 
his  boyish  dreams  had  ascribed  to  the  girl, 
he  would  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  offer  her 
his  hand.  He  then  recounted  the  adven- 
ture he  and  his  little  sweetheart  had  had 
at  the  mill   stream.     Marion  hung  upoa 


06 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


his  account  of  it  with  breathless  delight ; 
and  when  he  reached  that  part  where  she 
had  thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck  upon 
his  rescuing  her  from  the  water,  and  was 
about  to  repeat  the  words  she  had  uttered 
on  that  occasion,  she  stopped  him,  and 
looking  archly  in  his  face,  asked  whether 
she  would  not  tell  him  what  his  Marion 
had  said ;  but,  ere  he  could  return  an 
answer  either  in  the  affirmative  or  in  the 
negative,  she  came  out  with — "  Dear  Tad- 
dy,  I  love  you  much  !" 

Arthur  Warrington,  on  hearing  those 
words  spoken  in  nearly  the  same  tone  of 
voice  as  his  remembrance  assured  him  he 
had  once  heard  them  before,  gave  an  in- 
voluntary start  as  the  pleasant  truth  flash- 
ed across  his  mind. 

"  And  are  you  indeed  my  own  Marion .?" 
he  cried ;  "  then  the  visions  of  my  boy- 
hood were  not  delusive.  Marion,"  he 
continued,  more  calmly,  "  I  have  no  fine 
gilded  words  with  which  to  woo  you  ;  but 
believe  in  my  truth  and  my  sincerity,  when 
I  address  you  in  this  plain  and  simple 
phrase — I  love  you." 

And  the  affection  Marion  entertained 
for    him   was    reciprocal— at    least    she 
thought  so,  and  after  a  while,    she    con- 
fessed it  to  him.     Arthur  was  happy.  He 
proposed,  and  was  accepted,  with  the  full 
consent  of  Marion's  uncle.     At  the.  end 
of  the  week,  however,  business  of  impor- 
tance called  him  home  ;  and  he  tore  him- 
self reluctantly  away,  promising  to  return 
in  less  than  a  month,  which  was  the  time 
fixed  upon  for  the  solemnization  of  their 
nuptials.      Thus  deprived  of  the   sweet 
solace  of  communion  with  her  lover,   ex- 
cept  through    the    cold  medium   of  the 
post-office,  Marion's  spirits,  which  during 
his  stay,  had  been  in  the  highest  possible 
state,  now  fell  considerably  below  zero. 
She  pined  in  thought  for  more  than  two 
days,  during  which, 

*'  Slumber  soothed  not,  pleasure  could  not  please." 

During  all  that  time,   she  looked  eagerly 
for  a  letter  from  him  her  heart  held  dear, 


as  the  only  thing  that  could  raise  her  soul 
beyond  the  pale  of  calm  indifference  to 
every  object  around  her. 

On  the  third  morning,  the  post-boy 
brought  two  letters  for  Marion — one  was 
from  Arthur  Warrington.  It  was  the  first 
love-letter — certainly  the  first  from  Arthur 
Warrington — she  had  ever  received. 
There  was  a  strange  flushing  of  her  cheek, 
a  fluttering  at  her  heart,  and  her  pulse 
beat  quicker  as  she  undid  the  seal,  the 
impress  of  which  was  a  dove  bearing  a  let- 
ter, and  the  motto  underneath  was  "  Re~ 
pondez  vite.^^ 

''  What  a  mysterious  feeling  is  that," 
says  Lady  Bulwer,  in  her  talented  novel 
of  "  Cheveley,"  "  which  we  experience, 
upon  beholding,  for  the  first  time,  the 
writing  of  the  person  we  love  addressed 
to  ourselves  !  However  commonplace  the 
subject  au.d  the  words  may  be,  yet  to  us 
they  have  a  meaning  and  a  mystery  the 
same  words  never  had  before,  and  never 
will  have  again.  They  are  looked  upon 
again  and  again,  in  every  possible  direction : 
we  try  to  discover  if  our  names  are  written 
more  clearly  or  more  tremblingly  than  the 
rest ;  and,  in  either  case,  oui*  hearts  are 
satisfied  with  the  omen.  Even  the  paper 
is  scrutinized  to  its  very  edges,  as  though 
we  had  never  seen  a  sheet  of  paper  be- 
fore, or  as  if  that  sheet  of  paper  must  of 
necessity  be  different  and  superior  to  any 
that  had  been  previously  made,  like  cha- 
racters traced  in  milk,  which  are  weak  and 
invisible  till  exposed  to  the  heat  of  the 
fire  ;  each  time  we  gaze  on  this  mysteri- 
ous paper,  the  warmth  of  our  own  imagi- 
nation brings  out  a  force  and  a  meaning 
that  was  imperceptible  before  ;  then  every 
word  is  kissed  as  passionately  as  if  they  were 
the  lips  that  could  have  uttered  them." 

All  this  did  Marion  feel ;  and  a  full 
hour  passed  unconsciously  away,  ere  she 
laid  down  Arthur's  letter,  and  took  up 
the  other  which  the  post-boy  had  brought. 
It  proved  to  be  an  invitation  to  spend  a 
fortnio-ht  with  a  friend  at  Lilburu — a  little 
village  thii'ty  miles  distant ;  and  her  uncle, 


EARLY  ATTACHMENTS. 


27 


observing  the  depressed  state  of  her 
sph-its,  advised  her  to  accept  it.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  next  morning,  after  writing 
to  Arthur,  she  departed  for  Lilburn. 

Mrs.  Esdaile,  the  friend  whom  she  went 
to  see,  had  been  the  daughter  of  a  most 
intimate  companion  of  her  mother ;  and 
having  recently  bestowed  ber  heart  and 
hand  upon  Mr.  Esdaile,  a  gentleman  who 
had  once  belonged  to  the  army,  but  hav- 
ing sold  out,  he  lived  by  those  impercept- 
ible means  which  many  in  this  world  live 
by  ;  that  is,  his  neighbors  could  not  com- 
prehend how  he  contrived  to  live  in  the 
manner  he  did  without  a  profession,  trade, 
or  calling  of  any  kind  whatsoever,  and  he 
did  not  seem  disposed  to  enlighten  them 
on  the  subject. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Marion  Som- 
merville  had  seen  her  friend  since  her 
marriage,  and  the  reception  she  met  with 
was  warm  in  the  extreme.  When  Marion 
arrived,  Mr.  Esdaile  was  not  at  home. 
Her  friend  said,  that  he  had  gone  a  short 
way  into  the  country.  Marion  was  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  at  his  absence,  as 
it  afforded  her  an  opportunity  of  hearing 
and  telling  those  many  little  nameless 
circumstances  which  female  friends,  who 
have  been  some  time  parted,  always  have 
to  tell. 

After  tea,  Marion,  at  Mrs.  Esdaile 's 
desire,  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played 
over  several  of  those  airs  with  which  they 
were  both  familiar.  One  song  in  particu- 
lar, entitled,  "  I  ne'er  can  love  again," 
had  been  a  great  favorite  of  theirs,  and 
Marion  was  called  upon  to  repeat  it  more 
than  once.  The  words  ran  someway 
thus : — 

Alas,  liC's  gone  ! — all  hope  is  o'er ; 

No  joy— no  joy  for  me  ; 
Within  this  blighted  heart,  no  more 

May  comfort  ever  be. 
All  that  the  world  aflbrds,  can  bring 

Not  such  delight  as  when 
"We  pledged  our  faith  beside  the  spring  : 

I  ne"er  can  love  again. 

A  suitor  comes  from  distant  land. 

Where  happiness  doth  live  ; 
I  cannot  olier  him  my  hand, 

When  I've  no  heart  to  give. 


My  rosy  cheek,  mine  eyes  so  bright, 

That  won  the  praise  of  men, 
Are  faded,  dim,  and  joyless  quite  : 

I  ne'er  can  love  again. 

The  flowers  are  withering  on  the  stem; 

The  leaves  upon  the  boughs  : 
But  I  shall  fall  long,  long  ere  then, 

The  sport  of  broken  vo'ws. 
Oh  I  when  I  die,  let  me  be  laid 

In  yonder  peaceful  glen 
Beside  the  spring  let  my  grave  be  made, 

Ne'er  to  know  love  again. 

Ere  Marion  had  finished  the  singing  of 
this  song  for  the  third  time,  Mr.  Esdaile 
and  another  gentleman  entered  the  apart- 
ment unperceived  by  her.  Seating  them- 
selves quietly  on  a  sofa  near  the  fireplace, 
"  they  spoke  not,  they  moved  not,  they 
looked  not  around,  but  earnestly  gazed  " 
upon  the  fair  vocalist,  as  if  attention  had 
been  suddenly  aroused  within  them,  de- 
manding at  their  hands  the  respect  of 
silence.  When  the  air  terminated,  they 
arose  and  drew  nearer  the  piano  ;  and 
Marion,  in  turning  towards  Mrs.  Esdaile, 
for  the  first  time  observed  them.  They 
were  instantly  introduced  by  the  lady  of 
the  house,  as  her  husband,  and  his  friend, 
Mr.  Walsingham.  Marion  thought  she 
had  never  before  seen  so  elegant  a  man  as 
Mr.  Walsingham.  His  figure  was  tall 
and  commanding,  his  eyes  dark  and  pene- 
ti-ating,  his  manner  agreeable  ;  and  he 
possessed  that  peculiar  beauty  so  grateful 
to  the  eye  of  the  female  sex,  black  whisk- 
ers. In  the  course  of  the  evening,  he 
rallied  her  upon  the  burthen  of  the  song 
he  had  heard  her  sing. 

"  I  trust,"  said  he,  "  that  the  words, 
'  I  ne'er  can  love  again,'  were  not  uttered 
by  you  in  sober  earnest,  else  I  shall  cer- 
tainly insist  on  all  unmarried  gentlemen 
adding  a  drop  of  prussic  acid  to  their 
nightly  toddy." 

Marion,  in  the  plain  simplicity  of  her 
heart,  answered  him,  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  manner  possible,  by  saying  that  at 
the  time  she  was  singing  a  song  she  took 
no  heed  of  the  actual  meanino;  of  the 
words,  but  merely  looked  on  them  as  so 
many  partners  of  the  notes,  without  which 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  give  due  effect 


S8 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


to  the  air.     When  considered  apart  from  |  their  steps,  till  after  the  moon  had  risen. 


the  music,  they  were  usually,  she  said,  a 
collection  of  meaningless  sentences,  often 
amounting  to  the  absurd,  tagged  together 
promiscuously. 

Marion  could  not  tell  how  it  was,  but 
she  felt  a  sort  of  restraint  in  Walsing- 
ham's  presence,  which  effectually  put  to 
the  rout  all  her  accustomed  liveliness, 
and  she  could  not  converse  with  him  in 
the  same  manner  as  she  could  with  other 
people.  Hers  was  a  feeling  of  respect 
almost  bordering  upon  awe.  And  yet 
Mr.  Walsingham's  conversation  was  com- 
prised of  nothing  more  than  the  merest 
commonplaces  \  certain  it  is,  however, 
that  some  people  have  the  art  of  bestow- 
ing on  the  commonest  words  an  interest 
and  a  novelty  of  expression  that  others 
would  fail  of  imparting  to  the  most 
original  ideas.  Besides,  Mr.  Walsingham 
was  in  the   best  spirits  imaginable,  and 


On  their  return  to  the  villa,  they  had  al~ 
ways  music,  for  Marion  could  sing,  IMr. 
Walsingham  could  sing,  Mrs.  Esdaile 
could  sing,  and  Mr.  Esdaile  could  sing 
— a  little ;  that  is  to  say,  he  did  not 
know  a  single  note  of  music,  but,  hav- 
ing a  pretty  correct  ear,  he  could  lilt  over 
a  song  after  hearing  it  once  or  twice  sung. 
Mr.  Walsingham's  knowledge  of  music 
was  nothing  very  extraordinary,  but  he 
always  contrived  to  sing  a  tolerable  se- 
cond when  the  person  who  sung  the  first 
was  a  young  and  handsome  female. 

Many  a  girl,  older  and  more  experienced 
than  Marion  Sommerville  was — ay,  and 
many  a  young  man,  too,  have  felt  the  pow- 
erful aid  that  moonlight  walks  and  music, 
particularly  duet  singing,  afibrd  to  the  en- 
genderment  of  love.  It  is  not  therefore 
to  be  wondered  at,  that  Marion  herself 
should  have  fallen  a  ready  victim  to  such 


seemed  determined  to  gain  the  good  graces  |  mysterious  fascinations,  when,  in  addition 
of  Marion.  It  is  astonishing  how  the  wish 
to  please  ensures  success  ;  about  the  only 
wish,  alas  !  that  does  ensure  its  own  ful- 
filment, and  therefore  I  wonder  that  it  is 
not  a  more  universal  one.  That  night, 
when  Marion  went  to  bed,  her  dreams 
were  of  Walsingham,  and  Arthur  was  for- 
gotten. Notwithstanding  the  awe  she  felt 
in  Walsingham's  presence,  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  made  some  slight  impression 
on  her  heart. 

During  her  stay,  Mr.  Esdaile  was  polite 
and  gentlemanly  towards  her,  but  his  at- 
tentions were  cold  and  commonplace  when 
compared  with  those  of  Mr.  Walsingham. 
So  handsome  and  accomplished,  too,  as 
Mr.  Walsino;ham  was — at  least  she,  from 


want  of  experience,  considered  him  ac- 
complished— there  could  be  little  wonder 
that  Marion  felt  proud  of  his  attentions. 
He  was  a  daily  visitor  at  Mr.  Esdaile's, 
and  in  the  evening — for  it  was  yet  but 
early  autumn — they  all  strolled  out  to- 
gether, on  which  occasions  Walsingham 
was  invariably  the  companion  of  Marion, 
nor  did  they  usually  think  of  retracing 


her  always  constant  companion  was  a 
handsome  man  who  strove  on  every  occa- 
sion to  render  himself  agreeable. 

Walsingham  praised  her  eyes,  her  hair 
— indeed  every  feature  she  possessed — in 
the  most  enraptured  manner  ;  and  for  so 
doing,  Marion  deemed  hira  a  sensible,  nay, 
a  very  sensible,  man.  She  thought  of  Ar- 
thur ;  but  he  fell  far  into  the  shade  when 
she  attempted  to  compare  him  with  her 
new-found  friend,  Mr.  W^alsingham.  Ar- 
thur had  never  praised  her  eyes,  and,  as 
she  felt  well  assured  that  they  were  ex- 
ceedingly pretty,  she  began  to  entertain 
the  idea  that  he  was  utterly  insensible  to 
their  beauty.  He  had  never  even  uttered 
one  word  of  flattery.  Oh  !  he  was  not  for 
an  instant  to  be  put  into  competition  with 
Mr.  Walsingham.  Yet,  for  all  this,  her 
better  nature  prompted,  and  she  resolved 
to  keep  the  vows  she  had  pledged  to  Ar- 
thur. Poor  girl !  unskilled  in  the  world's 
ways,  she  did  not  know  that  an  elevated 
and  sincere  affection  despises  the  arts  of 
flattery,  and  that  it  is  only  a  feigned  love 
which  delights  in  them. 


EARLY   ATTACHMENTS. 


23 


There  is,  liowever,  it  must  be  owned, 
an  extraordinary  fascination  in  flattery, 
that  makes  its  way  even  against  the  iron 
hearts  of  the  votaries  of  long  experience. 
There  is  nothing  so  likely  to  conciliate 
your  good  opinion  of  others,  as  to  find  that 
they  either  entertain  or  profess  to  enter- 
tain exaggerated  notions  of  yourself.  "  A 
gift,"  says  Solomon,  "  perverteth  the 
wise  ;"  and  what  gift  so  pleasing  to  the 
vanity  of  the  human  heart,  as  that  one 
which,  after  all,  costs  least  to  ofier — 
Flattery  !  It  is  impossible,  if  not  un- 
grateful of  you  to  judge  impartially  of 
those  who  have  judged  favorably  of  you. 
The  smoke  of  the  incense  which  they  offer 
you,  rises  up  between  you  and  them,  and 
you  see  them  through  the  colored  medi- 
um of  that  cloud,  with  all  their  good  qua- 
lities magnified,  and  all  their  imperfec- 
tions dimmed. 

The  evening  preceding  the  day  which 
Marion  had  fixed  on  for  her  return  home, 
she  found  herself  suddenly  left  alone  in 
the  room  with  Mr.  Walsingham.  Con- 
scious that  this  might  be  viewed  as  im- 
proper by  any  one  who  might  enter,  she 
rose  to  retire.  Mr.  Walsingham  gently 
detained  her. 

"  Stay,  Miss  Sommerville,"  he  said, 
"  I  wish  a  moment's  converse  with  you," 

Struck  with  this  appeal,  Marion  turned, 
and  demanded  to  know  his  wishes.  Wal- 
singham cowered  beneath  her  glance  ; 
this  action  was  but  momentary,  yet  it  did 
not  pass  unnoticed  by  Marion.  She  ob- 
served, too,  a  strangeness  in  his  manner, 
and  an  unusual  flush  upon  his  cheek.  He 
paused ;  and  it  was  not  till  Marion  had 
asked  him  a  second  time  what  he  required 
of  her,  that  he  could  summon  fortitude 
enough  to  speak. 

"  I  have  long  panted  for  this  opportu- 
nity," said  he,  "  and,  believe  me,  it  shall 
not  be  lost.  Marion,  it  is  needless  to  dis- 
guise my  feelings — I  love  you  I  Then  say 
at  once,  my  own  beloved,  will  you  consent 
to  become  mine  .^" 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  attempted 


to  press  Marion  to  his  breast.  She  re- 
pulsed him  indignantly  :  at  the  same  time^ 
quite  overpowered  with  the  abruptness  of 
his  offer,  silent  as  a  statue,  she  turned  to 
leave  the  room.  She  caught  the  handle 
of  the  door,  and  tried  to  open  it.  It  was 
locked,  and  there  was  no  key. 

"  You  see,"  said  Walsingham,  smiling 
a  ghastly  smile,  "  every  precaution  has 
been  taken  ;  and,  unless  you  consent  to 
become  my  wife  before  to-morrow  at  noon, 
you  cannot  be  permitted  to  leave  this 
room." 

''Heavens!"  exclaimed  Marion,  "a 
prisoner  !  And  by  what  right,  sir,  do  you 
presume  to  detain  me  ?  I  will  alarm  the 
house.     Mr.  Esdaile  shall  know." 

"  You  may  save  yourself  the  trouble, 
my  dearest  Marion.  My  friend  Esdaile 
and  his  wife  are  aware  of  my  design,  and 
they  have  purposely  left  the  house." 

At  these  words,  Marion  threw  herself 
down  upon  the  sofa  in  a  paroxysm  of  dis- 
appointment, covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  gave  vent  to  her  grief  in  tears. 

Upwards  of  an  hour  elapsed,  and  affairs 
wore  the  same  aspect.  IVFarion  was  still 
a  prisoner,  and  Walsingham  continued 
pressing  his  suit  with  the  most  indefatiga- 
ble ardor.  Driven  to  the  verge  of  desper- 
ation, Marion  rushed  to  the  window,  with 
the  fixed  determination  of  throwing  her- 
self over  into  the  gardens  below  ;  by  which 
act  she  would,  in  all  probability,  have  only 
maimed,  not  killed  herself,  as  she  imagin- 
ed she  would,  for  the  room  in  which  they 
were  was  on  the  second  story  ;  but  Wal- 
singham, foreseeing  such  a  proceeding  on 
her  part,  had  had  the  window  carefully 
secured.  Her  efforts,  therefore,  to  raise 
the  casement  proved  unavailing,  and  she 
once  more  sunk  down  upon  the  sofa. 
Still  Walsingham  urged  her  to  accept  him, 
as  the  partner  of  her  future  life,  the  sharer 
of  her  joys  and  of  her  sorrows  ;  and  he  vow- 
ed he  would  be  more  to  her  than  ever  hus- 
band had  been  to  wife  before — he  would  be 
always  her  adoring  slave.  VYrought  up  to 
a  more  than  ordinary  pitch  of  excitement, 


30 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


by  the  conflicting  powers  of  faar,  grief, 
and  despair,  and,  perhaps,  believing  in  all 
that  Walsingham  had  vowed,  the  poor  girl 
at  length  yielded  a  reluctant  consent  to  his 
proposals. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Marion  rose, 
and  was  preparing  for  her  departure — for 
she  considered  the  forced  consent  she  had 
given  Walsingham  as  by  no  means  bind- 
ing— when  Mrs.  Esdaile  entered  her  apart- 
ment, and  expressed  astonishment  at  her 
proceedings. 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,  you  know,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  "  that  you  can  return 
home  until  you  have  fulfilled  the  promise 
you  last  night  gave  to  Mr.  Walsingham." 

Marion  attempted  to  remonstrate  with 
her  on  the  injustice  of  such  a  proceeding, 
knowing,  as  she  did,  her  engagement  to 
Arthur  Warrington.  Mrs.  Esdaile  was 
inexorable  ;  and  poor  Marion  was  com- 
pelled to  accompany  her,  Mr.  Esdaile, 
and  Mr.  Walsingham,  to  the  house  of  a 
justice  of  the  peace,  where  the  indissoluble 
knot  was  tied.  That  evening  Marion  fled 
from  the  house  of  her  friend,  Mrs.  Es- 
daile, and  returned  home. 

The  object  of  Marion's  being  invited  to 
Mrs.  Esdaile's  had  been  accomplished. 
Esdaile  and  his  friend  Walsingham  were 
gamblers,  and  ruin  was  staring  them  in  the 
face.  The  luck  had  gone  against  them. 
Reduced  to  such  extremity,  a  desperate, 
but  lawful  act — by  which  they  could  ob- 
tain a  supply  of  money,  to  enable  them  to 
redeem  their  recent  losses — was  all  that 
remained  to  them.  Marion  Sommerville 
was  an  heiress,  and  Walsingham  was  un- 
married. The  snare  was  laid,  and  their 
victim  was  entangled  in  its  meshes. 

A  day  or  two  after  Marion's  return  to 
Clarensdell,  Arthur  Warrington  arrived  to 
fulfil  the  contract.  Not  a  word  did  Marion 
whisper  of  her  broken  vows.  She  thought 
that  Walsingham  would  never  dare  to 
claim  her,  and  therefore  was  she  silent. 
Better  would  it  have  been  for  her  had  she 
confessed  all  to  Arthur,  and  thrown  her- 
self upon  his  mercy  ;  but,  no,  she   could 


not  summon  resolution  enouL^h  to  do  so, 
for  the  confession  would,  in  some  degree, 
implicate  herself.  With  as  much  calm- 
ness, therefore,  as  she  could  summon  to 
her  aid,  she  went  with  Arthur  to  the  altar, 
and  there  pledged  her  faith  to  him. 

Arthur  had  taken  a  small  but  delightful 
little  cottage  in  the  vicinity  of  the  town  in 
which  his  warehouses  were  situated,  and 
thither  did  he  carry  his  bride.  Months 
rolled  by  in  harmony  and  joy ;  and  Ma- 
rion, in  the  enjoyment  of  pleasant  dreams, 
thought  that  Walsingham,  having  repent- 
ed of  his  conduct,  was  determined  to  leave 
her  unmolested.  How  much,  therefore, 
was  she  surprised,  when,  one  morning,  a 
card  was  brought  to  her,  the  address  of 
which  she  at  once  knew  to  be  in  Walsing- 
ham's  hand-writing.  She  opened  it  with 
no  little  trepidation,  and  read  : 

"Dear  Marion, — There  is  a  large  oak 
tree  growing  at  the  extremity  of  your  gar- 
den. Meet  me  beneath  its  boughs  to- 
night at  twelve.  Fail  not  to  come.  I 
have  much  to  say  to  you.  Deny  me  this 
meeting,  and  Arthur  Warrington  shall 
know  all.  A  court  of  law  shall  settle  our 
disputes. 

"  Yours  afi'ectionately, 

"  Edward  Walsingham." 

At  twelve,  Marion  stood  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  oak.  She  had  obeyed  the 
summons  of  Walsingham,  from  a  fear  of 
the  threatened  consequences.  She  felt 
she  would  rather  make  any  sacrifice  than 
that  Arthur  should  come  to  a  knowledge 
of  her  deceitful  conduct.  Ere  she  left  the 
house,  she  had  satisfied  herself  that  her 
husband  slept. 

As  the  last  stroke  of  the  hour  died  away 
upon  the  breeze,  Walsingham  was  at  her 
side. 

"  Marion,"  he  said,  "  I  have  sought 
this  interview  to  tell  you  how  greatly  I  am 
reduced  in  circumstances  since  the  last 
time  we  saw  each  other."  And  he  opened 
his  cloak,  and  showed  that  the  dress  he 


EARLY  ATTACHMENTS. 


31 


wore  was  in  tatters.  Marion  recoiled 
from  him.  "  Nay,  shrink  not,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  Marion !  this  night  you  must 
fly  with  me.  Beggar  as  I  am,  I  claim  you 
as  my  wife." 

"  Oh,  have  pity  on  me  !"  said  Marion. 
"  Say,  will  nothing  move  you .?" 

•"  Yes  ;  money.     Give  me  money  ! " 

"  How  much,"  faltered  Marion — "  How 
much  will  you  take  to  leave  this  country 
for  ever  ?" 

"  Not  all  that  you  could  give  me  would 
force  me  to  become  an  exile  from  my  na- 
tive land.  With  all  its  faults,  I  love  it 
still,  and  trust  I  never  shall  be  compelled 
to  quit  it." 

"  And  this  man,"  thought  Marion, 
"  will  be  a  basilisk  in  my  path  till  my  day 
of  death.  If  I  give  him  money  now,  he 
may  make  the  same  demand  again  and 
again,  accompanied  with  the  threat  of  ex- 
posure if  I  refuse.  Better,  at  once,  to  fly 
far,  far  from  hence.  Yes  ;  it  shall  be  so. 
On  Thursday  night,"  she  added,  aloud, 
"  I  will  again  meet  you  on  this  spot,  and 
bring  a  sum  to  satisfy  your  present 
need." 

Ere  then  she  hoped  to  be  beyond  his 
reach. 

"  On  Thursday  be  it  then.  Here  will 
we  meet  at  twelve  !" 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words, 
when  the  figure  of  a  man,  unbonneted, 
rushed  forward,  and  confronted  him.  It 
was  Arthur  Warrington. 

"  Villain  !"  cried  Arthur,  choking  with 
passion,  "  I  know  not  who  you  are.  It 
matters  not ;  my  vengeance  must  be  satis- 
fied." 

So  saying,  he  struck  at  Walsingham 
with  his  sword.  Walsingham  drew  forth 
a  pistol ;  but  Arthur,  dashing  it  to  the 
earth,  ran  him  through  the  body  with  his 
sword,  Walsingham  fell.  Then  Arthur, 
seemingly  nowise  horrified  at  what  he  had 
done,  turned  towards  the  half-faintino- 
Marion  and  said — 

"  Traitress  !  viper !  hence  ! — hence  from 
my  sight  for  ever  !" 


"  Dear  Arthur  !"  exclaimed  Marion, 
embracing  his  knees,  "  I  am  innocent — 
indeed  1  am  !" 

"  'Tis  false  !"  said  Arthur,  as  he  disen- 
gaged himself  from  her  frantic  grasp,  and 
rushed  from  the  scene. 

In  the  morning,  the  body  of  Walsing- 
ham was  nowhere  to  be  found.  That  very 
night  the  cottage  of  Arthur  Warrington 
fell  a  prey  to  the  flames,  and  Arthur  him- 
self narrowly  escaped  with  his  life. 

Shortly  after  these  transactions,  he 
wound  up  his  afiairs,  and  left  the  country, 
unknowino;  of  the  fate  of  her  on  whom  his 
almost  constant  thoughts  had  dwelt  for 
many  a  day,  and  with  whom  he  had  ex- 
pected his  after  life  would  have  been  hap- 
pily spent. 

We  must  pass  over  a  period  of  twenty 
years,  during  which  Arthur  Warrington 
had  amassed  a  considerable  fortune  in 
America,  and  had  returned  to  his  own  na- 
tive isle  to  enjoy  it.  He  settled  in  Eng- 
land ;  for  in  Scotland,  where  his  miseries 
had  been,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  be 
happy.  Besides,  as  a  country,  he  admired 
England  most.  "  For  my  own  part,"  says 
a  modern  novelist,  and  we  are  inclined  to 
coincide  with  the  sentiment,  "  there  is  to 
me  an  indescribable  charm  in  the  calm, 
the  quiet,  the  soft,  the  cultivated,  and, 
above  all,  the  home  look  of  English  scene- 
ry,  which  neither  the  gorgeous,  Balshaz- 
zar-like  splendor  of  the  east,  the  balmy 
and  Sybarite  softness  of  the  south,  the 
wildness  of  the  west,  nor  the  frozen,  but 
mighty,  magnificence  of  the  north,  can 
obliterate  or  compensate  for.  England 
(the  country,  not  the  people)  is  merry 
England  still.  There  is  a  youth  about 
England  that  no  other  country  possesses 
— not  even  the  nevo  world ;  for  there  the 
vast  and  hoary  forests — the  rushing  and 
stupendous  torrents — all  seem  like  Na- 
ture's legends  of  immemorial  time." 

The  lord  of  the  manor,  Arthur  W^ar- 
rington,  lost  no  opportunity  of  minister- 
ing to  the   comforts  of  his  tenantry,  and 


32 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


of  doing  good  to  everybody :  in  short,  he 
led  the  life  of — 

"  A  good  old  country  gentleman, 
All  of  the  olden  time." 

He  was  still  a  bachelor,  or,  as  he  was 
pleased  to  style  himself,  a  widower  ;   for  j 
the  deceit  which  had  already  been  prac- 
tised upon  him  by  one  woman,  had  engen- 
dered in  him  a  dislike  for  the  whole  sex. 

Within  a  plantation  on  his  grounds,  at 
the  period  of  which  we  treat,  two  persons, 
of  a  vagabondish  appearance,  had  reared 
a  temporary  habitation  ;  and  thither  had 
they  retired  with  their  wives  ;  their  chief 
employment  consisted  in  taking  short  ex- 
cursions, and  returnino;  to  their  hut  well 
stocked  with  game,  poultry,  and  other 
provisions.  The  population  of  several  of 
the  hen-roosts  belonofins;  to  the  cottars 
around  began  daily  to  become 

"  Small  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less  ;*' 
and  they  had,  in  consequence,  preferred 
several  complaints  to  the  steward  on  the 
subject ;  but,  as  Arthur  Warrington,  from 
mistaken  motives  of  compassion,  had  given 
strict  orders  that  the  people  in  the  plan- 
tation should  not  be  disturbed,  he  could 
afford  them  no  redress,  although  he  plainly 
understood  who  were  the  depredators. 

"  I  say,  Walter,"  said  the  taller  of  the 
ruffians,  as  they  sat  by  their  peat  fire  one 
evening,  after  they  had  made  an  unusually 
large  collection  of  delicacies,  "  don't  you 
think  the  old  fellow  that  this  estate  be- 
longs  to  is  afraid  of  us,  that  he  lets  us  do 
as  we  choose,  without  taking  the  least  no- 
tice of  our  proceedings .'"' 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  other ; 
"  and,  what's  more,  I  don't  care;  for,  if 
he  or  any  of  his  servants  were  to  attack 
us,  blow  me  if  I  wouldn't  sarve  out  every 
mother's  son  on'em  with  a  brace  of  pistol 
bullets." 

"  Manfully  spoken,  Walter,"  said  a 
woman  with  a  very  red  face,  the  evident 
produce  of  ardtjnt  spirits  and  the  heat  of 
tlie  fire,  who  sat  on  a  stool  at  the  farther 
corner,  and  who  seemed,  from  the  charge 
she  took  of  him,  to  be  his  wife.     "  Man- 


fully spoken  ;  and  I  honor  you  for  the  sen- 
timent. But,"  she  added,  rising,  "  it  is 
time  I  were  off  to  Melton  for  some  more 
brandy  ;  for,  as  Macheath  says  in  the  play 
— ^  My  courage  is  out.'  Good-bye,  Wal- 
ter." She  then  saluted  him,  took  a  quart 
bottle  from  a  shelf,  and,  concealing  it  un- 
der a  faded  red  cloak  which  partially  en- 
veloped her  limbs,  left  the  hut. 

"  Now,  why  can't  you  be  as  bold  and  as 
fearless  as  Amelia  .^"  said  the  ruffian  who 
had  first  spoke,  to  a  slender-looking  wo- 
man, the  only  remaining  inmate  of  the 
hovel.  "  Why,  Amelia  would  go  through 
fire  and'  water  to  serve  her  husband,  and 
why  can't  you  do  the  same,  instead  of  be- 
ing the  pale  heartless  thing  you  are  r" 

This  was  spoken  in  a  taunting  tone  of 
voice,  and  the  poor  woman  did  not  seem 
inclined  to  venture  any  answer  to  it.  All 
she  did  was  to  turn  her  lack-lustre  eyes 
upon  her  interrogator,  and  then  burst  into 
tears.  It  was  plain  she  was  afraid  of  him 
— one  could  read  so  in  her  look,  and  to 
him  she  evidently  attributed  all  her  mis- 
fortunes. But  this  mattered  nothing  now 
— for  the  grief  that  had  for  years  been 
gnawing  at  her  heart-strings  had  nearly 
completed  its  work. 

"  Come,  Walsingham  !"  cried  he  who 
had  been  styled  Walter ;  "  leave  your 
high-born  lady  there  to  weep  in  private. 
Sorrow  and  solitude  go  hand  in  hand,  my 
boy.  Besides,  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you,  which  is  for  your  ear  alone." 

So  saying,  Walter  passed  his  arm 
through  that  of  Walsingham ;  and  the 
amiable  pair  took  their  departure,  without 
deio-ning  to  cast  another  look  at  the  poor 
heart-broken  victim  of  their  machinations. 
No  sooner  were  they  gone,  than  jMarion — 
for  it  was  indeed  the  once  proud  heiress 
of  Clarensdcll — put  on  her  bonnet,  and 
prepared  to  follow  them.  That  there  was 
some  diabolical  scheme  in  petio  she  felt 
assured  of.  The  close  observation  of 
many  years  had  enabled  her  to  detect,  by 
a  2;lance  at  Walter  Esdaile's  countenance, 
the  inward  workimrs  of  his  heart ;  and  she 


EARLY  ATTACHMENTS. 


33 


clearly  saw  that  the  communication  he  was 
about  to  make  to  Walsiugham  was  one  not 
scrupulously  exact  in  principle. 

Throwing  a  peat  or  two  upon  the  wan- 
ing fire,  and  pulling  to  the  door  of  the  hut, 
she  stood  alone  on  the  outside. 

"  The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 
Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 

The  evening  air  passed  by  her  cheek, 
The  loaves  above  were  stirred  ; 

But  the  beating  of  her  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  she  heard." 

She   listened,   and,  after  a  moment,   she 
thought  she  heard  a  crackling  sound,  at  a 
short  distance,  as  if  some  one  trode  heavi- 
ly among  the   underwood.     She  was   not 
mistaken  ;  and  cautiously  advancing  in  the 
direction  whence    the    sound   proceeded, 
she  discerned  two  figures,  who,  she  doubt- 
ed not,   were   Esdaile   and   Walsiugham. 
She  saw  them  go  on  a  little  farther  into 
the  thickest  part  of  the  wood ;    and  she 
could  perceive   Esdaile,  ever   and    anon, 
turn  round  his  head  for  the  purpose,  per- 
haps, of  observing  whether  they  were  fol- 
lowed; but   she   took   care,   by  cowering 
down  among  the  underwood,  not  to  betray 
herself.     They  passed  on  to  a  rude  seat 
they  had  constructed  beneath  the  boughs 
of  a  wide-spreading  oak  ;  and  Marion  fol- 
lowed as  quickly,   yet    as  noiselessly  as 
possible,   even   to   the  very  trunk  of  the 
tree  beneath  which  they  sat,  and  concealed 
herself  behind  it,  so  as  distinctly  to  hear 
their  conversation. 

"  But  how,"  said  Walsiugham  to  his 
colleague,  "  is  the  thing  to  be  accomplish- 
ed ?  The  fellow  himself  keeps  at  home 
of  an  evening ;  and,  besides,  his  servants 
are  so  cursedly  honest  that  there's  no  get- 
ting access  to  the  house  by  fair  means." 

"  My  plan  is  this.  I  have  discovered 
that  he  has  given  liberty  to  all  his  ser- 
vants to  go  to  a  ball  at  Melton  to-morrow 
evening;  so  that  he  will  be  alone  in  the 
house,  and  not  a  soul  within  call.  It  will 
then  be  an  easy  matter  for  either  of  us  to 
enter  by  one  of  the  lower  windows,  and 
make  off  with  whatever  valuables  we  can 
lay  our  hands  on.     That  task  be  mine  ; 

VOL.    II.  3 


while  you  will  remain  outside,  ready  to 
stab  the  follow  to  the  heart  if  he  should 
pursue  me ;  for,  encumbered  as  I  will  be 
with  the  booty,  it  will  be  almost  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  use  my  pistols." 

"  The  plan  is  excellent,"  returned  Wal- 
siugham ;  "  but  how  gained  you  the  intel- 
ligence regarding  his  servants .?" 

"  No  matter — I  am  certain  of  the  truth 
of  it.  To-morrow  evening,  at  seven,  it 
will  be  pitch  dark.  Let  that  be  the  hour. 
I  will  leave  the  hut  first,  and  you  can  fol- 
low me  in  about  ten  minutes  afterwards, 
in  order  to  prevent  the  suspicions  of  that 
lady  wife  of  yours,  who,  I  feel  convinced, 
has  her  eye  on  us  at  every  turn." 

"  Pooh  !  Not  she — she  dare  not.  She 
is  too  much  afraid  of  her  handsome  hus- 
band.    Ha!  ha!" 


Well,   then !    to-morrow 


evening 


at 

seven  be  at  your  post,  ready  to  strike  to 
the  earth  my  pursuer." 
-     "  It  is  settled,"  said  Walsingham.    "  At 
seven  o'clock,  a  stroke  with  the  hand  " — 

"  Must  level  with  the  earth  the  second 
person  who  shall  pass  from  the  house." 

"  'Tis  well.  Your  hand.  Now,  let  us 
return." 

They  rose  from  the  seat,  and  proceeded 
onward  through  the  wood  in  the  direction 
of  the  hut. 

All  this  time,  Marion  had  been  trem- 
bling behind  the  tree,  fearful  of  being  dis- 
covered. She  could  hardly  believe  her 
ears,  when  she  heard  the  pair  talk  in  so 
cool  and  deliberate  a  manner  of  their  in- 
tention to  murder  a  fellow-creature.  And 
who  was  to  be  their  victim  ? — Evidently 
the  possessor  of  the  wide  domains  on 
which  they  had  built  their  hut,  and  to 
whose  forbearance  they  owed  their  means 
of  living. 

From  the  many  strange  scenes  that  had 
met  her  eyes,  during  the  twenty  years  she 
had  followed  the  fortunes  of  Walsingham, 
Marion  was  prepared  for  much,  but  cer- 
tainly not  for  murder.  She  had  seen  her 
estates  sold,  and  the  purchase-money  lost 
at  the  gambling  table  by  her  unprincipled 


34 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


husband  ;  she  had  encountered  want  with 
him ;  she  had  borne  curses  from  his  lips, 
and  blows  from  his  hands ;  but  all  these 
bad  deeds  of  his  were  trifles  when  weighed 
in  the  balance  with  the  one  to  which  he 
had  but  now  given  his  ready  acquiescence. 
Murder  !  She  repeated  the  word  aloud, 
and  the  very  echo  of  her  own  voice  star- 
tled her.  Something  must  be  done,  and 
speedily,  to  prevent  the  completion  of 
their  base  desio-Q-  Once  she  thouQ-ht  of 
flvins:  to  the  manor-house  on  the  instant, 
and  confessing  all  she  had  heard  ;  but  the 
next  moment  this  was  over-ruled  by  the 
thouo-ht  that  she  would  thus  denounce,  as 
an  intended  murderer,  her  own  husband. 
At  last  she  resolved  to  wait  patiently  till 
the  next  evening,  and,  by  her  presence 
at  the  manor-house,  at  the  appointed  hour 
of  seven,  shame  Esdaile  and  Walsing- 
ham  from  the  commission  of  the  crimes 
they  had  meditated.  Thus  resolved,  she 
rose  from  the  ground,  and  hurried  off  by 
a  cross  path,  in  order  to  reach  the  hut  be- 
fore them. 

Marion  passed  a  sleepless  night,    and 
all  next  day  there  was  a  fearful  anxiety 
hovering  around  her  heart ;  but  she  hap- 
pily succeeded  in  concealing  it  from  her 
companions.     The    day  drew   towards   a 
close,  and  the  evening  came  on  apace.    As 
the  clock  struck  six,  she  saw  Esdaile  de- 
part, and,  shortly  afterwards,  he  was  fol- 
lowed by  Walsingham.    Now  was  the  time 
for  action.     Mrs.  Esdaile,  the  virago  of 
the  past  evening,  with  the  illumined  coun- 
tenance, was  fast  asleep  on  a  pallet  bed 
in  the  corner  of  the  hut,  on  which  she  had 
sunk    down,    quite    overcome    with    the 
strength  of  the  remains  of  the  brandy  she 
had  purchased   the   preceding  evening  at 
Melton.     Everything  was  propitious  ;  so, 
wrapping  her  mantle   closely  around  her, 
she  proceeded  towards  the  manor-house. 
Concealing  herself  behind  a  sun-dial  on 
the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house,  she  had  not 
remained  Ions;  there  before  she  saw  Esdaile 
advance   from    one   of  the    sides   of  the 
building,  and   walk   past   the  very  place 


where  she  lay  concealed.     Presently  he 
was  joined  by  Walsingham. 

"  The  coast's  clear,"  Esdaile  said,  sotto 
voce,  to  Walsingham.  "  Conceal  yourself 
behind  yonder  tree ;"  pointing  to  one  a 
short  distance  off.  "  I  have,"  he  added, 
^'  succeeded  in  unclosing  one  of  the  lower 
windows  of  the  right  vring  of  the  house, 
and  everything  shall  shortly  be  ours.  Now, 
to  your  post.     Here  is  the  knife." 

So  saying,  he  placed  a  dagger  in  Wal- 
singham's  hand ;  and,  as  Walsingham  pro- 
ceeded to  take  his  station  at  the  tree,  Ma- 
rion, on  whom  this  conversation  had  not 
been  lost,  glided  swiftly  along,  unobserved, 
to  the  rio;ht  wing;   of  the  building,  one  of 
the  windows  of  which,  as  Esdaile  had  said, 
was  open.     Without  loss  of  a  moment, 
Marion  crept  into  the  room,  and  she  had 
just  time  to  secret  herself  in   one   of  its 
darkest    corners,   when    Esdaile   entered, 
and  carefully  closing   the  window,  made 
towards  the   door,  which  he  opened,  and 
Marion  was  again  alone  in  the  room.    Her 
first  intent  had  been  to   creep  softly  to- 
wards the  room  in  which  the  only  occupant 
of  the  house  was,  and,  havino'  locked  him 
in,  to  carry  off  the  key,  thereby  prevent- 
ing  him    from    discovering   Esdaile,  and 
endangering    his    own   life ;  but   this  the 
quick  advance  of  Esdaile  had  prevented. 
She   still  resolved,  however,  to    attempt 
this,  notwithstanding  the  chance   she   ran 
of  encountering  Esdaile  ;  and  had  already 
got  the  length  of  the  centre  lobby  of  the 
house,  from  which  broad  stairs  to  the  flat 
above  ascended,  when  she   heard  a  noise 
in  an  apartment  overhead,  a  shuffling  of 
feet,  a  pistol  fired,  the  sudden  opening  of 
a  door,  and  some  one  rush  along  the  pas- 
sage above.     She  saw  the  flutter  of  a  ear- 
ment  at  the   top  of  the  stairs,  and  heard 
the  sound  of  a  voice  with  which  she  thought 
she  was  familiar.     Then,  and   only  then, 
came  the  wish  of  savins;  herself  from  dis- 
covery  by  flight.     It  was  almost  impossi- 
ble for  her  to  retrace  her   steps  the  way 
she  had  come  ;  for  many  winding  passages 
intervened  between  the   place  where  she 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


35 


tten  was  and  the  window  at  which  she  had 
entered ;  but  the  large  door  at  the  end  of 
the  lobby  promised  her  the  ready  means 
of  escape.  To  this  she  flew.  The  key 
was  in  the  lock.  One  turn  of  it  and  she 
was  free.  Scarcely  had  she  gained  the 
outside,  when  a  man  was  close  upon  her 
heels.  She  had  ran  forward  but  a  few 
paces,  when  she  heard  a  scream  behind 
her,  and  the  report  of  a  pistol ;  and, 
turning  round,  more  from  terror  than  sur- 
prise, she  beheld  two  bodies  stretched 
upon  the  ground,  writhing  in  the  agonies 
of  death.  In  pity,  she  approached,  and, 
to  her  horror,  beheld  the  forms  of  her 
husband  and  his  villanous  companion. 
Foiled  in  his  attempt  upon  the  life  of  the 
owner  of  the  manor-house,  who  had  dis- 
covered him  in  the  act  of  abstractins:  some 
part  of  his  valuable  plate,  Esdaile  had 
rushed  from  the  house,  glad  to  escape 
with  his  life  ;  but  his  accomplice,  Wal- 
singham,  having  received  strict  injunctions 
from  him  to  plunge  his  dagger  in  the  heart  - 


of  the  second  person  who  came  forth  from 
the  house,  had  obeyed  those  injunctions 
to  the  letter,  and  stabbed  Esdaile  to  the 
heart.  A  loaded  pistol  was  in  Esdaile's 
hand  at  the  moment,  which,  as  he  fell, 
accidentally  went  off,  and  Walsinghara  was 
instantly  stretched  a  corpse  beside  him. 

Little  more  remains  to  be  told.  Marion 
lost  no  time  in  unfolding  to  the  gentleman 
whose  life  had  been  attempted,  and  who 
now  came  from  the  house,  all  the  particu- 
lars of  the  intended  robbery  and  murder. 
He  listened  to  her  story  with  the  utmost 
patience  ;  and,  when  he  had  heard  all,  he 
was  unbounded  in  his  thanks  towards  her 
for  having  saved  his  life.  He  promised 
to  befriend  her,  and  he  afterwards  did  so. 
The  sound  of  his  voice  had  seemed  fa- 
miliar to  Marion  ;  and  when  the  blaze  of 
light  within  his  manor-house  revealed  his 
features  to  her,  she  almost  fainted  when 
she  saw  them,  for  she  knew  she  again  stood 
by  the  side  of  Arthur  Warrington. 


THE    ENTHUSIAST 


There  is  a  splendid  book  written,  called 
"  The  Enthusiast ;"  but,  though  it  dis- 
covers the  author's  talents,  to  my  appre- 
hension and  feelings,  it  fails,  after  a  few 
pages,  to  keep  alive  the  attention — and 
why  ?  Just  because  the  author,  portray- 
ing the  general  character  of  enthusiasm, 
steps  beyond  himself  and  his  own  personal 
observations,  and  talks  about  the  workings 
of  the  principle  in  a  new  and  untried  com- 
bination of  circumstances.  From  the  law 
which  regulates  projectiles  in  aere,  he 
reasons  to  what  should  regulate  them  in 
vacuo;  he  reasons  from  things  seen  to 
things  unseen  ;  and  then  leaves  both  him- 
self and  his  reader   in  the  mud  and  the 


mist  of  mere  supposition.  But  in  what  I 
mean  to  say  of  enthusiasm,  I  pledge  my- 
self to  state  nothing  but  what  I  have  felt 
or  seen  ;  and  I  shall  separate  this  princi- 
ple from  all  others,  only  marking  its  influ- 
ence when  it  is  in  a  state  of  intensity,  as 
one  marks  the  electric  spark,  not  in  the 
cloud  or  the  machine,  but  as  it  passes 
from  one  locality  to  another.  Enthusi- 
asm is,  in  fact,  the  electrical  element  of 
life.  It  is  more  or  less  everywhere,  and 
often  where  it  is  least  suspected.  It 
bursts  forth,  occasionally,  in  the  character 
of  the  warrior,  the  scholar,  the  poet,  the 
speculator  ;  but  it  remains  as  substantial- 
ly, perhaps,  though  not  so  ostensibly,  in 


36 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


the  bosom  of  the  parent,  the  husband,  the 
wife,  the   child,  the  friend,  the  kinsman. 
The    tradesman  is   an    enthusiast   if    he 
hopes  to  succeed ;  the  merchant,  the  la- 
borer, the  mechanic.     I  have  seen  a  shoe- 
maker as  enthusiastic  in  making  bis  shoes 
fit  neatly  without  pinching,  as  the  scholar 
would  be  in  divining   the  meaning  of  a 
difficult    passage.      Without    enthusiasm 
man  had  never  been  what  he  is.    It  found 
him  in  the  world  naked,  and  it  clothed 
him  ;  houseless,  and  it  covered  him  ;  de- 
fenceless, and  it  armed  him.     It  run  him 
up  through  the  pastoral,  the  agricultural, 
to  the  commercial  state.     It  composed  the 
"  Idylls  "  of  Theocritus,  the  "  Georgics  " 
of  Virgil,   and  the   "  Fleece "   of   Dyer. 
Without  this  there  had  been  no  shepherds 
to  sing,  and  no  poets  to  sing  of  their  sing- 
ino't   no    husbandmen  to  labor,    and  no 
Virgils  and  Hesiods  to  speak  of  their  la- 
bor ;  and  no  argonautic  expeditions,  and 
no  sacred  bard  to  celebrate  their  pursuit  of 
the  golden  fleece,  commerce.     But  though 
all  this  is  true  in  the  enlarged  and  diluted 
sense  of  the  word,  it  is  not  so  in  that  sense 
in  which  the  term  is  commonly  understood. 
He  is  quite  an  enthusiast  in  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge — of  a  fox — or  of  hoped-for  dis- 
covery— or  of  fame — or  of  fortune — any- 
body knows  to  be  terms  applied  to  an  un- 
usually spirited  pursuit   of  any  or  all  of 
these.      But  the  enthusiasm  of  which  I 
speak  is  more  limited  still.     It  is  a  glow 
which    originates  and  cools  in  the  same 
bosom — which  has  no  view  beyond  itself. 
It  is  not  a  mean  to  an  end,  but  mean  and 
end  in  one.      Look  at  that   boy — ^he    is 
never  to  be  found,  at  a  leisure  hour,  with- 
out  a   fishing-rod  in  his   hand ;  at  that 
other  youth — his  book  is  his  constant  com- 
panion by  the  fountain  and  the  hill ;  at 
that  religious  devotee — prayer  and  Bible- 
reading  are  his  heaven  ;  at  that  butcher's 
boy,  killing  a  lamb — ^his  father  has  put  the 
knife  mto  his  hand  to  please  him — he  is 
an  enthusiast  in  butchery,  his  passion  feeds 
on  itself — it  is  lilie  virtue  its  own  reward — 
he  cares  not  for  cutlets  or  brown  roasts. 


;  nay, 
-thousch  she 


Having  thus  narrowed   the  field  to  a 
class,  I  shall  now  select  an  individual,  and 
that  individual  shall  be  one  with  whom  I 
have  had  many  opportunities  of  becoming 
well  acquainted.     Curious  reader,  it  is  not 
you,  nor  your  brother  Robert,  nor  your 
uncle  x\ndrew,  nor  any,  so  far  as  I  know, 
of  your  kindred — it   is  "  myself."     And 
how  has  enthusiasm  wrought  in  me  }   That 
I  am  just  going  to  tell  you.     It  has  made 
me,  in  the   first   place,  miserable — most 
miserable  ;  and  I'll  tell  you  how.     I  took 
it  into  my  head,  when  a  boy  of  about  eight 
or  nine   years  of  age,  that  my  mother — 
my  only  living  parent — -was  mortal 
that  she  was  so  old  and  infirm 
was  not  more  than  fifty,  and  in  perfect 
health — that  she  would  drop  down  dead 
even   before    my   eyes.      I   followed   her 
wherever  she  went ;  held  on  by  her  apron 
string,  roaring  aloud  most  mournfully,  and 
shedding,  besides,  a  world  of  tears.     In 
vain  did  my  kind  mother  endeavor  to  rally 
me,  to  reason  me,  to  scold  me,  and  even 
to  chastise  me  out  of  my  dream — it  had 
taken  such  hold  of  my  imagination,  that, 
sleeping,  or  waking,  it  was  there.     When 
my  mother   travelled  anywhere  abroad,  I 
was  sure  to  be  after  her  like  a  domestic 
cur.     When  she  went  to  offer  up  her  pri- 
vate oblations  to  a  throne  of  mercy,  I  crept 
in  under  her  plaid,  and  heard  every  audi- 
ble aspiration.     In  my  sleep  she  was  still 
before  me  as  I  had  seen  my  grandmother 
— the  lips  parted,  the   eyes  open,  and  set 
in  night — it  was  horrible — I  started  into 
real  life,  and  wept  aloud.     I  rushed  into 
my  mother's  apartment,  felt  her  face  all 
over,  and    cried   bitterly.     Reader,  have 
you   always   been    made    of   pot-mettle  .'* 
Have   you   never  experienced   any  such 
nervous  enthusiasm  as  this  ?     Have  you 
been  at  all  times  a  child  of  realities — a 
very  steady,   thinking,    prudent   person ; 
slept  like  a  top,  eat  like  a  raven,  and  talk- 
ed to  the  amazement  even  of  the  minister 
himself  ?    You  may  be  a  steady  good  per- 
son now.    You  may  even  be  married,  with 
a  family  of  thirteen  children.     You  may 


\  ■ 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


37 


have  succeeded  in  the  world,  and  feathered 
your  nest.  You  may  liaye  presided  well 
at  various  public  dinners,  and 

"  Never  wrote 
''  One  line  which,  dying,  you  w^uld  wish  to  blot " — 

and  for  this  simple  and  "best  of  all  reasons, 
that  you  have  never  written,  as  far  as  the 
public  is  concerned,  any  lines  at  all.  You 
may  be  a  sound-headed  lawyer,  a  calculat- 
ing merchant,  an  honest  shopkeeper,  or, 
what  is  still  more  commendable,  because 
more  rare,  an  honest  judge.  You  may 
sole  shoes  or  make  great-coats  to  a  nicety 
— fabricate  chairs,  or  nails,  or  pins,  or 
periwigs,  to  a  thought ;  but  you  are  no 
enthusiast.  Do  you  see  that  poor  maniac, 
who  is  just  receiving  a  visit  from  his  mo- 
ther in  his  cell — whose  eyes  are  turned  up 
in  wild  uproar  to  the  roof  of  his  dungeon 
— and  who,  in  the  damp  icicles,  is  apostro- 
phising sun,  moon,  and  stars,  Venus,  Ju- 
piter, and  Aldubaran  ?  That  emaciated 
form  of  scarcely  twenty  years  of  age — 
which  a  weeping  mother  clasps,  and  whom 
a  frenzied  son  convulsively  strains  to  his 
bare  and  fieshless  breast — that  is  Fergu- 
son the  poet,  the  prince  of  enthusiasts — 
he  at  whose  genius  Burns  lighted  that 
torch  which  has  filled  the  world  with  light ! 
Do  you  mark  that  form  sitting  amongst 
the  sands  of  Syracuse  ?  The  city  is  taken 
by  the  Roman  armies.  The  enemy  are 
within  the  walls  ;  pillage  and  murder  are 
the  order  of  the  hour.  But  what  is  that 
to  him  ? — he  is  only  an  enthusiast.  The 
soldier  has  challenged  him  to  surrender ; 
his  sword  is  uplifted,  and  the  challenge  is 
repeated.  He  heeds  it  not ;  the  sword 
descends — and  the  greatest  mathematician, 
the  most  complete  enthusiast  which  the 
world  has  ever  seen,  lies  before  you,  a 
gashed  and  mangled  corpse — the  world  ! 
its  wonders,  its  atoms,  its  various  forma- 
tions !  the  laws — the  eternal  laws  of  its 
construction  and  form.  There  is  one  who 
sung  sweetly — oh,  how  divinely  !  There 
is  one  who  sung  sublimely — yes,  as  one 
overpowered  with  the  Spirit  of  Him  who 
said,  "  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was 


light ;"  but  the  cord  which  was  overstrain- 
ed is  snapped,  and  the  bow  is  unstrung ; 
the  pressure  upon  the  delicate  fibres  of 
the  brain  has  been  too  much,  and  the 
building  of  God  has  given  way.  Poor 
Lucretius,  the  disease  of  which  thou  didst 
expire  was  ''  enthusiasm." 

But  it  is  time  to  shift  the  scene — to  re- 
sort to  that  exquisite   happiness,  and  ex- 
tensive benefit  to  society,  which  enthusi- 
asm is  calculated  to  produce.     Poetry  is 
the  language   of  nature.      All  languages 
originated   in   poetry — the  ballad  is  the 
mother   of    all    living   and   dead   books. 
Whether  it  be  repeated  in  the  shape   of 
Fescenine  catches,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tiber — of  glorious  Epic,  on  those  of  the 
Scamander — of  chivalrous   narrative,   by 
the  rapid  Rhone,  or  sweet  Liger — whether 
it  employ  the  time,  and  the  enthusiastic 
efibrts  of  the  bard,  the    troubadour,  the 
harper,  or    the   minstrel — whether  it  re- 
sound through  the  recesses  of  Pindus,  of  \ 
Arcady,  or  of  Yarrow — still,  still  the  bal-   j 
lad  presents  the  first  germ  of  literature,    j 
What  are  the  earlier  pages  of  Livy's  His-   ! 
tory,  but  popular  ballads,  connected  and 
narratived  ? — what  the  history  of  our  own 
Scotland — of  her  Bruces,  and  Wallaces,    ' 
and  all  her  many  and  valorous  achieve- 
ments— but  ballads  ?     And — 

'■  How  canst  thon  resist  the  boundless  store 

Of  charms,  whicn  nattire  to  her  votaries  yield — 
The  warbling  woodland — tlie  resounding  shore — 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields — 

Oh.  how  canst  thou  resist,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven?" 

But  who  can  or  does  resist  ? — Not  even 
the  robber  Moor,  who  soliloquizes  so  po- 
etically the  setting  sun.     Not 

'•  The  swain  who,  journeying  homeward,  from 
A  day's  long  labor,  feels 
The  form  of  beauty  smiling  on  his  soul  1" 

Poetry  is  spread  as  widely  through  the  hu- 
man heart,  as  is  electricity  through  all  the 
works  of  nature.  Man  can  no  more  help 
being  poetical,  than  he  can  new-model  his 
frame.  But  what  is  the  love,  the  passion 
of  poetry,  but  enthusiasm — enthusiasm, 
which  converts  everything  it  looks  upon 


38 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


into  l)eauty  and  sublimity.  The  man  is 
born  desert  and  lonely — and  is  there  no 
beauty  in  solitude,  no  grandeur  in  expan- 
sion ?  The  mountains  are  highland,  wild, 
heathy,  and  tempest-beaten — and  is  there 
no  sublimity  in  their  cliffs,  their  scarred 
fronts,  and  scarred  sides  ?  The  landscape 
is  covered  with  wood,  or  there  is  at  least 
a  pleasing  alternation  of  forest  and  glade, 
of  peopled  levels  and  wooded  hills — and 
does  not  the  soul  nestle  softly  and  lovingly 
amidst  these  pleasing  varieties  ?  But  you 
are  making  faces,  and  there  is  something 
like  an  incipient  yawn  beginning  to  travel 
over  your  beauteous  lips,  my  dearest  ma- 
dam. Well,  I'll  have  done,  with  advising 
you  to  wed  the  "  spirit  of  poetry,"  if  you 
wish  to  be  completely  happy.  You  need 
not  write  poems,  ma'am — that  is  not  ne- 
cessary. Livy  never  wrote  poetry,  and 
yet  he  is  every  inch  a  poet ;  Robertson 
never  wrote  verse,  and  yet  he  is  essentially 
poetical.  Witness  Mexico  and  Montezu- 
ma. "  Am  I  lying  on  a  bed  of  roses  .^" 
— There,  for  example,  is  me,  now — ay, 
just  me — I  am  every  inch  a  poet !  and  yet, 
with  the  exception  of  a  few  things  which 
need  not  be  excepted,  I  never  wrote  any 
poetry : — yet,  I  see  you  want  a  story,  and 
you  say,  am  I  not  reading  "  The  Tales  of 
the  Borders,  and  of  Scotland.^" — I  cry 
you  mercy,  and  shall  give  you  the  results 
of  my  enthusiasm. 

When  in  Edinburgh,  at  the  College, 
while  others  prolonged  the  debauch,  it 
might  be,  till  two  or  three  of  a  fine  moon- 
light night,  I  have  stolen  away  about  twelve, 
taken  my  course  through  the  King's  Park 
to  the  echoing  rock,  and  from  thence  to 
that  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdad,  which 
runs  betwixt  Arthur  Seat  and  Salisbury 
Craigs,  and  there  I  have  seen  the  Island 
of  Inchkeith  lying,  like  a  glittering  dia- 
mond, on  the  face  of  the  deep,  and  the 
silver  sea,  and  the  hazy  shores  of  Fife, 
and  the  fleecy  heavens,  and  the  stars,  and 
the  "  bonny  lady  moon,"  and  two  figures 
in  the  moonlight ;  they  are  walking  away 
from  me,  and  are  busily  engaged  in  con- 


versation— they  do  not  perceive  me — I 
will  ensconce  myself  behind  this  large 
stone  till  I  see  what  may  happen.  They 
have  now  sat  down  on  the  greensward,  and 
1  hear  their  voices  very  much  elevated.  The 
woman  is  reproaching  the  man  in  loud  and 
angry  tones — the  man  makes  no  reply  ^ 
or  if  he  does,  it  is  in  an  under  tone — Ha  ! 
he  has  sprung  upon  the  woman  all  at  once, 
like  a  tiger,  and  she  screams  "  Murder, 
murder !"  aloud.  Shall  I  allow  a  poor 
woman  to  be  murdered  in  the  solitude  of 
nature,  without  making  an  effort,  even  at 
the  risk  of  my  own  life,  to  save  her  t  My 
resolution,  nerved  by  the  wine  I  had  drunk, 
was  taken  in  an  instant — I  sprang  forward, 
crying  loudly  to  my  companions  to  assist 
me.  When  the  horrible  object  understood 
how  things  were  going,  and  imagining,  no 
doubt,  that  there  were  more  than  one  wit- 
ness of  its  horrible  doings,  it  took  to  its 
heels  with  th«  speed  of  lightning,  I  did 
not  pursue  ;  in  fact,  I  had  no  inclination 
to  do  so,  it  was  sufficient  for  me  if  I  could 
save  life — I  did  not  wish  to  take  it,  either 
personally  or  legally.  When  I  went  up 
to  the  poor  woman,  she  was  all  astonish- 
ment, and  her  first  accents  were  uttered 
in  thanksgiving  to  Almighty  God  for  send- 
ing me  into  the  desert  for  her  rescue.  I 
found  that,  although  the  villain  had  clutch- 
ed her  by  the  throat,  he  had  not  had  time 
to  suffocate  her.  Her  throat  was  ind-eed 
sore  from  the  pressure,  and  she  breathed 
for  some  time  with  difficulty  ;  but  there 
were  no  deadly  symptoms  about  her. 
What  a  mysterious  Providence  is  about 
us  ! — and  we  often  know  it  not.  I  had 
orio-inally  no  intention  of  taking  a  moon- 
light walk  that  evening,  or  rather  morn- 
in£j,  had  it  not  been  to  avoid  the  imperti- 
nence of  a  fellow-member  of  the  Dialectic 
Society,  who  manifestly  wished,  in  his 
cups,  to  fasten  a  quarrel  upon  me.  I 
stepped  out  from  Young's,  and  was  off.  I 
was  manifestly  the  messenger  of  Heaven, 
and  could  not  help  regarding  myself  with 
a  kind  of  reverence.  The  poor  woman, 
who  was  in  fact  the  wife  of  this  worthless 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


39 


man,  gave  me  her  history,  to  the  follow- 
ing purpose  : — 

"  That  brute,  as  you  very  properly  call 
him,  is  my  husband,  and  was  once  as  kind 
and  affectionate  to  me  as  L  could  wish. 
Ours  was  what  is  called  a  pure  love  mar- 
riage, for  I  was  born  to  better  circum- 
stances and  prospects  than,  from  my  pre- 
sent condition  and  appearance,  you  may 
well  imagine.''  Here  the  poor  woman 
shed  tears,  and  proceeded — "  I  was  the 
daughter  of  a  small  proprietor  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Durham,  where  the 
Princess  of  Wales'  regiment  of  Light 
Dragoons  was  raised,  and  was  then  lying, 
under  the  command  of  Lord  Darlington. 
We — that  is  to  say,  my  father,  my  mother, 
my  sister  and  myself — used  to  go  frequently 
into  a  field  adjoining  the  city,  and  see  this 
really  handsome  regiment  reviewed,  and 
go  through  their  exercise.  One  day  there 
was  a  mock  battle  represented,  in  the  very 
field  adjoining  to  my  father's  house.  Seve- 
ral regiments  were  collected  together, 
from  Newcastle  and  elsewhere,  for  the 
purpose.  It  was  to  be  a  great  show  ;  and 
the  whole  town  of  Durham,  as  well  as  all 
the  country  round,  were  congregated  to 
see  the  battle.  Cannons  were  fired, 
charges  of  cavalry  were  made,  and  a  de- 
tachment of  the  Darlington  troop  rode  in 
pursuit  of  the  supposed  enemy,  past  our 
door.  My  father  and  I  were  at  the  upper 
window  when  the  troop  came  dashing 
alone:,  cleariuo;  fences,  and  SDrino-ino;  over 
ditches  in  the  finest  style  imaginable. 
Just  as  they  came  opposite  to  my  father's 
door,  a  pig,  which  had  escaped  from  its 
confinement  in  the  back  court,  dashed 
hcadlono;  forward  amonjxst  the  feet  of  the 
horsos.  One  of  the  horses  fell ;  and  the 
rider,  having  pitched  on  his  head,  was 
S3emingly  killed  on  the  spot.  He  was 
immediately  carried  into  our  house,  and 
surgical  aid  was  at  hand.  It  was  a  dislo- 
cation of  the  neck  bone,  and  was  immedi- 
ately put  to  rights  ;  but  the  patient  was 
bled,  and  ordered  to  be  kept  quiet  for 
some  days.     I  natm-ally  became  the  young 


gentleman's  nurse ;  for  he  was  the  son  of 
a  poor  but  titled  family  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Darlington.  Mr.  Fitzwilliam  was 
a  handsome  man,  about  my  own  age  ;  but 
he  was  penniless,  and  a  soldier  of  fortune. 
My  father,  early  seeing  the  danger  of  my 
remaining  in  the  way  of  temptation,  had 
me  sent  off  to  a  grand  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Newcastle.  But  William 
Fitzwilliam  had  won  my  heart,  and,  in 
spite  of  all  watchings  and  lookings,  we  were 
man  and  wife  in  less  than  a  fornight  after 
my  departure  for  Newcastle. 

"  We  were  married  at  Gretna  Green  ; 
and  I  have  accompanied  him  ever  since, 
through  Carlisle  and  Dumfries,  Ayr,  Glas- 
gow,   and  ultimately  to    Jock's    Lodge, 
where  the  regiment  is  now  lying.     He  has 
taken  lodgings  for  me  in  Edinburgh  ;  but, 
of  late,  has  sadly   deserted  me.     I  have 
been  enabled,  by  taking  up  linen,  and  sew- 
ing articles  for  the  ladies'  exhibition,  to  do 
something  in  aid  of  our  scanty  funds.  But 
William    has    of    late    undergone   a  sad 
change.       He    has    become    addicted    to 
gambling  ;  has  even  introduced  improper 
characters,  both  male  and  female,  into  my 
presence  ;  and  has  talked  particularly  in 
his  cups  about  a  divorce  and   separation. 
He  wishes  me^  he  says,  to   divorce   him ; 
and  takes  every  method  of  giving  me  suf- 
ficient grounds  for  so  doing ;  but,  with  all 
his  errors  and  vices,   i  love  him  still,  nor 
can  I  think,  now  that  I  have  time  to  reflect 
on  it,  he  would  have   murdered  me  out- 
right, even  though  you  had  not  so  provi- 
dentially   interfered.      He    has    of    late 
succeeded  to  a  title,  by  the   death   of  an 
uncle,  who  has  disinherited  him,   and  left 
his  vast  property  past  him.     This  preyed 
upon  his  spirits  of  late  ;  and  I  have  reason 
to  know  that  he  has  been  making  love,  and 
even  offers  of  marriage,  to  a  rich  widow 
lady,  who  dwells  not  far  from  York  Place, 
Edinburgh.     But  my  marriage   lines  lie 
sadly  in  his  way  ;  and,  it  was  to  attain  by 
force,  w^hat  he  could   not  otherwise,  that 
he  had  almost,  and,  but  for  you,  would  have 
perhaps  altogether    murdered  me,   a  few 


40 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


minutes  ago.  Poor  William  !  my  heart  still 
bleeds  for  him  ;  but  I  will  never  give  up, 
whilst  I  live,  the  only  means  which  I  have  of 
proving  myself  an  honest  woman." 

All  Edinburgh  rung  next  morning  with 

the  news — Lord  M had  shot  himself 

dead  in  his  bedroom. 

In  the  year  1831,  I  had  occasion  to  be 
several  days  in  Durham.  It  occurred  to 
me,  one  day,  whilst  I  was  sauntering  about 
the  Cathedral,  that  the  house,  where  pro- 
bably still  lived  the  father  of  the  poor, 

unfortunate  Mrs.  or  rather  Lady  M , 

might  be  in  the  neighborhood.     I  made 
inquiry ;    and,   without    much    difl&culty, 
found  it  out.     From  what  I  learned  in  the 
neighborhood,  the  poor  woman  had  never 
taken  up  her  husband's  title.     Her  father, 
on  hearing  of  her  husband's  tragical  end, 
had  relented,  and  taken  her  home  to  keep 
his  house,  and  comfort  him  in  his  old  age. 
I  asked  for  her  father,  and  was  shown  into 
a  neat  parlor,  where  the  old  man  sat,  com- 
fortably pillowed,  but  terribly  pained  with 
gout  and  a  complication  of  diseases.     I  in- 
troduced myself  as  an    acquaintance    of 
Mrs.  Fitzwilliam,  who    was  immediately 
sent  for,  and  entered  the  parlor.     She  did 
not  know  me,  nor  was  it  wonderful ;  for, 
as  I  went  to  the   country  next  day  after 
the  night  adventure,  I  had  no  opportunity 
of  calling   upon  her.      Indeed,  I  should 
scarcely  have  known  her  either — her  dress 
and  manner  were  so  much  more  imposing 
than  they  had  been  at  our  first  and  only 
interview.     However,  upon  my  referring 
to   the    circumstances,    she    immediately 
took  me  by  the  hand,  burst  into  tears,  and, 
presenting  me  to  her  father,  who  was  al- 
most blind — "  Papa,"  said  she,  "  this  is 
the  gentleman  who  saved  my  life."     I  had 
the  old  man's  blessing.  A  bottle  of  home- 
made wine  was  called  for  and  discussed, 
and  I  was  pressed  to  comeback  to  dinner  ; 
which,  however,   I  politely  refused,  for  I 
did  not  know  how  far  my  enthusiastic  tem- 
perament might  have  gone,  in  the  case  of 
a  truly  beautiful  woman,  whom  I  had  saved 
from  death,  and  whose  gratitude  led  her 


to  think  very  favorably  of  me.  I  have  not 
heard  of  her  lately  ;  but  mean  to  write  to 
my  brother-in-law,  who  lives  in  Durham, 
about  her,  and  to  ascertain  whether  she  is 
still  living  or  dead  ;  whether  she  is  yet 
unmarrried,  or  has  again  ventured  to  face 
the  blacksmith. 

Such  was  one  of  my  moonlight  adven- 
tures ;  which,  if  you  are  so  disposed,  you 
are  at  liberty  to  denominate  a  "  matter  of 
moonshine."  But  my  enthusiasm  has  not 
been  limited  to  moonbeams.  I  am  the 
mountain  child,  and  wedded  even  up  to 
this  hour  to  the  mountain-land,  with  all 
its  wild,  striking,  and  expanding  associa- 
tions. To  meet  a  fair  maiden  in  vl  fair  is 
pleasant,  as  also  to  replenish  her  lap  with 
sweetmeats  and  trinkets.  To  get  "  a  can- 
ny hour  at  een,  your  arms  about  your 
deary,"  is  snug,  comfortable,  and  some- 
thing more.  Bm-ns  prefers  "  rigs  of  bar- 
ley," and  the  "  green  rush  bushes,"  as  a 
courting  parlor ;  whilst, 

"  Last  night,  in  my  late  rambles, 
All  in  the  Isle  of  Skye, 
I  met  a  lovely  creature 
Up  in  the  mountains  high." 

Now,  the  Isle  of  Skye,  and  its  high 
mountains,  are  entire  strangers  to  me  ;  but 
I  am  well  acquainted  with  two  pretty  de- 
cent hills,  not  above  twenty  miles  from 
Dumfries,  called  Queensberry,  little  and 
hig  ;  and,  amidst  their  elevated  and  re- 
tired glens,  the  following  incident  took 
place.  I  have  from  my  boyhood  been 
distractedly  fond  of  fishing  ;  and,  up  to 
this  hour,  whenever  I  visit  my  native  glen, 
the  mania  returns;  and,  though  things 
are  sadly  changed,  and  trouts  are  diminish- 
ed both  in  numbers  and  size,  yet  still,  in 
spite  of  all  disadvantages,  I  fish.  It  was  on 
an  excursion  on  my  way  (whilst  a  young 
man  of  twenty,  from  college),  that  I  found 
myself,  one  dark  and  misty  da}--,  amidst 
the  deep  and  mazy  windings  of  the  Brawn. 
I  was  quickly  and  successively  basketing 
trout  after  trout,  humming  all  the  while 
some  old  Scotch  sonnet,  and  calling  in  my 
little  dog,  jDon,  from  the  sheep  who  were 


THE  ENTHUSIAST. 


41 


pasturing  on  the  adjoining  hill,  called  the 
Dod,  when  a  voice  from  the  depths  of  the 
mist  and  the  solitude  reached  my  ear.  It 
was  a  voice  of  wo  and  deep  lamentation. 
Having  chid  Don's  impertinence  in  giving 
tongue  somewhat  too  freely,  I  found,  seat- 
ed upon  a  grey  stone,  and  weeping  aloud, 
a  young  woman,  about  my  own  age,  with 
dark  blue  eyes,  and  a  countenance  of  the 
most  prepossessing  expression.  She  sat 
beside  an  infant,  which  she  had  deposited 
on  a  bed  of  collected  fern  or  braken,  and 
who  was  fast  asleep.  When  she  saw  me, 
she  started,  and  seemed  disposed  to  fly  ; 
but  when  I  used  my  means  to  reassure  her, 
she  ventured  to  accost  me,  by  informing 
me,  that  she  had  lost  her  way — that  she 
was  nursery-maid  at  Mitchelslacks,  and 
had  wandered  that  morning  with  her 
charge  beyond  her  accustomed  range,  and 
the  mist  coming  suddenly  on,  she  found 
it  impossible  to  retrace  her  steps.  I 
thought  myself  quite  in  possession  of  the 
information  which  she  wanted,  and  told 
her  that  I  would  see  her  and  her  little 
charge  safely  and  immediately  home.  So, 
giving  up  my  sport  for  the  time  I  took  up 
the  sleeping  infant,  and  immediately  ad- 
dressed myself,  accompanied  by  the  fair 
wanderer,  to  the  journey.  We  were  seve- 
ral miles  distant  from  Mitchelslacks ;  but, 
as  I  considered  myself  as  familiar  with  the 
ground,  I  struck  immediately  over  the 
pathless  hill,  by  what  I  termed  a  near  cut, 
instead  of  retracing  the  stream  for  a  cou- 
ple of  miles,  and  then  crossing  the  Dod 
by  a  cart  track.  The  child  awoke,  and 
findino;  itself  in  strano-e  hands,  screamed 
violently  ;  so  I  was  soon  compelled  to 
place  the  infant  in  the  loveliest  bosom  I 
had  ever  seen,  I  felt  my  frame  tremble 
all  over,  as  I  came  into  contact  with  pret- 
ty Peggy's  person  ;  and  yet,  for   all  the 

wealth  of  old  Q ,  I  would  not  have 

even  conceived  anything  which  might  oc- 
casion alarm  to  so  beautiful  and  manifestly 
so  innocent  a  creature.  Yet  1  could  not 
keep  my  eyes  off  her,  and  found  out,  in 
spite  of  a  dark  and  crawling  mist,  that  her 


frame  was  perfect  symmetry,  and  rounded 
into  that  ripened  plumpness  which  be- 
speaks the  fully  matured  woman.  We 
conversed  freely  as  we  travelled  ;  and  my 
romantic  feelings  became  so  excited  with 
my  position,  that  I  thought  but  occasion- 
ally, and  then  indistinctly,  of  the  direction, 
right  or  wrong,  in  which  we  were  ad- 
vancing. Peggy,  from  time  to  time,  ad- 
monished me,  that  she  trusted  to  me  alone, 
as  she  was  totally  unacquainted  with  the 
hill.  Having  attained,  at  last,  the  sum- 
mit of  the  steep,  1  expected  to  have  found 
a  cairn  of  stones,  and,  alongside  of  it,  a 
shepherd's  shieling  or  turf  hut,  where  he 
reposed  at  noon-day,  and  shared  his  bread 
and  milk  with  his  faithful  curs  ;  but,  no 
such  shieling  or  cairn  were  to  be  seen.  It 
then  became  manifest  to  me,  all  at  once, 
that  I,  as  well  as  my  fair  companion  of  the 
mist,  had  lost  my  way,  and  that,  unless 
the  day,  which  was  still  becoming  darker 
and  darker,  should  clear  up,  we  should  be 
in  danger  of  increasing  instead  of  lessen- 
ing the  distance  betwixt  us  and  Mitchel- 
slacks. To  increase  our  embarrassment, 
the  child  cried  continually,  evidently  from 
hunger,  and  great  drops  of  rain  came 
down  like  hail-stones  amidst  the  close  and 
crawling  mist.  It  was  evident  that  a 
thunder  storm  was  brooding — nor  were 
we  long  kept  in  suspense  ;  for,  all  at  once, 
the  mist  was  kindled  into  flame  around  us, 
and  a  sharp,  smart  crack,  followed  by  the 
roar,  of  a  thousand  hills,  told  us  that  we 
were  in  the  very  centre  of  the  electric 
cloud.  Poor  Peggy  sank  down  at  once, 
overcome  with  terror  ;  whilst  I,  immedi- 
ately and  intuitively,  squatted  down  be- 
side her,  clasping  her  to  my  bosom,  child 
and  all.  I  may  truly  say,  with  Patie,  in 
regard  to  another  lovely  Peggy — 

'■  Whilst  hard  and  fast  I  held  her  in  my  grips, 
IMy  very  soul  cam"  louping  to  my  lips." 

But  the  awful  flash  and  peal  were  repeat- 
ed, and  then,  in  very  truth,  and  not  meta- 
phorically, 

"  Down  rushed  a  deluge  of  sonorous  hail." 

Peggy   fainted   outright,    and   the   child 


3^ 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


screamed  itself  into  hysterics,  when,  all 
at  once,  a  couple  of  shaggy  shepherd's 
dogs  gave  tongue  in  the  neighborhood.  A 
young,  yellow-haired  shepherd  lad  stood 
over  us  in  an  instant ;  and,  guessing  at 
once  how  matters  really  stood,  had  us  all 
removed,  as  soon  as  Peggy  had  recovered 
her  senses,  into  the  small  shieling,  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  which  we  were 
unconsciously  wandering.  We  had  to 
stoop,  and  enter  upon  our  hands  and 
knees  ;  and,  when  we  were  all  stowed 
away,  there  was  not  an  inch  of  houseroom 
which  was  not  occupied  either  by  human 
beings  or  dogs.  But,  though  sitting  or 
rather  lying  on  rushes,  these  rushes  were 
dry,  and  our  humble  shelter  warded  off 
the  merciless  pelting,  whilst  the  thunder 
cloud  gradually  took  to  the  top  of  the 
higher  Queensberry,  and  left  us  with  a 
clear  sunny  day,  and  two  miles  to  walk  to 
the  child's  home.  The  truth  was,  that 
the  family  at  Mitchelslacks  had  become 
alarmed  by  the  absence  of  maid  and  child, 
and  had  sent  nearly  half  a  score  of  shep- 
herds, and  a  full  score  of  dogs,  to  the 
hills  and  glens,  on  a  voyage  of  discovery  ; 
whilst  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harkness,  the  parents, 
were  in  a  state  which  may  more  easily  be 
imagined  than  described.  All  were  now 
well ;  and  I  accompanied  the  young  shep- 
herd, with  his  sweetheart — for  such  I  soon 
discovered  they  were — home,  and  had  the 
happiness,  by  running  on  before,  to  be  the 
first  to  announce  the  safety  of  their  child 
to  the  worthy  and  distracted  parents. 
They  had,  indeed,  given  up  both  the  nurse 
and  child  for  lost,  and  their  despair  had 
been  at  least  equal  to  their  joy,  when  I 
ran  forward  and  threw  the  child  in  the 
mother's  lap.  Now,  who  could  doubt  that 
enthusiasm  was  abounding  in  the  breast, 
and  shining  in  the  tear-wet  eye  of  the 
mother,  as  she  pressed  the  little  lost  one 
to  her  bosom  }  It  was  verily.  But,  after 
all  I  have  said  of  the  nature  of  this  extra- 
ordinary feeling,  I  know  not  if  it  is  ever 
experienced  in  a  stronger  and  purer  form 
than  in  that  of  joy.     I  care  nothing  for 


the  cause — it  may  be  any  one  you  please. 
All  I  insist  for  is,  that  it  shall  be  capable 
of  stimulating,  or  rather  exciting — for  the 
former  is  a  phrenological  word — the  mind 
of  the  individual,  however  stupid,  obese, 
or  phlegmatic  to  the  boiling  point  of  that 
most  intense  species  of  human  happi- 
ness. All  the  many  forms  of  the  feeling 
seem  to  tend  to  this  as  the  point  of  their 
realization.  Pythagoras  and  his  proposi- 
tion, Argand  and  his  lamp,  Mungo  Park 
and  the  waters  of  the  Joliba,  Mrs.  Hark- 
ness and  her  child,  and  the  child,  proba- 
bly, next  day  with  a  butterfly,  are  all 
instances  of  the  feeling  in  the  point  of 
gratification.  But  I  have  been  again  wan- 
dering from  my  story — all  enthusiasm 
together  ;  for  there  was  love  in  the  affair, 
which  many  insist  upon  being  the  strong- 
est, if  not  the  purest  example  that  can  be 
presented  of  this  mysterious  and  pervading 
essence.  Those  who  think  so  can  take 
their  own  view  ;  I  retain  mine  ;  and  it  is 
very  probable  that  we  are  both  wrong ; 
and  you,  ma'am,  to  whom  I  formerly  ad- 
dressed myself,  will  put  us  right,  by  tell- 
ing us  that  poetry  is  the  only  genuine  and 
pure  form  in  which  this  moral  electricity 
can  exhibit  itself.  Let  it  be  as  you  say, 
though  I  would  advise  you  to  be  on  your 

guard,  against  your  friend  Miss ,  who 

lost  her  lover  last  week,  and  will  insist 
that  hope  is  the  soul  of  the  feeling,  and 
that,  when  that  is  gone,  enthusiasm  has 
no  more  chance  of  getting  into  the  mind 
or  heart  than  I  have  of  getting  into  your 
favor  by  this  digression  from  a  story  of 
love,  originating  in,  or  perfected  by  mist, 
one  of  the  most  romantic  mediums  of  the 
tender  passion.  So,  to  make  a  speedy 
conclusion,  about  a  fortnight  after  this  in- 
cident, I  was  again  at  my  old  sport,  when 
I  was  accosted  by  my  young  friend,  the 
shepherd,  who  now  figured  in  holiday  at- 
tire, and  informed  that  as  this  was  his 
wedding  day,  my  company  would  be  ac- 
ceptable o'^er  by  yonder  at  two  o'clock.  I 
pursued  my  sport  till  then,  and,  in  the 
old  cha'mer  of  IMitchclslacks,  saw  Joseph 


JUDITH  THE  EGYPTIAN. 


43 


Robson  and  Margaret  Gibson  made  man 
and  wife.  There  was  neither  dancing  nor 
revelment  of  any  kind,  but  there  was  a 
plentiful  meal,  many  songs,  and  as  much 
punch,  prepared  in  a  large  bowl,  as  the 
company  chose  to  make  use  of.     All  went 


merry  as  a  marriage  bell.  And  now  I  find 
I  am  checked  by  want  of  space,  at  the 
moment  when  the  jar  is  fully  charged, 
and  the  subtle  spirit  might  have  exploded 
in  many  more  pretty  coruscations. 


-♦-♦- 


JUDITH    THE    EGYPTIAN 


OR,  THE  FATE  OF  THE  HEIR  OF  RICCON. 


"  The  black-eyed  Juditn.  fair  and  tall, 

Attracted  the  heir  of  Riccon  Hall. 
*  «  *  * 

For  years  and  years  was  Judith  known, 
Glueen  of  a  wild  world  all  her  own  ; 
By  Wooler  Haugh,  by  silver  Till, 
By  Coldstream  Bridge,  and  Flodden  Sill. 

Until,  at  length,  one  morn  when  sleet 

Hung  frozen  round  the  traveller's  feet, 

By  a  grey  ruin  on  Tweedside, 

The  creature  laid  her  down  and  died." — Border  Ballad, 


IMoRE  than  three  hundred  years  have 
elapsed  since  the  people  called  Gipsies 
first  made  their  appearance  in  this  coun- 
try ;  and,  from  all  that  I  have  been  able 
to  trace  concerning  them,  it  seems  to  have 
been  about  the  same  period  that  a  number 
of  their  tribes  or  families  proceeded  north- 
wards, and  became  dwellers  and  wanderers 
on  the  Borders.  Their  chief  places  of 
resort,  and  where,  during  the  inclemency 
of  winter,  they  horded  or  housed  together, 
were,  Kirk  Yetholm,  Rothbury,  Hornclifi", 
Spittal,  and  Tweedmouth.  I  believe  that 
there  are  none  of  them  now  in  Hornclifi", 
which,  on  the  bringing  in  of  the  moor, 
ceased  to  be  a  refuge  for  them  ;  and  there 
are  but  few  in  Spittal.  But,  in  Rothbury 
and  Kirk  Yetholm,  they  still  abound,  and 
of  late  years  have  increased  in  Tweed- 
mouth — that  is,  during  the  winter  season  ; 


for  they  take  to  the  hedges  as  soon  as  the 
primrose  appears,  and  begin  their  wander- 
ings. The  principal  names  borne  by  the 
difierent  tribes  in  these  parts  are  Faa, 
Young,  Gordon,  Bailie,  Blyth,  Ruthven, 
and  Winter.  Their  occupations  are  chief- 
ly as  itinerant  muggers  or  potters,  horners 
or  "  cuttie-spoon "  makers,  tinkers  or 
smiths  and  tin-workers,  and  makers  of  be- 
soms and  foot-bases.  They  are  still,  with 
very  few  exceptions,  a  wandering  and  un- 
lettered race,  such  as  their  fathers  were 
when  they  first  entered  Britain.  At  Kirk 
Yetholm,  however — which  is  their  seat  of 
royalty  on  the  Borders,  and  where  they 
have  a  lease  of  the  houses  in  what  is  called 
Tinkler  Row,  for  nineteen  times  nineteen 
years,  at  a  quit-rent — they  have  not  been 
so  neglectful  of  the  education  of  their  chil- 
dren as  in  other  parts  of  the  country. 


44 


TALES  OP  THE   BORDERS. 


At  the  period  of  their  first  appearance 
in  this  kingdom,  the  land  was  overrun  with 
thieves  and  vagabonds,  who,  in  the  severe 
and  sanguinary  laws  of  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  her  father  Harry,  were  described  as 

loyterers'^''  and  '■''sturdy  beggars;''''  and 
it  is  more  than  probable  that  many  of 
these,  finding  the  mode  of  life  followed  by 
the  gipsies  congenial  to  them,  associated 
with  or  intermarried  amongst  them,  and 
so  became  as  a  part  of  them ;  and  this 
may  account  for  many  calling  themselves 
gipsies,  having  European,  or,  I  may  say, 
British  features.  But  the  real  gipsy  there 
is  no  mistaking — their  dark  piercing  eyes 
and  Asiatic  countenance  mark  them  as 
distinctly  as  do  the  eyes  and  peculiar  fea- 
tures of  a  Jew.  (By  the  by,  I  wonder 
that  no  searcher  after  the  marvellous  has 
endeavored  to  prove  them  to  be  a  remnant 
of  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel.)  Like  the 
Jews,  they  are  scattered  over  the  whole 
earth — like  them,  they  are  found  in  every 
land  ;  and  in  every  land  they  remain  a  dis- 
tinct people. 

Who  they  are,  or  whence  they  came, 
are  questions  involved  in  considerable 
mystery.  Their  being  called  Gipsies  or 
Egyptians  in  this  country,  1  hold  to  be  a 
popular  error  which  they  themselves  pro- 
pagated. Egypt,  from  the  earliest  period, 
was  distinguished  above  all  lands  for  its 
soothsayers  and  diviners  ;  and,  as  the  chief 
occupation  of  the  wanderers  then  was  (and 
in  many  places  still  is)  fortune-telling, 
they  had  cunning  enough  to  profess  to  be 
Egyptians,  or  natives  of  the  land  wherein 
was  taught  the  mysteries  of  rolling  away 
the  clouds  which  conceal  fate  and  futurity. 
They  have  neither  the  language  nor  the 
manners  of  the  Egyptians.  No  reason 
■could  be  assigned  for  their  leaving  the 
land  of  the  Pharaohs ;  and,  although  the 
gipsies  of  the  present  day  profess  to  be 
Egyptians,  they  can  bring  forward  no  proof 
in  support  of  the  pretension.  From  all 
that  I  have  read  concerning  them,  it  seems 
to  me  to  be  clearly  proved,  that  they  are 
natives  of  Hindostan,  where  they  formed  a 


part  of  the  lowest  caste  of  Indians,  called 
Pariahs  or  Sudors — a  class  held  in  detesta- 
tion and  abhorrence  by  the  other  castes. 
That  the  gipsy  clans  have  a  language  pe- 
culiar to  themselves,  and  which  they  fre- 
quently speak  amongst  themselves,  is  well 
known.  It  is  not  a  written  language  ;  and 
they  have  endeavored  to  conceal  a  know- 
ledge of  it  from  the  people  amongst  whom 
they  dwell.  They  have  called  it  gibberish  ; 
and  it  has  been  very  generally  believed  to 
be  nothing  more  than  what  is  usually  un- 
derstood by  that  term,  or  that  at  most  it 
was  a  sort  of  slang,  similar  to  the  phrases 
used  among  thieves.  This  is  an  error.  So 
far  as  those  who  have  examined  it  have 
been  able  to  ascertain,  the  secret  language 
spoken  by  the  British  gipsies  appears  to 
be,  with  but  trifling  corruptions,  the  same 
as  that  which  is  spoken  by  the  Indian  caste 
of  Sudors  in  Hindostan.*  But  a  stronger 
proof  that  the  gipsies  scattered  over  Eu- 
rope derive  their  origin  from  the  Sudors 
of  India  is  demonstrated  by  the  facts  that 
the  Sudors  were  the  only  people  who  pro- 
fessed the  art  of  palmistry — that  they, 
like  the  gipsies,  are  a  wandering  race — 
that  their  occupations  are  almost  identi- 
cally the  same,  being  fortune-tellers,  dan- 
cers, and  wandering  musicians — that  the 
smiths  amongst  them  go  about  exactly  in 
the  same  manner  as  the  tinkers  in  this 
country — that,  like  the  gipsies,  their  fa- 
vorite food  is  that  of  animals  that  have 
died  of  disease — that,  like  them,  they  have 
no  fixed  religion — and  like  them,  they 
endeavor  to  conceal  their  language.  And 
the  certainty  of  their  being  originally  the 
same  people  is  further  strengthened,  from 
the  Sudors  having  fled  in  thousands  from 

*•  I  shall  subjoin  a  few  words  as  specimens,  from  the 
comparative  glossaries  of  Grellmaun  and  Richardson — 
Gipsy.  Hindostiuiee.  English. 

Bebee  Beebe  An  Aunt 

Mutchee  Muchee  Fish 

Can  Kan  The  Ear 

Gur  Ghur  A  House 

Riah  Raye  A  Lord 

Dai  Da'ee  Mother 

Mass  Mas  Food 

Nack  Nak  The  Nose 

Loon  Loon  Salt 


JUDITH  THE  EGYPTIAN. 


45 


India,  during  the  murderous  ravages  of 
Timur  Beg  in  1408,  which  corresponds 
with  the  period  of  the  first  appearance  of 
the  gipsies  in  Europe.  And  that  they 
are  not  Egyptians  is  strongly  proved  by 
the  fact,  that  there  are  tribes  of  them  in 
Egypt,  where,  as  in  other  countries,  they 
are  regarded  as  strangers  and  foreigners. 

I  may  have  wearied  the  patience  of  the 
reader  with  this  long  and  perhaps  prosy 
introduction ;  but  there  may  be  some  to 
whom  it  will  not  be  uninteresting,  as 
throwing  a  light  on  the  probable  origin  of 
a  singular  people,  of  whom  Judith  the  gip- 
sy was  one.     And  now  to  our  story. 

One  of  the  chief  men  amongst  the  gip- 
sies on  the  Borders,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  last  century,  was  Lussha  Fleckie,  who 
was  only  inferior  in  authority  among  the 
tribes  to  King  Faa,  who  dwelt  at  Kirk 
Yetholm,  and  boasted  of  reigning  lord 
over  Si  free  people.  Lussha's  avocations, 
like  the  avocations  of  all  his  brethren, 
were  mere  apologies  for  idleness.  He  was 
one  day  a  tinker,  on  another  a  grinder, 
and  on  a  third  a  wandering  piper.  He 
was  a  man  of  great  stature  and  uncommon 
strength,  and  renowned  for  his  exploits  as 
a  fisher  and  a  sportsman. 

The  name  of  his  wife  was  Mariam,  and 
they  had  a  daughter  called  Judith,  who, 
as  she  grew  up  towards  womanhood,  be- 
came known  throughout  Roxburgh  and 
Northumberland  as  the  Gipsy  Beauty — or 
the  Beautiful  Gipsy.  The  appellation 
was  not  unmeritedly  bestowed ;  for, 
though  her  skin  was  slightly  tinged  with 
the  tawny  hue  of  her  race,  a  soul  seemed 
to  glow  through  her  regular  and  lovely 
features,  and  the  lustre  of  her  dark  eyes 
to  throw  a  radiance  over  them.  She  was 
tall,  and  her  figure  was  perfect  as  her  face 
— it  was  symmetrical  and  commanding. 
Yet  she  was  at  once  conscious  of  her  beau- 
ty and  vain  of  it,  and  her  parents  admi- 
nistered to  her  vanity.  They  had  her 
fingers  adorned  with  trinkets,  her  neck 
with  bugles  ;  for  Lussha  Fleckie,  like  most 
of  his  race,  was  fond  of  gold   and   silver 


ornaments ;  and,  amongst  others,  he  had 
in  his  possession  a  silver  urn,  which  had 
been  handed  down  to  him  through  genera- 
tions, and  in  which  his  fathers,  as  he  now 
did,  had  deposited  the  fruits  of  their  spoils 
and  plunder,  until  it  was  filled  with  rich 
coins  as  a  miser's  coffer.  He  therefore, 
although  a  vagrant,  was  not  a  poor  man, 
and  could  afford  to  deck  the  charms  of  his 
daughter.  Judith  was  early  initiated  by 
her  mother  into  the  mysteries  of  the  siby- 
line  leaves — her  education  indeed  extend- 
ed no  farther ;  and,  at  the  age  of  fifteen, 
she  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  palmistry. 
The  proudest  ladies  in  broad  Northumber- 
land or  fair  Roxburghshire,  eagerly  sub- 
mitted their  hands  to  the  inspection  of  the 
beautiful  fortune-teller.  The  searching 
brightness  of  her  dark  eyes  seemed  to  give 
a  prophetic  reality  to  her  words ;  and,  as 
she  caused  them  to  kindle  with  apparent 
joy  or  become  transfixed  at  the  discovery 
of  coming  wo,  her  fair  and  high-born  pa-  lo- 
tions have  trembled  before  her,  and  in- 
quired—"  What  is  it,  Judith.?"  And, 
being  a  favorite  with  them  all,  for  they 
both  loved  and  feared  her,  her  person  was 
bedecked  with  their  cast-off  garments. 

It  was  early  in  summer  when  about 
forty  of  the  Faa  people  encamped  near 
the  foot  of  the  Eildon  hills.  A  few  mi- 
nutes served  for  the  erection  of  their  port- 
able village,  in  a  secure  and  sheltered  situ- 
ation, and  speedily,  supported  on  pieces 
of  crossed  branches,  the  caldrons  swung 
over  the  crackling  fires,  each  of  which 
blazed  fierce  and  merrily  from  between 
two  stones.  Savoury  exhalations  impreg- 
nated the  air,  and  gave  token  of  a  feast. 
The  banquet  being  spread  upon  the  sward, 
when  it  was  finished,  and  the  brandy  cup 
had  been  sent  round,  Lussha  Fleckie 
took  his  Northumbrian  pipes  and  began  to 
play  a  merry  reel.  Old  and  young,  men, 
women,  and  children,  started  to  their  feet, 
and  joyous 

"  Tripped  the  light  fantastic  toe." 
Judith  glided  through  the  midst  of  them, 


46 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Tvith  her  bright  waving  tresses  falling  on 
her  shoulders,  as  queen  of  the  glad  scene. 
Of  her  it  mig-ht  have  been  said — 

o 

"A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true, 
Never  from  heath-flower  dashed  the  dew  ; 
Even  the  light  harebell  raised  its  head, 
Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  I" 

H«r  partner  in  the  dance  was  Gemmel 
Grseme  ;  and  in  his  veins  also  flowed  gipsy 
blood.  Gemmel  was  now  a  youth  of  twen- 
ty, and  one  of  the  most  daring  of  his  race. 
A  passionate  enthusiasm  marked  his  dis- 
position. In  agile  sports  and  feats  of 
strength  he  had  no  competitor.  In  these 
he  was  what  Lussha  Fleckie  had  been. 
He  boasted  of  his  independence,  and  that 
he  had  never  placed  a  finger  on  the  pro- 
perty of  friend  or  neighbor,  nor  been  de- 
tected in  levying  his  exactions  on  a  stranger 
or  a  foe.  His  merits  were  acknowledged 
by  all  the  tribes  on  the  Borders ;  and, 
though  he  was  not  of  the  royal  family  of 
Faas,  many  looked  to  him  as  heir-appa- 
rent to  the  sovereignty.  He  held  in 
princely  contempt  all  trades,  professions, 
and  callings,  and  thought  it  beneath  the 
dignity  of  a  "  lord  of  creation  "  to  follow 
them.  When,  therefore,  he  accompanied 
the  tribes  in  their  migrations  from  place 
to  place,  he  did  not,  as  was  the  habit  of 
others,  assume  the  occupation  of  either 
tinker,  grinder,  bass-manufacturer,  or  the 
profession  of  a  musician — but  he  went 
forth  with  his  gun  and  his  hound,  or  his 
leister  and  net,  and  every  preserve,  plan- 
tation, and  river,  supplied  him  with  food, 
and  the  barns  of  strangers  with  bread. 

Judith  was  two  years  younger  than 
Gemmel  Graeme,  and  he  had  not  looked 
upon  her  lovely  face  with  indifference  ;  for 
the  stronger  passions,  and  the  gentler  feel- 
ings of  the  soul,  find  a  habitation  in  the 
breast  of  the  wandering  gipsy  as  in  those 
of  other  men.  He  had  a  bold  manly  bear- 
ing, and  an  expressive  countenance.  Ju- 
dith, too,  had  seen  much  of  his  exploits. 
She  bad  beheld  him  to  the  neck  in  water, 
struggle  with  the  strong  salmon,  raise  it 
up,  and  cast  it  on  the  shore.     She,  too, 


had  witnessed  instances  of  his  daring 
spirit,  and  in  every  sport  had  seen  all 
vanquished  who  dared  to  contend  with 
him.  Yea,  when  the  scented  blossom, 
like  fragrant  fleece,  overspread  the  haw- 
thorn hedge-rows,  and  the  primrose  and 
wild-violet  flowered  at  its  roots — when 
the  evening  star  shone  glorious  in  the 
west,  brightening  through  the  deepening 
twilight — when  the  viewless  cuckoo  sighed 
"  good  night"  to  its  mate,  and  the  land- 
rail took  up  its  evening  cry — then  have 
Judith  and  Gemmel  sat  together,  by  the 
hedge-side,  at  a  distance  from  the  en- 
campment, with  her  hand  in  his.  Then 
he  would  tell  her  of  the  feats  he  had 
achieved,  of  the  wrestling  matches  he  had 
won,  or  the  leaps  he  had  made,  and, 
pressing  her  hand,  add — "  But  what  care 
I  for  what  I  do,  or  for  what  others  say, 
when  the  bright  een  o'  my  bonny  Judith 
were  na  there  to  reward  me  wi'  a  blink  o' 

joy!" 

"  Ye 're  a  flatterer,  Gemmel,"  whis- 
pered she. 

"  No,  bonniest,"  answered  he,  "  I  deny 
that ;  I  am  nae  flatterer.  But  if  I  were, 
ye  are  far  beyond  flattery  sic  as  mine  ; 
and  it  is  nane  to  say,  that  to  my  een  ye 
are  bonnier  than  yon  gowden  star,  that 
shines  by  its  single  seP  in  the  wide  hea- 
vens— and  to  me  ye  are  dearer  than  the 
mountain  is  to  the  wild  deer,  or  the  green 
leaves  to  the  singing  birds." 

Then  he  would  press  his  lips  to  hers, 
and  she  blushed  but  upbraided  him  not. 
But,  in  the  character  of  Judith,  as  in  that 
of  every  woman  over  whose  bosom  vanity 
waveth  its  butterfly  wings,  there  was 
something  of  the  coquette.  She  did  not 
at  all  times  meet  the  affections  of  Gem- 
mel with  mutual  tenderness,  though  she 
loved  him  beyond  any  one  else,  and  was 
proud  to  see  him  wear  her  yoke.  She 
had  often  smiled  upon  others,  while  her 
eyes  glanced  cold  as  illuminated  ice  upon 
him.  Yet  never  was  there  one  on  whom 
she  so  smiled  that  repented  not  having 
courted  or   obtained  it.      For,   as  Gem- 


JUDITH  THE  EGYPTIAN. 


47 


mel's  hand  was  strong,  and  his  love  pas- 
sionate, so  was  his  jealousy  keen  and  his 
revenge  insatiate.  There  were  cripples 
in  the  tribe,  who  owed  their  lameness  to 
the  hand  of  Gemmel,  because,  in  some 
instance,  Judith  had  shown  a  capricious 
preference  to  them  while  she  slighted 
him. 

Now,  as  has  been  said,  it  was  a  day  of 
feasting  and  rejoicing  amongst  them,  and 
Judith  was  Gemmel's  partner  in  the  dance. 
Walter,  the  young  heir  of  Riccon,  was 
riding  round  the  Eildons,  with  his  grey 
goshawk  upon  his  arm,  and  his  servant 
followed  him  ;  and  hearing  sounds  of  mu- 
sic and  shouts  of  revelry,  he  turned  in 
the  direction  from  whence  they  proceeded. 
He  drew  up  his  horse  within  a  few  yards 
of  the  merry  group,  and,  from  the  first 
glance,  the  striking  figure  and  the  more 
strikins;  features  of  Judith  arrested  his 
attention.  His  eyes  followed  her  through 
the  winding  mazes  of  the  dance.  They 
sought  to  meet  hers.  Gemmel  Graeme 
observed  him,  and  a  scowl  gathered  on 
his  brow.  When  the  dance  was  ended, 
he  led  Judith  to  a  green  hillock  on  which 
her  father  sat,  and  approaching  the  heir 
of  Riccon, inquired  fiercely — "  What  want 
ye,  Sir  ? — what  look  ye  at  ?" 

"  Troth,  friend,"  replied  Walter,  the 
Master  of  Riccon,  who  was  of  too  courage- 
ous a  temperament  to  be  awed  by  the  face 
or  frown  of  any  man,  "  I  look  at  yer  bon- 
ny partner,  and  I  want  to  speak  to  her,  for 
a  lovelier  face  or  a  gentler  figure  my  een 
haena  looked  on  since  my  mother  bore 
mo." 

"  Sir,"  retorted  Gemmel  more  fiercely, 
"  ye  hae  yer  grey  goshawk,  yer  horses, 
and  yer  servant ;  I  dinna  covet  them,  and 
dinua  ye  covet  what  is  mine,  and  to  me 
mair  precious.  Away  the  road  ye  cam, 
or  ony  road  you  like,  but  rem.ain  not  here. 
Your  company  isna  desired.  Is  it  the 
manners  o'  you  gentry  to  break  in  where 
ye  are  uninvited  ?  Again  I  warn  ye,  lohile 
the  earth  is  green,  to  turn  your  horse's 
head   away !     I,  Gemmel    Graeme,    wha 


never   vowed  revenge  but  I  satisfied  it, 
warn  ye  !" 

"  As  well,"  replied  young  Walter 
haughtily,  "  might  you  vend  your  threats 
upon  the  rocks  that  compose  those  cloven 
mountains,  as  waste  them  upon  me.  I 
shall  speak  wi'  your  bonny  partner."  And 
he  struck  his  spurs  into  his  horse  to  pro- 
ceed towards  her. 

Gemmel  grasped  the  bridle,  and  in  a 
moment  horse  and  rider  were  upon  the 
ground. 

"Gemmel  Graeme!"  shouted  Lussha 
Fleckie,  "  is  that  the  welcome  ye  gie  to 
strangers  ^  Foul  fa  ye  !  ye  passionate 
tyke  ! — tak  yer  hands  aff"  the  gentleman, 
and  if  he  wishes  to  join  in  oor  merriment 
he's  welcome.  Gae,  Judith,  bring  forward 
the  gentle  stranger." 

Gemmel  withdrew  his  hand  from  young 
Walter's  throat ;  and,  as  he  did  so,  he  ut- 
tered wild  and  bitter  words,  and  flung  him- 
self, as  if  in  carelessness,  on  the  ground, 
his  head  resting  on  his  hand. 

Judith,  at  her  father's  bidding,  went 
and  conducted  the  heir  of  Riccon  to  where 
her  father  sat  and  the  late  dancers  were 
assembled,  and  Gemmel  was  left  alone.  A 
brief  conversation  passed  between  Lussha 
and  W^alter,  during  which  the  latter  failed 
not  to  express  his  admiration  of  Judith. 
Her  father  smiled — there  was  a  look  of 
triumph  in  the  eyes  of  her  mother.  The 
pipes  again  struck  up,  the  dance  was  re- 
sumed, and  Walter,  the  heir  of  Riccon, 
was  the  partner  of  Judith ;  while  Gemmel 
Graeme  lay  upon  the  ground  gazing  upon 
them  and  gnashing  his  teeth. 

"  We  maun  see  that  nae  harm  come  to 
the  young  Riccon  oot  o'  this,"  whispered 
some  of  the  eldest  of  the  tribe  to  each  other, 
who  had  not  again  joined  in  the  dance, 
"  for  Gemmel  is  kicking  his  heel  upon  the 
ground,  an'  whistlin'  to  himseP,  and  the 
horse-shoe  is  on  his  brow.  It  was  wrong 
in  Lussha  to  provoke  him.  There  is  an 
ill  drink  brewing  for  the  young  laird.  He 
is  dancing  owre  gunpoother  where  the 
touch-fire  is  creeping  to  it." 


48 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


The  dance  was  ended,  and  young  Wal- 
ter, taking  a  costly  ring  from  his  finger, 
placed  it  on  Judith's,  and  whispered — 
'■'■  Wear  it  for  my  sake."  And  her  checks 
seemed  more  lovely  as  she  blushed,  smiled, 
and  accepted  the  gift. 

Gemmel  started  to  his  feet  as  he  beheld 
this.  But  Walter  dashed  his  spurs  into 
his  horse,  and  riding  away,  in  a  few  min- 
utes was  out  of  sight.  Gemmel  glanced 
upbraidingly  on  Judith,  and  he  passed  by 
her  parents  in  sullenness  and  in  silence. 

But  the  heir  of  Riccon  had  not  ridden 
far,  when  he  turned  round  and  said  to  his 
servant — "  We  go  now  to  Melrose,  and 
from  thence  ye  shall  go  back  and  watch 
the  movements  o'  the  party  we  have  seen. 
Mark  ye  weel  the  maiden  wi'  whom  I 
danced  and  whose  marrow  ye  never  saw  ; 
for  rather  would  I  that  she  was  lady  o' 
Riccon  Ha',  than  that  I  shouldna  meet 
her  again." 

Shortly  after  the  departure  of  Walter, 
some  of  the  tribe,  perceiving  that  what  had 
passed  between  him  and  Judith  was  likely 
to  lead  to  a  quarrel  between  Lussha 
Fleckie  and  Gemmel  Graeme,  and  know- 
ing, from  the  nature  of  both,  that  such  a 
quarrel  would  be  deadly  in  its  results,  pro- 
posed that  the  festivities  should  terminate, 
and  the  encampment  break  up.  The  pro- 
posal was  carried  by  a  majority  of  voices  ; 
and  even  Lussha,  though  conscious  of  the 
reason  why  it  was  made,  knew  so  well  the 
fiery  and  desperate  nature  of  him  who  was 
regarded  by  the  tribe  as  the  future  hus- 
band of  his  daughter,  that  he  brooked  his 
own  temper  and  agreed  to  it.  And,  while 
they  began  to  move  their  tents,  and  to 
load  their  asses  and  their  ponies,  Gemmel 
stood  whistling  moodily,  leaning  against  a 
tree,  his  eyes  ever  and  anon  directed  with 
an  inquisitive  scowl  towards  the  tent  of 
Judith's  father,  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  and  at  intervals  stamping  his  foot 
upon  the  ground ;  while  his  favorite 
hound  looked  in  his  face,  howled,  and 
shook  its  tail  impatiently,  as  though  it 
knew  that  there  was  work  for  it  at  hand. 


Early  on  the  following  day,  the  servant 
of  the  heir  of  Riccon  returned,  and  brought 
him  tidings  that  the  encampment  had 
broken  up,  and  Judith  and  her  father  had 
erected  their  tent  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Kelso  ;  for,  as  the  ballad  upon  the  subject 
hath  it — 

**  Often  by  Tweed  they  sauntered  down 
As  far  as  pleasant  Kelso  town." 

Walter  mounted  his  horse,  and  arrived 
within  sight  of  their  tent  before  the  sun 
had  gone  down.  At  a  distance  from  it  he 
perceived  Judith.  She  was  alone,  and 
holding  her  hand  towards  the  declining 
sun,  ga2dng  upon  her  fingers  as  if  admiring 
the  ring  he  had  presented  to  her  on  the 
previous  day.  He  rode  to  where  she 
stood.  She  seemed  so  entranced  that  she 
perceived  not  his  approach.  She  was  in- 
deed admiring  the  ring.  Yet  let  not  her 
sex  blame  her  too  harshly  :  men  and 
women  have  all  their  foibles — this  was 
one  of  Judith's  ;  and  she  was  a  beautiful 
but  ignorant  girl  of  eighteen,  whose  mind 
had  never  been  nurtured,  and  whose  heart 
had  been  left  to  itself,  to  be  swayed  by 
every  passion.  He  dismounted — he  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  before  her — he  grasped 
her  hand — ''  Loveliest  of  women  !"  he  be- 
-But  I  will  not  follow  him  through 


iran- 


his  rhapsody.  Such  speeches  can  be  spo- 
ken but  at  one  period  of  our  lives,  and 
they  are  interesting  only  to  those  to  whom 
they  are  addressed  :  therefore,  I  will  spare 
my  readers  its  recital.  But  it  made  an 
impression  on  the  heart  of  Judith.  He 
spoke  not  of  hAs  feats  of  strength,  of  his 
running,  leaping,  and  WTCstliug,  as  Gem- 
mel did  ;  but  he  spoke  of  hcr^  and  in  strains 
new  but  pleasant  to  her  ear.  And,  al- 
though she  had  chided  her  first  lover  as  a 
flatterer,  she  did  not  so  chide  the  heir  of 
Riccon.  Vanity  kindled  at  his  words,  and 
even  while  he  knelt  and  spoke  before  her, 
she  forgot  Gemmel,  and  already  fancied 
herself  the  jewelled  lady  of  Riccon  Hall. 

He  perceived  the  efiect  which  his  first 
gift  had  produced,  and  he  saw  also  how 
earnestly  she  listened  to  his  words.     He 


JUDITH  THE   EGYPTIAN. 


49 


wore  a  golden  repeater,  which  he  had  pur- 
chased in  Geneva,  and  which  was  secured 
jby  a  chain  of  the  same  metal,  that  went 
round  his  neck.  He  placed  the  chain 
around  her  neck,  he  pressed  the  watch 
upon  her  bosom.  In  her  bosom  she  heard, 
she  felt  it  beat,  while  her  own  heart  beat 
more  rapidly. 

*'  Hark  ! — hark  !''  said  he,  "  how  con- 
stantly it  beats  upon  your  breast — yet, 
trust  me,  loved  one,  my  heart  beats  more 
truly  for  you." 

Before  they  parted,  another  assignation 
was  arranged.  From  that  period,  frequent 
interviews  took  place  between  Walter  and 
the  lovely  Judith,  and  at  each  visit  he 
brought  her  presents,  and  adorned  her  per- 
son with  ornaments.  Her  parents  knew 
of  his  addresses,  but  they  forbade  them 
not. 

Now  one  evening  they  had  taken  up  their 
abode  in  a  deserted  building  near  to  Twisel 
bridge  ;  and  thiiher  the  young  laird  came 
to  visit  Judith.  Her  father  invited  him 
into  what  had  once  been  an  apartment  in 
the  ruined  building,  and  requested  him  to 
sup  with  them.  Walter  consented ;  for 
the  love  he  bore  to  Judith  could  render 
the  coarsest  morsel  sweet.  But,  when  he 
beheld  the  meat  that  was  to  be  prepared  and 
placed  before  him,  his  heart  sickened  and 
revolted,  for  it  consisted  of  part  of  a  sheep 
that  had  died  ;  and,  when  Lussha  beheld 
this,  he  said — "  Wherefore  shudder  ye, 
young  man,  and  why  is  your  heart  sick  .-' 
Think  ye  not  that  the  flesh  o'  the  brute 
which  has  been  slain  by  the  hand  o'  its  Cre- 
ator, is  fitter  for  man  to  eat  than  the  flesh 
o'  an  animal  which  man  has  butchered  .^"* 

Walter  had  not  time  to  reply  ;  for,  as 
Lussha  finished  speaking,  a  dog  bounded 
into  the  ruins  amongst  them.  Judith 
started  from  the  ground,  she  raised  her 
hands,  her  eyes  flashed  with  horror. 

•'  Ah  !"    she   exclauned  in  a  voice    of 


*  Gipsies  always  assign  this  as  a  reason  for 
their  preferring  the  flesh  of  animals  that  have 
died,  to  that  of  such  as  are  slaughtered, 
VOL.    ir.  4: 


suppressed  agony,  "  it  is  Gemmel's — Gem- 
mel's  houndT  Fly,  Walter,  fly  !" 

"  Wherefore  should  I  fly .?"  returned 
the  youth  ;  "  think  ye,  Judith,  I  am  not 
able  to  defend  myself  and  you  against  any 
man  ? — Let  this  fierce  brajjgart  come." 

"  Away  ! — haste  ye  away,  sir  !"  said 
Lussha  earnestly,  grasping  him  by  the 
arm,  "  or  there  will  be  blood  and  dead 
bodies  on  this  floor !  Come  away  !  Gem- 
mel  Grgeme  is  at  hand,  and  ye  dinna  ken 
him  sae  weel  as  I  do  !" 

Walter  would  have  remonstrated,  but 
the  gipsy,  still  grasping  him  by  the  arm, 
dragged  him  to  a  door  of  the  ruin,  adding 
— "  Steal  away — quick  !  quick  among  the 
trees,  and  keep  down  by  the  Till  to  Tweed- 
side.     Dinna  speak  I — away  !" 

It  was  a  grey  midnight  in  July,  and  the 
heir  of  Riccon  had  not  been  absent  three 
minutes,  when  Gemmel  Graeme  stalked 
into  the  ruin,  and  with  his  arms  folded  sat 
down  upon  a  stone  in  sullen  silence. 

"  We  are  glad  to  see  ye,  Gemmel," 
said  Mariam  ;  "  ye  hae  been  an  unco 
stranorer." 

"  Humph!"  was  his  brief  and  cold 
reply. 

The  supper  was  spread  upon  the  ground 
and  the  mother  of  Judith  again  added — 
"  Come,  Gemmel,  lad,  it  is  o'  nae  use  to 
be  in  a  cankered  humor  for  ever.  Draw 
forward  and  help  yerseP — ye  see  there  is 
nae  want." 

"  So  I  see  !"  replied  he,  sarcastically  ; 
"  did  ye  expect  company  ?  I  doubt  yer 
fare  would  hardly  be  to  his  palate  !" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Gemmel .?"  cried 
Lussha  ;  "  think  ye  that  we  are  put  up 
wi'  yer  fits  ? — or  wherefore,  if  ye  hae  nae- 
thing  to  say,  come  ye  glunching  here,  wi' 
a  brow  as  dark  and  threatening  as  a  nicht 
in  December  .^" 

Gemmel  rose  angrily  and  replied — ''  I 
hae  something  to  say,  Lussha,  and  that 
something  is  to  Judith,  but  not  in  your 
presence.  Judith,  will  ye  speak  wi'  me  .^" 
added  he,  addressing:  her. 

Judith,  who  had  sat  in  a  corner  of  the 


50 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


ruin,  with  her  hands  upon  her  bosom, 
covering  the  watch  which  young  Walter 
had  given  her,  and  forgetting  that  the 
golden  chain  by  which  it  was  suspended 
from  her  neck  was  visible,  cast  a  timid 
glance  towards  her  father,  as  if  unploring 
his  protection. 

"  I  am  no  sure,  Gemmel,"  said  Lussha, 
*'  whether  I  can  trust  my  daughter  in  yer 
company  or  no.  If  I  do,  will  ye  gie  me 
yer  thumb  that  ye  winna  harm  her,  nor 
raise  your  hand  against  her." 

"  Harm  her  !" — exclaimed  Gemmel, 
disdainfully — "I  scorn  it! — there's  my 
thumb." 

"  Ye  may  gang,  Judith,"  said  her 
father. 

Judith,  with  fear  and  guilt  graven  on 
her  lovely  features,  rose  and  accompanied 
Gemmel.  He  walked  in  silence  by  her 
side  until  they  came  to  an  old  and  broad- 
branched  tree,  which  stood  about  forty 
yards  from  the  ruin.  A  waning  summer 
moon  had  risen  since  he  arrived,  and  min- 
gled its  light  with  the  grey  gloam  of  the 
night,  revealing  the  ornaments  which  Ju- 
dith wore. 

"  Judith,"  said  Gemmel,  breaking  the 
silence,  and  raising  her  hand  from  her 
bosom,  with  which  she  concealed  the 
watch,  "  where  got  ye  thae  braw  orna- 
ments !  Has  yer  faither  found  a  heart  to 
lay  his  fingers  on  the  treasures  in  the  sil- 
ver jug  .^" 

She  trembled  and  remained  silent. 

"  Poor  thing  !  poor  thing  ! — lost  Ju- 
dith !"  exclaimed  Gemmel,  "  I  see  how  it 
is.  For  the  sake  o'  thae  vile  gewgaws  ye 
hae  deserted  me — ye  hae  sacrificed  peace 
o'  mind,  and  bidden  fareweel  to  happi- 
ness !  O  Judith,  woman  ! — wha  is  the 
flatterer  noo  .''  Do  you  mind  sj^ne  we  sat 
by  the  hedge-side  thegithcr,  when  the 
corn-craik  counted  the  moments  round 
about  us,  and  tried  to  mind  us  lioo  they 
flew — when  the  sun  had  sunk  down  in  the 
west,  and  the  bonny  hawthorn  showered 
its  fragrance  owre  us,  as  though  we  sat  in 
the  garden  where  our  first  parents  were 


I  ^^PPy  '•  1^0  you  mind  o'  thae  days,  Ju- 
dith ? — and  hoo,  when  my  heaving  bosom 
:  beat  upon  yours,  as  we  sat  locked  in  ilka 
other's  arms,  I  asked,  '  Will  ye  be  mine  .'' 
and  ye  let  yer  head  fa'  on  my  shouther, 
and  said,  '  I  will  P — Judith  !  do  ye  mind 
o'  thae  things,  and  where  are  they  noo  .^" 

"  Gemmel  Graeme,''  replied  she,  and 
she  wept  as  she  spoke,  "  let  me  gang — I 
canna  bide  wi'  ye — and  ye  hae  nae  richt 
to  put  yer  questions  to  me." 

"  Nae  ria;ht  !"  he  returned — "  O  Ju- 
dith  !  hae  ye  forgotten  a'  yer  vows  ? — or 
hae  ye  forgotten  the  time  when,  in  caulder 
nichts  than  this,  when  the  snaw  was  on 
the  ground,  and  the  trees  were  bare  o' 
leaves,  that  ye  hae  stood  or  wandered  wi' 
me,  frae  the  time  that  the  sun  gaed  down, 
until  the  sea-birds  and  the  craws  sailed 
owre  oor  heads  seeking  for  theii*  food  on 
the  next  morning  .' — and  now  ye  tell  me 
ye  canna  bide  wi'  me  ?  0  Judith  !  ye 
hae  dune  what  has  made  my  heart  mise- 
rable, and  what  will  make  yer  ain  as  mis- 
erable !"  And  as  he  spoke  he  still  held 
her  hand. 

"  Let  me  gang,  Gemmel,"  she  again 
sobbed,  and  strugcrled  to  wrest  her  hand 
from  his  grasp — "  I  hae  naething  to  say 
to  ye." 

*•'  Then  ye  will  leave  me,  Judith  I"  he 
cried,  wildly — "  leave  me  for  ever,  wi'  a 
withered  heart  and  a  maddened  brain  !" 
She  answered  him  not,  but  still  wept  and 
struggled  the  more  to  escape  from  him. 

"  Then,  gang,  Judith  I"  he  cried,  and 
flung  her  hand  from  him,  but  beware  hoo 


we  meet  acam 


t'5 


Some  months  after  this,  and  when  the 
harvest-moon  shone  full  on  the  fields  of 
golden  gi-ain,  and  the  leaves  rustled  dry 
and  embrowned  upon  the  trees,  there  was 
a  sound  of  voices  in  a  wood  which  over- 
hung the  Tweed  near  Coldstream.  They 
were  the  voices  of  Walter  the  heir  of  Ric- 
con  and  of  Judith. 

"  Leave,"  said  he,  "  dear  Judith,  leave 

this  wandering  life,  and  come  wi'  me,  and 

1  ye  shall  be  clad  in  silks,  dearest,  hae  ser- 


JUDITH  THE  EGYPTIAN. 


51 


vants  to  wait  on  ye,  and  a  carriage  to  ride 


m 


?" 


"  All  !"  she  sighed,  **  but  a  wandering 
life  is  a  pleasant  life  ;  and,  if  I  were  to 
gang  wi'  ye,  would  ye  aye  be  kind  to  me, 
and  love  me  as  ye  do  now  ?" 

"  Can  ye  be  sae  cruel  as  doubt  me,  Ju- 
dith ?''  was  his  reply. 

"  Weel,"  returned  she,  "  it  was  for  yer 
sake  that  I  left  Gemmel  Graeme,  wha  is 
a  bald  and  a  leal  lad,  and  one  that  I  once 
thought  I  liked  weel.  Now,  I  dinna  un- 
derstand about  your  priests  and  your 
books,  but  will  ye  come  before  my  faither 
and  my  mother,  and  the  rest  o'  oor  folk, 
and  before  them  swear  that  I  am  yer  law- 
fu'  wife,  the  only  lady  o'  Riccon  Ha',  and 
I  will  gang  wi'  ye  ?'' 

"  My  own  Judith,  I  will  !"  replied 
Walter,  earnestly. 

"  You  will  not !"  exclaimed  a  loud  and 
wild  voice,  "  unless  over  the  dead  body  of 
Gemmel  Grseme  .'"' 

At  the  same  moment  a  pistol  flashed 
within  a  few  yards  of  where  they  stood, 
and  Walter  the  heir  of  Riceon  fell  with 
a  groan  at  the  feet  of  Judith.  Her 
screams  ransr  throuo-h  the  woods,  startlino; 
the  slumberino;  birds  from  the  branches, 
and  causing  them  to  fly  to  and  fro  in  con- 
fusion. Gemmel  sprang  forward,  and 
grasped  her  hand — '^  Now,  fause  ane," 
he  cried,  "kiss  the  lips  o'  yer  bonny 
bridegroom  ! — catch  his  spirit  as  it  leaves 
him  !  Hang  roond  his  neck  and  baud 
him  to  yer  heart  till  his  corpse  be  cauld  ! 
Noo,  he  canna  hae  ye,  and  I  winna  ! — 
farewsel  ! — fareweel ! — fause,  treacherous 
Judith  !" 

Thus  sayifig,  and  striking  his  forehead, 
and  uttering  a  loud  and  bitter  scream,  he 
rushed  away. 

Judith  sank  down  by  the  dead  body  of 
Walter,  and  her  tears  fell  upon  his  face. 
Her  cries  reached  the  encampment  where 
her  parents  and  others  of  her  race  were. 
They  hastened  to  the  wood  from  whence 
her  cries  proceeded,  and  found  her  stretch- 
ed upon  the  ground,  her  arms  encircling 


the  neck  of  the  dead.  They  raised  her 
in  their  arms  and  tried  to  soothe  her,  but 
she  screamed  the  more  wildly,  and  seemed 
as  one  whose  senses  grief  has  bewildered. 
'^'  Judith,"  said  her  father,  "  speak  to 
me,  bairn — wha  has  done  this  ?  Was 
it" 


"  Gemmel  ! — wicked  Gemmel  !''  she 
cried  ;  and  in  the  same  breath  added, 
"  No  !  no  ! — it  wasna  him  !  It  was  me  ! 
— it  was  me  !     It  was  fause  Judith." 

Gemmel  Graeme,  however,  had  dropped 
his  pistol  on  the  ground  when  he  beheld 
his  victim  fall,  and  one  of  the  party  taking 
it  up,  they  knew  him  to  be  the  murderer. 
Lussha  Fleckie,  touched  by  his  daugh- 
ter's grief,  and  disappointed  by  his  dream 
of  vain  ambition  being  broken,  caused 
each  of  his  party  to  take  a  vow  that  they 
would  search  for  Gemmel  Graeme,  and 
whosoever  found  him  should  take  blood 
for  blood  upon  his  head. 

And  they  did  search,  but  vainly,  for 
Gemmel  was  no  more  heard  of. 

Twelve  months  passed,  and  autumn  had 
come  again.  A  young  maniac  mother, 
with  a  child  at  her  breast,  and  dressed  as 
a  gipsy,  endeavored  to  cross  the  Tweed 
between  Norham  and  Ladykirk.  The 
waters  rose  suddenly,  and  as  they  rose 
she  held  her  infant  closer  to  her  bosom, 
and  sang  to  it ;  but  the  angry  flood  bore 
away  the  maniac  mother  and  her  babe. 
She  was  rescued  and  restored  to  life, 
though  not  to  reason,  but  the  child  was 
seen  no  more. 

For  thirty  years  the  poor  maniac  con- 
tinued at  intervals  to  visit  the  fatal  spot, 
wandering  by  the  river,  stretching  out 
her  arms,  calling  on  her  child,  saying — 
"  Come  to  me — come  to  yer  mother,  my 
bonny  bairn,  for  ye  are  heir  o'  Riccon, 
and  why  should  I  gang  shoeless  amang 
snaw  !  Come  to  me — it  was  cruel  Gem- 
mel Grseme  that  murdered  your  bonny 
faither — it  wasna  me  !" 

It  was  in  January  the  body  of  a  grey- 
haired  woman,  covered  with  a  tattered  red 

cloak,  was  found  frozen  and  dead,  below 
UNIVERSITY  OF 

lUINOIS  LIBRARY       = 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Norham  Castle.  It  was  the  poor  maniac 
Judithj  the  once  beautiful  gipsy.  Some 
years  afterwards,  an  old  soldier  who  had 
been  in  foreign  wars,  came  to  reside  in 


the  neighborhood,  and  on  his  deathbed 
requested  that  he  should  be  buried  by  the 
side  of  Judith,  and  the  letters  G.  G. 
carved  on  a  stone  over  his  grave. 


THE    WOOERS 


In  the  neighborhood  of  a  certain  little 
town  in  the  west,  and  not  twenty  miles 
distant  from  Glasgow,  there  lived  a  cer- 
tain young  lady,  whom  we  shall  call  Miss 
Barrowman.  She  was  the  only  daughter 
of  a  person  of  considerable  landed  pro- 
perty— a  sort  of  half  squire,  half  farmer — 
and  was  thus — as  heiress  apparent  of  Ne- 
therlea,  and  proprietrix,  in  her  own  right, 
of  a  goodly  person,  and  blooming  counte- 
nance— early  supplied  with  a  full  comple- 
ment of  suitors  of  various  descriptions. 
She  had  them  in  dozens ;  and  amongst 
these  were  several  young  men,  to  whom, 
on  the  score  of  eligibility,  she  could  not 
possibly  urge  any  reasonable  objection. 
Yet,  strange  to  say,  she  did  object  to 
them,  one  and  all,  and  that  without  as- 
signing any  reason  for  her  doing  so.  It 
was  very  odd,  and  everybody  thought  so. 
The  general  impression,  however,  on  the 
subject  was,  that  Miss  Barrowman  had 
determined  to  live  a  life  of  single  blessed- 
ness, and  to  retain  both  her  cash  and  com- 
fort in  her  own  hands.  There  were  some, 
however,  who  attributed  her  coyness  to  a 
secret  attachment,  although  no  one  could 
say  or  conjecture  who  the  favored  object 
was. 

Such  were  the  opinions  entertained  of 
Miss  Barrowman's  motives  for  her  con- 
duct towards  her  various  lovers  ;  but  they 
were  neither  of  them  correct.  She  had 
not  determined  to  lead  a  life  of  celibacy  ; 
neither  had  she  yet  formed  any  secret  at- 
tachment.     She    acted,   in   this   matter. 


under  the  influence  of  a  very  singular 
fancy — a  fancy  for  which  we  will  not  pre- 
tend to  account,  and  for  which,  we  rather 
think,  the  fair  whimsicalist  herself  would 
have  had  some  difficiilty  iii  accounting. 
Miss  Barrowman  had  determined  to  mar- 
ry no  other  than  a  ploughman.  So  far  as 
the  profession  went  of  him  who  was  to  be 
the  man  of  her  choice,  on  this  she  had  re- 
solved. A  ploughman  her  husband  must 
be,  and  nothing  else.  It  is  probable  that, 
in  seeking  a  mate  in  this  class,  she  had 
formed  some  peculiar  notions  of  her  own, 
on  the  subject  of  simplicity  of  heart  and 
purity  of  morals.  She  had  conceived,  it 
is  not  unlikely,  that  amongst  this  class  she 
would  find,  more  readily  and  more  cer- 
tainly than  in  any  other,  a  man  of  the 
most  perfect  integrity  of  mind,  and  of  the 
most  unsophisticated  feeling. 

These,  we  say,  it  is  more  than  probable 
were  the  considerations  which  influenced 
Miss  Barrowman,  in  the  very  extraordi- 
nary resolution  to  which  she  had  come  on 
the  important  subject  of  a  husband.  But 
whether  they  were  or  not,  such  was  the 
resolution  she  had  formed,  and  by  this 
resolution  she  determined  to  abide. 

Miss  Barrowman,  however,  had  long 
been  of  this  mind  as  to  the  profession  of 
her  future  lord,  before  any  one  knew  of  it. 
She  had  for  many  years  kept  the  secret 
locked  up  in  her  own  bosom ;  but  it  at 
length  got  wind,  in  consequence  of  some 
expressions  which  she  had  inadvertently 
allowed  to  escape  her.      This,   however. 


THE  WOOERS. 


53 


Was  not  till  after  her  father's  death ;  till 
she  had  become  mistress,  uncontrolled 
mistress,  of  all  his  broad  acres  and  well- 
hoarded  gear. 

The  discovery  of  this  strange  peculiari- 
ty in  the  matrimonial  calculations  of  Miss 
Barrowman,  excited,  as  might  be  expect- 
ed, a  prodigious  sensation  throughout  the 
country,  and,  in  particular,  created  a  tre- 
mendous commotion  amongst  her  gentle- 
men lovers.  They  could  not  understand 
it ;  nor,  indeed,  could  anybody  else.  The 
former  at  first  treated  the  matter  as  a 
joke,  and  would  not  believe  it ;  but,  on 
reflecting  a  little  on  the  great  length  of 
time  during  which  Miss  Barrowman  had 
withstood  all  their  efforts  to  gain  her  af- 
fections, and  the  steadiness  with  which 
she  continued  to  withstand  them,  they 
began  to  think  there  must  be  something 
in  it,  and,  at  length,  gradually  withdrew 
from  the  siege  altogether,  one  after  the 
other. 

But  at  this  point  in  the  progress  of  the 
general  effect  of  Miss  Barrowman's  pecu- 
liar notions  on  the  subject  of  matrimonial 
alliances,  a  very  curious  result  ensued. 
The  class  of  suitors  who  had  just  been 
driven  off,  had  no  sooner  retired  from  the 
field,  than  another  advanced  ;  a  distinct 
and  separate  body.  And  who  were  they, 
thinkest  thou,  gentle  reader  ?  Why,  they 
were  precisely  of  that  description,  as  to 
profession,  from  whose  unsophisticated 
ranks  the  lady  of  Netherlea  had  deter- 
mined on  choosing  a  husband.  They 
were  ploughmen.  Every  one  of  them 
ploughmen,  to  a  man.  The  effect  of  the 
rumor  of  Miss  Barrowman^s  peculiar  pre- 
dilection having  been  to  inspire  hopes  of 
the  tenderest  kind  in  the  bosom  of  every 
unmarried  tiller  of  the  soil  within  twenty 
miles  of  her  residence  ;  and  the  effect 
a2:ain  of  this  effect  was,  to  brins;  them  in 
dozens,  on  various  pretences,  about  Ne- 
therlea, and  all  pinked  out  in  the  primi- 
tive buckism  of  flaming  red  waistcoats, 
red  garters  tied  in  a  flashy  knot  at  the 
knee,  and  corduroy  jackets. 


They  formed,  perhaps,  as  original  a  set 
of  wooers  as  ever  young  lady  had  the  hap- 
piness of  being  surrounded  with. 

This  very  open  and  palpable  way  of 
meeting  her  wishes,  however,  was  not 
exactly  to  Miss  Barrowman's  taste.  She 
did  not  want  such  a  display  of  rustic  gal- 
lantry to  be  directed  towards  her,  nor 
such  an  avowed  competition  amongst  the 
clod-hoppers  of  the  country  for  the  honor 
of  her  hand.  It  rather  shocked  her  a  lit- 
tle, and  all  but  drove  her  from  her  orio-i- 
nal  resolution — an  effect  which  was  fur- 
ther promoted  by  an  occurrence  which  we 
now  proceed  to  relate. 

About  a  mile  distant  from  Netherlea, 
there  stood,  in  the  "  llrk "  o'  a  hill,  a 
certain  little  cottage,  occupied  by  a  Mrs. 
Oswald  and  her  son.  Mrs.  Oswald  was  a 
widow ;  and  her  son,  Sandy,  a  merry 
ploughman,  in  the  service  of  a  Mr.  "Wil- 
liamson, a  farmer,  and  tenant  of  Miss 
Barrowman's.  Sandy  was  a  good-natured 
fellow,  well  meaning  and  honest,  but  by 
no  means  a  bright  youth.  He  was,  in 
fact,  rather  a  soft  lumpish  sort  of  a  chap, 
but  a  laborious  and  faithful  servant ;  and, 
on  this  account,  well  liked  by  his  master 
— a-g,  indeed,  he  was  by  everybody  else — 
for  his  inoffensive  manners  and  extreme 
good-nature. 

Now,  it  had,  of  course,  reached  Sandy's 
ears,  and  those  of  his  mother  too,  that  the 
young  lady  of  Netherlea  had  determined 
to  choose  of  his  particular  craft  for  a  hus- 
band, but  it  had  never  struck  him  that 
there  was  any  chance  of  his  being  the 
lucky  man  on  whom  her  choice  would  fall, 
and  he  had  therefore  never  made  the 
slightest  attempt  to  attract  the  notice  of 
the  fair  lady  of  Netherlea,  This  supine- 
ness  to  his  own  interest,  Sandy's  mother 
marked,  for  some  time,  with  great  impa- 
tience, but  she  said  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject ;  at  least  nothing  directly ;  for  she 
did  drop  a  broad  hint  now  and  then, 
although  without  venturing  on  an  explicit 
expression  of  her  wishes.  At  length, 
however,  when  she  saw  that  neither  her 


54 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


hints  nor  any  innate  ideas  of  his  own 
would  prompt  him  to  any  active  measures 
in  the  matter,  she  could  contain  herself 
no  longer. 

"  Dear  me,  Sandy,  man,"  she  broke 
out  one  night,  as  her  hopeful  son  sat  by 
the  fire,  employed  in  demolishing  the  con- 
tents of  an  enormous  bicker  of  porridge 
which  he  held  between  his  knees,  a  tre- 
mendous horn  spoon  in  his  right  hand, 
and  a  capacious  bowl  of  milk  in  his  left — 
"  Dear  me,  Sandy,  man,"  she  said,  as  she 
wiped  up  some  whole  and  some  broken 
dishes,  which  she  was  ranging  aver  the 
dresser  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce  the 
most  hnposing  effect,  '^  I  wonder  to  see  ye 
hae  sae  little  spunk.  Ye're  no  your  fai- 
ther's  son  ava,  man." 

"  What's  the  case  noo,  mither  .?"  said 
Sandy,  driving  away  at  his  bicker  with 
unabating  energy. 

"The  case — my  word,  need  ye  ask 
that .?"  replied  his  mother,  impatiently. 
"  Isna  there  the  leddy  o'  Netherlea,  wi' 
lapfous  o'  gowd  and  lumps  o'  laun,  wad 
mak  a  man  o'  ye  for  ever,  just  for  the 
liftin,  and  yet  ye'U  no  put  doon  your  haun 
to  pick  her  up  .^" 

To  this  philippic  Sandy  made  no  reply, 
but  continued  delving  away  at  his  por- 
ridf^e.  He  was  evidently  thinking,  how- 
ever— this  being  a  process  which  he  could 
carry  on  without  interrupting  the  neces- 
sary and  pleasant  labors  in  which  he  was 
employed  ? 

"  What  for,  man,"  resumed  his  mother, 
"  dinna  ye  rig  yersel  oot  in  your  Sunday 
claes  o'  an  afternoon,  and  take  a  daunder 
doon  by  the  hoose,  and  let  the  leddy  see 
you,  the  same  as  Tarn  Norrie's  doin,  and 
Hugh  Blair,  and  Watty  Craig,  and  a 
wheen  may  o'  them  ?  What  for  dinna  ye 
do  that,  Sandy  }  Ye're  a  weel-faured 
strappin  chiel,  although  I  say't  that  suldna 
say't,  maybe,  and  might  hae  as  guid  a 
chance  as  ony  o'  them." 

Still  Sandy  said  nothing  ;  for  his  bicker 
was  not  yet  finished,  and  Sandy  made  it  a 


great  end  was  accomplished.     It  was  now 
nearly  bo,  however,  for  the  sound  of  the 
spoon  coming  in  contact  with  the  wood, 
might  at  this  moment  be  distinctly  heard. 
Sandy  was  now  scrapiQg  his  bicker.     It 
was  cleared  out.     Not  as  much  as  a  spar- 
row would  peck  at  was  left.     The  remains 
of  the  milk   was  swigged  off,  the   bowl 
which  had  contained  it  was  placed  within 
the  porridge  dish,  the  spoon  within  that, 
and  the  whole  handed  over  to  his  mother. 
This  done,  Sandy  threw  himself  back  in 
his  chair  with  an  air  of  comfortable  satie- 
ty, and  looking  at  the  fire   thus  bespoke 
his  affectionate  parent : — 

"  What  was  that  ye  war  sayin,  mither, 
about  the  young  leddy  o'  Netherlea  .^" 

"  I  was  sayin,  Sandy,"  replied  his 
mother,  "  that  if  ye  waur  worth  your  lugs 
ye  wad  mak  up  to  her  as  ithers  are  doin, 
and  try  to  get  her  into  your  ain  creel." 

Sandy  looked  at  the  fire  with  a  grave 
face,  into  which  face,  moreover,  he  threw 
as  marked  an  expression  of  thought  as  he 
could  conveniently  command,  but  which 
look  marvellously  like  stupidity,  and  said 
sunply  and  briefly  : — 

"  I  doot  it  wad  be  o'  nae  use,  mither," 
"  Faint  heart  never  wan  fair  leddy, 
Sandy,"  replied  the  latter.  "  Try  your 
luck,  man.  I'm  sure  ye're  as  likely  a 
chiel  as  ony  that's  after  her,  and  a  hantle 
mair  likely  than  a  wheen  o^  them.  Up 
and  be  doin,  man.  Od,  your  faither, 
honest  man,  had  me  whiskt  awa  afore  the 
minister  before  I  had  time  to  think  what 
I  was  aboot.  My  word,  he  was  a  man  a' 
mettle  in  thae  days.  Wi'  him  it  was  but 
twa  words,  a  clap  on  the  shouther  and 
awa  wi't.  Od,  there  wasna  a  lass  in  the 
country,  gentle  or  simple,  that  wad  hae 
stood  an  hour  afore  him.  He  had  a 
tongue  wad  hae  wiled  the  very  lavrocks 
frae  the  lift.  Up  man,  Sandy,  and  be 
doin.  Put  on  your  Sunday  claes  this 
very  afternoon,  put  a  wee  hair  o'  your 
faither's  spunk  in  your  waistcoat  pocket, 
and  away  doon  to  Netherlea,  an  see  what 


rule  never  to  say  or  do  anything  till  that  |  ye  can  do." 


THE    WOOERS. 


Sandy  continued  musing  intently,  but 
saying  little.  Hitlierto  he  had  never 
dreamt  of  adventurino-  on  the  bold  and 
decisive  proceeding  thus  recommended  to 
him  ;  but  urged  as  he  was  now  by  his 
mother,  and  struck  as  he  was  now,  also, 
by  certain  stirrings  of  ambition  suddenly 
generated  within  him,  he  began  to  think 
of  the  matter  more  seriously,  and  to  see 
it,  that  is,  his  own  proposed  share  in  it, 
in  a  more  feasible  light  than  he  had  for- 
merly viewed  it. 

"  We  may  try't,  mither,"  he  said,  after 
a  pause  of  some  duration,  which  he  em- 
ployed in  thinking,  and  dangling  the  while 
his  mother's  little  bent  poker  between  his 
fino-er  and  thumb  :  makino-  it  rino-,  anon, 
against  the  fender.  "  We  may  try't, 
mither,"  he  said.  "  Nae  harm  in  that, 
ony  way." 

''  Nane,  Sandy,  my  man,  nane  what- 
ever," replied  his  mother,  delighted  with 


stockingh:,  trousers,  waistcoat,  jacket,  &c., 
&c.,  all  of  which  she  deposited  on  a  chair 
for  their  owner's  appropriation  ;  the  for- 
mer to  execute  a  series  of  ablutionary  cere- 
monies, previous  to  his  donning  the  Sun- 
day gear  which  his  mother  was  laying  out 
for  him.  The  first  step  of  Sandy's  pro- 
ceedings in  this  department  of  the  in- 
tended fit-out,  was  to  provide  himself  with 
a  huge  brown-ware  basin,  which  he  three- 
parts  filled  with  water,  a  lump  of  black, 
dirty-looking  soap,  and  a  towel.  These 
collected,  and  the  first  of  them  placed  on 
n  stool,  Sandy  threw  his  shirt  over  his 
head,  and  began  to  plunge  and  splutter 
away  with  great  energy  and  activity. 
When  he  had  done,  and  rubbed  himself 
dry,  his  broad  red  face  actually  glowed 
with  heat,  and  shone,  at  the  same  time, 
as  if  it  had  been  newly  varnished. 

"  Ye're  lookin  just  uncommon  wee!  the 
nicht,  Sandy,"  said  his  delighted  mother, 


her  success  in  arousing   what   she   called  I  looking,  with  maternal  pride  and  gratula- 


the  spirit  of  her  hopeful  youth  of  a  son. 

a  wr^'ll  gie  iier  a  trial,  ony  way,"  re- 
sumed Sandy,  who  had  now  risen  to  his 
legs,  and  was  in  the  act  of  throwing  ofi" 
his  working  jacket. 

"  That's  richt,  Sandy.  That's  what  I 
ca'  spunk.  Will  I  bring  oot  your  San- 
day  claes  !" 

''  Ye  m^ay  dae  sae,"  said  her  son. 
''  Whether  do  ye  think  I  should  put  on 
the  velveteen  jacket  or  the  corduroy  ane, 
mither  ?" 

"  To  my  taste,  noo,  Sandy  ;  but  please 
yoursel,  my  man,"  replied  the  latter  ;  "  ye 
look  best  in  the  velveteen  ane  ;  mair  gen- 
teeler,  and  I  think  it's  the  maist  likely 
ane  to  tak  her  ee." 

"  Put  it  oot  then,  mither,"  said  San- 
dy ;  and  a  joint  process,  having  for  its 
end  the  fitting  out  of  Sandy's  person  in 
the  most  captivating  way  possible,  was 
begun  at  one  and  the  same  moment  by 
Sandy  and  his  mother.  The  latter  pro- 
ceeding to  a  large  wooden  chest,  and 
commencing  to  disentomb  therefrom  sun- 
dry aj'ticles  of  wearing  apparel,  such  as 


tion  on  the  huge,  flaming,  and  shining 
orb,  which  her  son  called  his  countenance. 
Sandy  smiled  at  the  compliment ;  and, 
when  he  did  so,  displayed  a  row  of  teeth 
which  were  eminently  calculated  to  set 
oif  his  other  charms,  being  finely  diversi- 
fied in  size,  color,  and  position.  In  a  few 
minutes  after,  Sandy's  toilet  was  all  but 
completed.  He  had  only  now  to  put  the 
last  finishing  touch  to  his  person.  For 
this  purpose  he  sat  down  at  a  small  table, 
placed  before  him  a  small  oblong  piece  of 
wood,  about  an  inch  thick,  in  the  centre 
of  which  was  set  and  secured  by  a  chaste 
edging  of  putty  of  about  half  an  inch  in 
breadth,  and  richly  ornamented  by  an  ir- 
regular series  of  thumb-marks,  a  piece  of 
looking-glass  of  a  sort  of  rhomboidal 
shape,  of  about  two  and  a  half  to  three 
inches  surface. 

By  the  aid  of  this  ingenious  piece  of 
mechanism,  in  which  his  own  captivating 
image  was  reflected,  Sandy  commenced 
tearing  down  his  carroty  locks  with  a 
short,  dumpy,  toothless  comb,  and  trim- 
ming, with   the   same   convenient  instru- 


i»6 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ment,  a  pair  of  fiery- colored,  bushy  whis- 
kers, of  which  he  was  justly  not  a  little 
vain.  These  little  matters  done,  Sandy's 
usual  routine  of  proceedings  in  the  affair 
of  outward  decoration  was  exhausted. 
He  could  do  no  more.  All  that  art 
could  do  was  done. 

Having  completed  his  toilet,  Sandy 
rose  to  his  feet,  clapped  his  best  hat  on 
his  head — and  an  excellent  one  it  was, 
the  nap  being  fully  an  inch  and  a  half 
ong — put  his  watch,  of  about  the  dimen- 
sions of  an  ordinary  saucer,  in  his  fob, 
pulled  out  to  its  fullest  length  the  broad 
blue  ribbon  to  which  it  was  attached,  and 
to  whose  outer  extremity  was  appended  a 
very  handsome  brass  seal  with  a  glass 
face,  a  brass  key,  and  a  small  foreign 
hucky  (shell)  ;  the  whole  being  in  excel- 
lent taste,  took  a  switch  in  his  hand,  and 
thus  prepared  at  all  points,  sallied  forth 
to  win  the  affections  of  the  lady  of  Neth- 
erlea. 

His  mother  followed  him  to  the  door, 
and   looked  with  pride  at  the    receding 
figure  of  her  "  weel-faured,  buirdly  son," 
At  this  point  of  our  story,  we  must  let 
the  reader  into  a  certain  small  secret  re- 
garding Sandy  Oswald,  and  in  connexion 
with  his  present  adventure,  which  we  did 
not  hint  at  before.     We  told  the  truth  as 
to  his  feelings  on  the  subject  of  coming 
forward  with  his  suit  to  the  lady  of  Neth- 
erlea,  but  we  did  not  tell  the  whole  truth. 
There  was  something  in  reserve  which  we 
did  not  disclose,  and  this  was,  that  there 
was  at  this  moment  in  the  service  of  that 
lady,  a  certain   young   woman  to   whom 
Sandy  had  made  earnest  love  for  an  entire 
twelvemonth  before,  and  to  whom  he  had, 
a  hundred  times,  sworn  everlasting  fealty, 
^jow,  this  was  an  awkward  affair.     Being 
the  accepted  lover  of  the  maid,  how  could 
he  come  forward  as  a  suitor  of  the  mis- 
tress }     If  he   attempted  the  latter,  the 
former  was  on  the  spot  to  detect  and  ex- 
pose his  faithlessness.     It  was  a  puzzling 
predicament.     He  could  not  move  a  peg 


to  such  exposure  as  we  have  hinted  at", 
and  this,  gentle  reader,  was  the  principal 
reason  why  he  had  hitherto  refrained  from 
the  enterprise  on  which,  in  the  desperate 
hope  of  being  able  to  escape  the  notice  of 
his  deceived  fair  one,  he  was  now  going. 
It  was  on  the  strength  of  this  forlorn  hope 
then,  and  which  he  trusted  farther  to  pro- 
mote by  some  dexterous  manoeuvring,  that 
Sandy  was  now  adventuring  on  the  daring 
measure  recommended  by  his  mother. 

On  this  adventure  he  did  not  proceed, 
however,   without   some  misgivings.      He 
did  not  see  how  he  could  possibly  secure 
the  notice  of  the  mistress  without  attract- 
ing that  of  the  maid  also,  and  being  thus 
awkwardly  interrupted  in  his  designs  ;  for 
he  did  not  doubt  that  if  Mysie   saw  him, 
she  would  at  once  presume  that  it  was  her 
he  "was  seeking,  and  would  hasten  to  seize 
an  opportunity  of  joining  him.     He,  how- 
ever, resolved  to  try,  although  the  occur- 
rence just  alluded  to  was  one  certainly  to 
be  avoided  by  all  means,  if  possible,  and 
the  faithless  swain  determined  to  avoid  it 
if  he  could.     With  this  view  he  approach- 
ed  the    house    by   the    most    concealed 
routes,    creeping   along    hedges,    darting 
across  parks,   and  skulking   down  dyke- 
sides,  till  he  came  within  a  stone  throw  of 
Netherlea  House.     Having  arrived  at  this 
distance,  and  being,  as  he  thought,  in  a 
pretty  secure  position,  Sandy  determined 
to  hold  it  for  a  short  time,  until  he  had 
resolved  on  his  next   proceeding  ;  and,  in 
the  meantime,  to  keep  a  sharp  look-out 
for    the    lady    of    Netherlea,   whom    he 
thought   he   might   possibly  see  walking 
about,  or  discover  in  some  other  equally 


accessible  position.  Alas,  little  did  San- 
dy dream  that  his  vile  tergiversations  had 
all  been  marked,  and  his  still  viler  faith- 
lessness more  than  guessed  at,  and  that 
too  by  the  very  two  most  concerned  in 
his  treacherous  proceedings — the  maid 
and  mistress  of  Netherlea.  This  was  the 
fact.  The  two  happened  to  be  out  walk- 
ing ;    and  were   seated,  during  the   very 


in  the  matter  without  subjecting  himself  |  time  that  Sandy  was  performing  his  zig- 


THE   WOOERS. 


57 


zas:  advances  towards  the  house,  on  a 
small  eminence  in  the  neighborhood, 
which  commanded  a  full  view  of  all  that 
was  passing  below.  They  thus  witnessed, 
without  being  observed  by  him,  the  whole 
of  his  strano;e  manoeuvring;.  For  a  time 
they  were  both  much  at  a  loss  to  conceive 
what  he  meant — what  object  he  was  driv- 
ing at.  But  women's  wit  is  sharp  in 
these  matters  ;  and  a  hasty  comparing  of 
notes,  and  observations,  and  circum- 
stances, and  conjectures,  between  the 
maid  and  the  mistress,  soon  brought  them 
to  the  facts  of  the  case. 

At  first  Mysie  thought  he  was  coming 
on  a  visit  to  her  ;  and  she  blushed,  as  her 
mistress,  who  knew  of  the  footing  on 
which  she  and  Sandy  stood,  expressed 
precisely  the  same  opinion.  But  both 
the  time  of  day  and  the  manner  of  his 
approach  were  unusual.  He  was  not  wont 
to  come  till  the  twilight,  nor,  when  he 
came  to  visit  her,  did  he  come  by  stealth, 
as  he  was  now  doing  ;  he  came  openly. 
More  extraordinary  still,  he  was  on  this 
occasion  in  full  dress,  garters  and  all. 
Now,  he  never  came  to  see  Mysie,  ex- 
cepting on  Sunday,  in  this  high  state  of 
feather.  What  then  could  this  and  all 
the  rest  of  it  mean.  Mysie  soon  solved 
the  difficulty. 

"  Oh,  the  loon  !"  she  suddenly  burst 
out  with — "  I'll  wad  my  best  new  gown, 
he's  come  to  see  if  he  can  get  a  sicht  and 
a  word  o'  you,  mistress,  and  no  o'  me. 
That's  the  way  he's  dinked  himsel  oot  in 
his  Sunday  claes  ;  and  that's  the  reason, 
too,  that  he  has  been  joukin  and  howkin 
his  way  doon  like  a  mowdiwart,  just  to 
keep  oot  o'  my  sicht." 

Mysie's  mistress  had  arrived  at  precise- 
ly the  same  conclusion  on  the  subject, 
although  she  had  not  expressed  it.  Now, 
however,  that  her  maid  had,  she  acknow- 
ledged its  probability  with  a  blush  and  a 
laudi  at  the  same  time. 

"  It's  very  possible  that  what  you  con- 
jecture is  true,  Mysie,"  said  Miss  Bar- 
rowman.     "  Nay,  I  have  no   doubt  of  it ; 


and,  since  it  is  so,  if  you  like  we'll  play 
3^our  faithless  swain  a  trick." 

"  Wi'  a'  my  heart — wi'  a'  my  heart, 
mem,"  replied  Mysie,  eagerly.  "  I  wad 
like  to  be  revenged  on  the  fause  hearted 
loon." 

"  Well,  then,  Mysie,"  said  Miss  Bar- 
rowman  ;  and  she  finished  the  sentence 
by  giving  her  maid  certain  instructions, 
the  result  of  which  the  reader  will  find  in 
the  sequel. 

Obedient  to  these  instructions,  and  re- 
joicing in  the  prospect  of  revenge  which 
they  promised  to  lead  to,  Mysie  ran  off 
to  execute  them,  while  Miss  Barrowman 
took  the  direction  of  Sandy's  conceal- 
ment, which  she  approached  slowly,  in 
order  to  give  the  lurker  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  her,  if  he  so  designed. 
Rejoiced  beyond  measure,  and  not  a  little 
astonished  too,  at  his  good  luck,  Sandy 
saw  Miss  Barrowman  advancing  towards 
him,  and,  the  moment  he  saw  her,  he 
popped  out  of  his  retreat  and  made  in  the 
direction  she  was  coming  with  an  air  as  if 
their  meeting,  on  his  part,  were  acciden- 
ta,l.  When  within  a  few  yards  of  the  lady 
of  Netherlea,  Sandy  began  to  smile  as 
hard  and  as  captivatingly  as  he  could, 
and,  when  a  little  nearer,  took  off  his  hat, 
placed  himself  directly  in  her  way,  and 
said — 

"  Guid  e'en  to  you,  my  leddy.  There's 
a  fine  afternuin.  Hae  ye  been  takin  a 
walk  .?" 

"  Indeed  have  I,  Sandy,"  replied  Miss 
Barrowman,  graciously,  and  affecting  a 
little  coquettish  embarrassment.  Sandy 
marked  with  great  gratification,  this  symp- 
tom of  the  desirable  effect  he  had  pro- 
duced, and,  gathering  courage  from  it, 
proceeded — 

"  Do  you  no  find  it  eerie,  mem,  walkin 
your  lane  ?"  said  Sandy,  with  a  look 
meant  to  be  at  once  sly  and  languishing. 

"  O  no,  Sandy,"  replied  Miss  Barrow- 
man ;  "I  like  a  solitary  walk,  now  and 
then,  very  much,  although,  if  one  could 
always  get  the  one  they  liked  with  tbem^ 


58 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


it  would  certainly  be  much  more   agree- 
able." 

And  the  young  lady  sighed. 

"  It  wad  surely  be  that,  mem,"  said 
Sandy,  now  nickering  like  a  pony.  '*  Wad 
ye  no  tak  a  wee  bit  turn,  mem,  back  wi' 
me  the  length  o'  the  hazel  wood  ?  I'm 
sure  I  wad  be  unco  prood  o'  the  honor," 
added  Sandy,  who  was  every  moment  be- 
coming more  eager  and  confident  in  his 
manner. 

"  No,  no,  Sandy — not  just  now,"  re- 
plied Miss  Barrowman,  confusedly,  and 
in  a  hurried  whisper  ;  "  but  if  you'll  come 
to  the  garden  gate  in  an  hour  hence,  I'll 
be  there  to  let  you  in,  and  we  can  take  a 
turn  in  the  garden." 

"  Thank  ye,  mem — thank  ye,"  said 
Sandy.     "  I'll  be  punktwal." 

"  Do,  Sandy,"  replied  Miss  Barrow- 
man ;  "  but,  in  the  meantime,  get  out  of 
the  way  as  fast  as  you  can,  for  I  expect 
Mysie  every  instant  to  make  her  appear- 
ance." 

It  required  no  more  to  make  Sandy 
vanish.  In  a  twinkling  he  was  out  of 
sight,  although  not  out  of  hearing  ;  for  he 
might  have  been  heard,  and  traced  too, 
for  several  seconds,  crashing  his  way 
through  the  hedges  and  birches  that  at 
once  obstructed  his  retreat  and  formed 
his  concealment. 

Having  made  this  arrangement  with 
Sandy,  Miss  Barrowman  hastened  home ; 
and,  with  great  glee,  informed  Mysie  of 
what  had  transpired,  and  of  the  appoint- 
ment which  she  had  made  with  her  lover. 

"  Now,  Mysie,"  said  Miss  Barrowman, 
"  is  all  ready  .?" 

Mysie  exultingly  replied  that  it  was. 

"  Now,  then,"  continued  Miss  Barrow- 
man, "  what  I  want  you  to  do  is  this  : — It 
will  be  quite  dark  when  Sandy  comes  to 
the  garden  gate ;  so,  as  we  are  much 
about  a  size  and  a  figure,  you  will  wrap 
yourself  in  one  of  my  cloaks,  put  on  one 
of  my  bonnets,  and  receive  him  ;  and,  if 
you  keep  your  head  well  muffled  up, 
speak  very  low,  and  as  little  as  possible. 


he  will  never  doubt  but  that  you  are  me. 
Well,  then,  hear  all  that  he  has  to  say. 
Let  him  come  out  with  the  full  measure 
of  his  faithlessness.  Treasure  up  his 
words,  so  as  to  be  able  to  serve  them  up 
to  him  again  on  another  occasion,  and  then 
conduct  him  stealthily,  as  it  were,  into 
the  house,  under  pretence  that  you  feel 
chill  in  the  air,  and  are  so  fond  that  you 
wish  a  little  more  of  his  company.  When 
you  have  got  him  into  the  house,  we  will 
together  manage  the  rest." 

"  O  mistress  !  O  mistress  I"  exclaimed 
Mysie,  clapping  her  hands  in  uncontrolla- 
ble ecstasy,  "  that's  juist  delightfu.  It's 
graund,  graund.  Oh,  we'll  gie  him  a 
coolin." 

Faithful  to  his  appointment,  and  already 
believing  himself  Laird  of  Netherlea,  San- 
dy was  at  his  post  at  the  precise  time 
fixed  on.  Indeed,  he  had  been  there  fully 
half-an-hour  before.  When  that  hour 
came,  Sandy  beat  a  gentle  rat-tat-tat, 
with  the  points  of  his  fingers,  on  the  gar- 
den door.  The  signal  was  instantly  at- 
tended to  ;  the  door  was  cautiously  open- 
ed ;  and,  in  a  second  after,  the  happy 
Sandy  Oswald  found  himself  in  Netherlea 
garden,  with  its  young  mistress,  as  he  had 
no  doubt,  by  his  side. 

"  Nae  fear  o'  Mysie  comin  this  way, 
my  leddy  .'"  said  Sandy,  in  a  low  whis- 
per, and  it  was  one  of  the  first  things  he 
said.  "  She  kens  naething  aboot  our 
meeting,  I  houp." 

"  No,"  muttered  Mysie,  in  an  all  but 
inaudible  tone. 

"  That's  richt,"  replied  Sandy ;  "  for 
she's  a  glaiket,  silly  taupy,  and,  I  verily 
believe,  thinks  I  hae  some  notion  o'  her. 
Gude  save  the  mark  !  he  wad  be  unco  ill 
afi"  for  a  wife  wad  take  Mysie  Blackater." 

''  I  thought  ye  liked  her,"  in  a  voice 
that  barely  passed  the  threshold  of  the 
speaker's  muffle. 

"  Liked  her !"  replied  Sandy,  con- 
temptuously. "  Just  a  piece  o'  nonsense. 
I  dinna  gie  a  strae  for  her — an  ugly  pukit 
like  thing." 


THE  WOOERS. 


"  I  thought  ye  used  to  reckon  her  pret- 
ty, and  call  her  so  ?" 

"  Tuts  !  juist  da£&n — ^juist  to  please  the 
puir  silly  thing.'' 

^'  I  thought  ye  pledged  yer  word  to 
marry  her  ?" 

"  A'  a  piece  o'  nonsense.  Said  some- 
thing like  that  for  fun,  maybe,  but  never 
intended  it.  Na,  na,"  continued  Sandy, 
now  becoming  more  ardent  in  his  manner, 
and  seizing  his  fair  companion  by  the  hand 
— "  I  ken  whar  I  wad  look  for  a  wife  if  I 
thocht  there  was  ony  chance  o'  gettin 
her  ;"  and  Sandy  looked  "  unutterable 
things,"  which,  however,  could  not  be 
seen  in  the  dark. 

Mysie  now  thought  it  full  time  to  con- 
duct her  faithless  swain  into  the  house  ; 
and  she  now  proposed  it. 

"  But  are  ye  sure  we  can  keep  clear  o' 
Mysie  ?"  inquired  Sandy,  anxiously,  and 
evidently  in  great  terror  of  such  a  rencon- 
tre taking  place.  He  was  assured  he  had 
nothing  to  fear  on  this  score  ;  and,  on  the 
faith  of  this  assurance,  Sandy  at  once  fol- 
lowed his  conductor,  not  a  little  elated 
with  the  very  marked  preference  which 
such  a  proceeding  as  being  invited  into 
the  house  indicated. 

Executing  her  part  of  the  plot  admira- 
bly, although  frequently  in  danger  of  mar- 
ring it  by  an  untimeous  burst  of  laughter, 
Mysie  now  led  her  victim  to  the  altar— 
that  is,  to  a  certain  closet,  which  was  to 
be  the  scene  of  future  operations.  The 
door  was  open. 

"  Hist !"  said  Mysie,  in  a  tone  of  alarm, 
and  stooping  suddenly  precisely  opposite 
said  closet — "  1  hear  a  foot.     It's  Mysie." 

"  God's  sake,  woman,  whar'll  I  gang  ?'' 
said  Sandy,  in  great  terror.  *'  Let  me 
get  into  some  hole  or  ither." 

"  Here — in  here,  man.  Quick,  quick 
wi'  ye,"  whispered  Mysie  earnestly,  and 
with  well-aflected  agitation.  And  she 
thrust  the  "  fause  loon,"  as  she  called 
him,  into  the  closet  already  referred  to  ; 
and,  bidding  him  remain  there  as  still  as 
death  till  she  came  for  him,  she  shut  the 


door.  The  finale  was  now  at  hand. 
Having  secured  Sandy,  and  placed  him 
in  the  proper  position,  Mysie  hastened  to 
find  her  young  mistress.  She  had  not  to 
go  far  to  succeed  in  this.  Miss  Barrow- 
man  was  at  hand.  She  had  been  watch- 
ing the  whole  proceedings.  The  two, 
however,  having  now  met,  were  obliged, 
before  advancing  another  step  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  their  trick,  to  rush  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  house,  in  order  to  relieve 
themselves,  by  some  free  bursts  of  laugh- 
ter, of  the  pain  which  they  were  suffering  . 
from  its  suppression.  Having  obtained 
this  relief  by  two  or  three  hearty  and  con- 
tinuous peals,  and  having  regained  suffi- 
cient composure  to  go  through  with  the 
remainder  of  the  evening's  proceedings, 
the  mistress  and  maid  again  approached 
the  den  in  which  they  had  secured  their 
unsuspecting  victim. 

With  a  somewhat  similar  feeling,  how- 
ever, with  that  which  prompts  the  cat  to 
delay  the  coup  de  grace  to  the  unfortu- 
nate mouse  which  its  evil  stars  have  put 
in  her  power,  did  Miss  Barrowman  and 
her  maid  Mysie  determine  on  having  a 
little  more  sport  with  their  victim  before 
visiting  him  with  the  cold  catastrophe  in 
store  for  him. 

With  this  view.  Miss  Barrowman  her- 
self now  advanced,  on  tiptoe,  to  the  door 
of  the  closet  in  which  Sandy  was  confined  j 
and,  in  a  whisper,  directed  through  the 
keyhole  said — 

"  Are  ye  comfortable,  Sandy .?" 

"  I  canna  say  that  preceesly,"  replied 
Sandy,  in  the  same  tone  ;  "  but  I'm  as 
weel  as  can  be  expeckit.  Mysie 's  no 
gaun  aboot,  is  she  .?"  he  added.  Mysie 
was  now  standing  close  by  her  mistress. 

He  was  assured  she  was  not. 

^'  Whan  wilPt  be  convenient  to  let  me 
oot  ?"  resumed  Sandy. 

"  Presently,  Sandy,"  was  the  reply. 
"  But  are  ye  sure,  now,  that  ye  detest 
Mysie,  and  that  ye  like  me  ?" 

"  As  fac's  death,  mem,"  replied  Sandy, 
energetically. 


60 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Miss  Barrowman  and  Mysie  now  trip- 
ped away  to  put  their  last  move  in  execu- 
tion. A  moment's  dead  silence  occurred. 
In  the  nextj  an  appalling  shout,  or  rather 
roar,  accompanied  by  the  squashing, 
plashy  sound  of  a  tremendous  descent  of 
water,  announced  that  Sandy  had  been 
suddenly  subjected  to  the  cooling  influ- 
ence of  a  mysterious  deluge  of  some  idnd 
or  other.  This  was  the  fact,  then,  good 
reader.  Sandy  had  been  closeted  in  a 
shower-bath,  and  was,  at  this  moment,  en- 
joying the  most  liberal  dispensation  of 
that  ingenious  contrivance.  For  some 
seconds,  both  the  plashing  of  the  water 
and  the  shouting  of  the  sufferer  continued 
with  unabated  vigor  ;  but  at  length,  the 
former,  but  not  the  latter,  ceased,  and 
that  instant  Miss  Barrowman  and  her 
maid,  each  with  a  candle  in  their  hands, 
threw  up  the  door  of  the  shower-bath 
closet,  and,  with  well-affected  alarm  and 
astonishment,  simultaneously  exclaimed, 
"Sandy  Oswald!" 

"  Gracious  me  !  what  brought  ye  here, 
Sandy  .^"  added  Mysie.  "  Hoo  on  earth 
got  ye  in  here,  and  what  brought  ye  ? 
Vv'^hat  war  ye  wantin  P^ 

"  What  brought  ye  into  my  house,  sir  ?" 
chimed  in  Miss  Barrowman,  with  assumed 
severity  of  manner.  "  What  business 
have  you  here  ?  You  could  not  surely 
have  been  intending  any  good.  It  is  a 
strange  affair,  and  I  must  know  the  mean- 
ing of  it." 

To  all  these  questions  and  remarks, 
Sandy  made  no  reply  ;  and,  for  a  very 
good  reason,  he  did  not  know  what  reply 
to  make,  but  stood  squeezed  up  into  a  cor- 
ner of  the  bath,  where  he  had  vainly 
sought  to  escape  the  deluge  that  was 
pouring  down  on  him  from  above,  and  of 
whose  source  he  could  form  no  idea — 
having  never  seen  or  heard  of  such  a 
thing  as  a  shower-bath  in  his  life. 

Squeezed  up  into  a  corner,  then,  and 
having  a  very  strong  resemblance  to  a 
huge  half- drowned  rat,  stood  Sandy,  as 
we  have  said,  during  the  delivery  of  the 


above  queries  and  remarks  by  his  two  tor- 
mentors. To  these,  as  we  have  also  already 
said,  Sandy  had  yet  made  no  reply.  He 
was  much  too  confounded  by  his  present 
situation  to  admit  of  that.  He  was 
drenched  to  the  skin  by  some  mysterious 
deluge ;  he  was  exposed  to  the  eye  of 
Mysie  ;  his  faithlessness  was  about  being 
discovered  ;  and,  to  crown  all.  Miss  Bar- 
rowman seemed  desirous  of  withdrawing 

o 

her  patronage — nay,  of  denying  altogether 
her  having  inveigled  him  into  the  house ; 
and,  to  add  still  farther  to  his  confusion, 
he  thought  the  little  he  now  heard  of  IMiss 
Barrowman's  voice  did  not  resemble  that 
of  his  fair  garden  companion  ;  but  he 
could  not  exactly  tell.  He  did  not,  in 
short,  know  what  to  think  of  the  matter. 
He  had,  however,  a  confused  idea  of  there 
being  something  wrong  somewhere. 

"  Come  oot  o'  that,  man,"  at  length 
said  Mysie.  Sandy  mechanically  obeyed, 
with  a  forced  unmeaning  smile  on  his 
countenance,  but  still  without  speaking. 
When  he  had  fairly  emerged  from  his 
watery  retreat — 

"  Nae  fear  o'  Mysie  comin  this  way, 
my  leddy  .^"  said  Mysie,  imitating  the  tone 
in  which  her  faithless  lover  had  put  the 
same  question  in  the  garden ;  and  hold- 
ins;  the  candle  close  to  his  face  in  order  to 
enjoy  a  full  view  of  its  expression  under 
the  infliction  of  the  torture.  "  She  ken's 
nacthing  aboot  oor  meeting,  I  houp .'" 
continued  Mysie.  "  Wadna  he  be  ill  aff 
for  a  wife  that  wad  tak  INIysie  Blackater  ^ 
Wadna  he,  Sandy  }  I'm  sure  ye  wadna 
gie  a  strae  for  her — an  ugly  pukit  thing ; 
and  although  ye  hae  sworn  a  hunner  times 
that  she  should  ae  day  be  yours,  and  that 
ye  liked  her  aboon  a'  ither  things  on  this 
earth,  it  was  a'  juist  a  piece  o'  nonsense, 
spoken  for  fun.  A  thing  ye  never  intend- 
ed.    Wasna't  Sandy,  lad  ;  wasna't — eh  .^" 

We  leave  the  reader  to  judge  of  Sandy's 
feelings  during  this  operation  of  serving 
him  up  with  his  own  faithless  words.  We 
should  have  a  dijficulty  in  describing  them, 
but  more  in  describing  what  he  did,  and 


L 


THE    WOOERS. 


61 


how  lie  looked  under  the  torturing  pro- 
cess. This  was  exceedingly  like  a  fool, 
with  an  unnatural  and  inane  smile  on  his 
very  stupid  face,  which  he  directed  alter- 
nately to  Mysie  and  her  mistress,  but  still 
without  giving  utterance  to  a  single  sylla- 
ble. 

After  Mysie  had  put  her  deceitful 
swain  through  his  facings,  her  mistress 
took  up  the  cue  and  began  : — 

"  Perhaps  the  honor  of  your  visit,  San- 
dy, was  intended  for  me  P^ 

Sandy  grinned. 

"  Probably  you  have  been  struck  with 
a  fancy  to  become  Laird  of  Netherlea, 
Sandy,  and  lord  and  master  of  its  lady. 
Was  that  the  object  of  your  adventure  ? 
Was  it  that  that  brought  you  here  .?" 

"  Ke',  ke',  mem,  Pm  sure  ye  ken  that 
weel  aneuch,"  said  Sandy,  with  a  very 
broad  grin,  and  now  speaking  for  the  first 
time.  "  Didna  yc  bring  me  here,  yersel, 
frae  the  garden .?" 

"  No,  you  fause-hearted  villain,  it  was 
me,"  here  interposed  Mysie,  fiercely. 
"  It  was  me  that  met  ye  in  the  garden, 
and  it  was  into  my  ain  twa  lugs  that  ye 
poured  a'  your  hypocritical  and  deceitful 
speeches.  'Od,  I  hae  a  guid  mind  to 
cleave  ye  wi'  the  candlestick  ;"  and  My- 
sie flourished  that  formidable  weapon  as  if 
she  was  about  to  execute  the  deed  she 
menaced.  But  although  she  had  intend- 
ed to  do  so  desperate  a  thing,  Sandy  took 
care  that  it  should  not  be  in  her  power. 
He  had,  for  the  last  two  or  three  minutes, 
been  eyeing  the  door  with  a  wistful  look, 
and,  at  this  critical  moment,  availed  him- 
self of  the  observations  he  had  made  by 
making  a  sudden  bolt  towards  it,  and 
another  out  of  it,  and  away  like  a  grey 
hound.  The  whole  proceeding  was  the 
work  of  an  instant,  and  waa  accomplished 
before  IMysie  or  her  mistress  could  make 
any  remark  on  the  subject. 

On  clearing  the  house,  Sandy  kept  at 
the  top  of  his  speed,  and  without  looking 
either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  till  he 
reached  his  mother's  house,  where  he  flung; 


himself  down  in  a  chair  in  a  state  of  breath- 
less exhaustion. 

''  Losh  hae  a  care  o'  me,  Sandy,  what's 
the  matter  .?"  said  his  mother,  in  great 
alarm.  "  Ye're  clean  dune  oot  ;  and 
Lord  be  wi'  us,"  she  said,  putting  her 
hand  on  his  soaked  jacket,  "  ye're  a'  wat. 
Ye're  dreeping,  I  declare.  Hae  ye  fa'n 
into  ony  water  .^" 

"  I  didna  gang  to  the  water,   mither— 
the  water  cam  to  me,"  replied  Sandy. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  Sandy,  my 
man  .'"'  inquired  his  mother. 

''  Tuts,  it's  a  lang  story,  and  no  worth 
tellin,"  said  her  son,  who  did  not  care  to 
enter  into  particulars  regarding  his  night's 
adventure. 

"  Weel,  then,  my  man,  how  came  ye  on 
wi'  the  leddy  o'  Nctherlea  ?  Did  ye  fore- 
o;ather  wi'  her  ?" 

"  Ou,  ay,"  replied  Sandy  drily. 

"  An'  how  cam  ye  on,  then,  wi'  her  .?" 
inquired  the  anxious  mother.  "  Did  ye 
speak  her  fair  and  cannily  ?" 

"  Weel  aneuch  that  way,  I  fancy,"  said 
Sandy,  with  the  same  brevity,  and  the 
same  evident  disinclination  to  be  commu- 
nicative on  the  subject. 

"  Dear  me,  my  man,  Sandy,"  rejoined 
his  mother,  impatiently,  provoked  by  his 
taciturnity  on  a  matter  in  which  she  felt 
so  deeply  interested,  "  can  ye  no  tell  me 
at  ance  how  cam  ye  on." 

"  Pll  tell  ye  something  at  ance,  mither," 
replied  Sandy,  with  an  equal  degree  of 
impatience,  "  and  that  is,  that  ony  body 
that  likes  may  tak  the  leddy  o'  Netherlea 
for  me.  That  I'll  hae  naething  mair  ado 
wi'  her,  and  that  they'll  be  devilish  weel 
educat  that'll  catch  me  gaun  after  an 
heiress  again — that's  a'  I  say,  mither ;" 
and  saying  this,  Sandy  began  to  divest 
himself  of  his  drenched  garments,  and  im- 
mediately after  rolled  his  chilled  body  into 
bed,  without  vouchsafing  another  word  on 
the  subject  of  his  experience  of  that  event- 
ful night.  Nor  could  he,  at  any  time  after, 
ever  be  induced,  by  his  affectionate  parent, 
to  shed  the  smallest  degree  of  additional 


-i 


63 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


light  on  that  experience,  or  to  give  any 
account  whatever  of  the  incidents  it  in- 
cluded. 

With  regard  to  the  heiress  of  Nether- 
lea,  we  believe,  that  attaining  wisdom 
with  years,  she  finally  married  a  person 


better  suited  by  birth  and  education  to 
her  own  tastes,  habits,  and  pursuits,  than 
she  could  possibly  have  found  in  a  plough- 
man, however  worthy  and  deserving  in 
other  respects  such  a  person  might  have 
been. 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN; 


A    TALE    OF    LOVE    AND    BANKRUPTCY, 


CHAP.  I. A  WAY  OF  MAKING  MONEY. 

All  the  world  knows  that  Mandeville, 
the  author  of  the  "  Fable  of  the  Bees," 
and  Shaftesbury,  the  author  of  the  "  Cha- 
racteristics," divided  a  great  portion  of 
mankind  on  a  question  which  is  now  no 
question  at  all.  That  there  are,  assured- 
ly, some  instances  to  be  met  with  of  ra- 
tional bipeds,  who  exhibit  scarcely  any 
traces  of  a  moral  sense,  and  act  altogether 
upon  the  principle  of  selfishness,  we  do 
not  deny;  but  this  admission  does  not 
bind  us  to  the  selfish  theory,  for  the  very 
good  reason,  that  we  hold  these  creatures 
to  be  nothing  better  than  a  species  of 
monsters.  Nor  do  we  think  the  world, 
with  the  tendency  to  self-love  that  prevails 
in  it,  would  have  been  the  better  for  the 
want  of  these  living,  walking  exemplars  of 
their  patron — the  devil ;  for,  of  a  surety, 
they  show  us  the  fallen  creature  in  all  liis 
naked  deformity,  and  make  us  hate  the 
principle  of  evil  through  the  ugly  flesh- 
case  in  which  it  works,  and  the  noisome 
overt  acts  it  turns  up  in  the  repugnant 
nostrils  of  good  men.  Now,  if  you  are 
an  inhabitant  of  that  scandalous  free-stone 
village  that  lies  near  Arthur  Seat,  and 
took  its  name  from  tlie  Northumbrian 
king,  Edwin — corrupted,  by  the  conceit 
of  the  inhabitants,  into    Edin — you  will 


say  that  we  mean  something  personal  in 
these  remarks  ;  and,  very  probably,  when 
we  mention  the  name  of  Mr.  Samuel 
Ramsay  Thriven,  who,  about  twenty  years 
after  Mr.  John  Neal  introduced  to  the 
admiring  eyes  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Scottish  metropolis  the  term  haberdasher, 
carried  on  that  trade  in  one  of  the  princi- 
pal streets  of  the  city,  our  intention  will 
be  held  manifest.  And  what  then  f  We 
will  only  share  the  fate,  without  exhibiting 
the  talent  of  Horace,  and  shall  care  no- 
thing if  we  return  his  good-humor — a 
quality  of  far  greater  importance  to  man- 
kind than  even  that  knowled^-e  "which 
is  versant  with  the  stars." 

Now,  this  Mr.  Samuol  Ramsay  Thriven, 
who  took  up,  as  we  have  already  signified, 
the  trade  designated  by  the  strange  appel- 
lative introduced  by  the  said  John  Neal, 
was  one  of  those  dabblers  in  morals  who 
endeavor  to  make  the  whole  system  of 
morality  accord  with  their  own  wishes. 
As  to  the  moral  sense,  so  strongly  insisted 
for  by  the  noble  author  of  the  "  Charac- 
teristics," he  considered  it  as  a  taste  some- 
thing like  that  for  vcitu^  which  a  man 
might  have  or  not  have  just  as  it  pleased 
Dame  Nature,  or  Mr.  Syntax  Pedagogue, 
but  which  he  could  pretend  to  have  as 
often  and  in  as  great  profusion  as  it  pleased 
himself.     It  was,  he  acknowledged,  a  very 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


C3 


good  thing  to  have,  sometimes,  about  one, 
but  there  were  many  things  in  the  world 
far  better — such  as  money,  a  good  house, 
good  victuals,  good  clothing,  and  so  forth. 
It  was  again,  sometimes,  a  thing  a  man 
miiiht  be  much  better  without.  It  formed 
a  stumbling-block  to  prosperity ;  and 
when,  at  the  long  run,  a  man  had  made  to 
it  many  sacriiices,  and  become  a  beggar, 
"rich  in  the  virtue  of  good  oflices,"  he 
did  not  find  that  it  got  him  a  softer  bed  in 
an  almshouse,  or  a  whiter  piece  of  bread 
at  the  door  of  the  rich.  These  sentiments 
were  probably  strengthened  by  the  view 
he  took  of  the  world,  and  especially  of 
our  great  country  where  there  is  a  mighty 
crying,  and  a  mighty  printing,  about  vir- 
tue, magnanimity,  and  honesty,  in  the  ab- 
stract, while  there  is,  probably,  less  real 
active  honesty  than  might  be  found  among 
the  Karomantyns — yea,  or  the  Hottentots 
or  Clierokees.  Then,  too,  it  could  not  be 
denied  that  "  riches  cover  a  multitude  of 
sins  ;"  why,  then,  should  not  Mr.  Thriven 
strive  to  get  rich  ? 

Upon  such  a  theory  did  Mr.  Samuel 
Thriven  propose  to  act.  It  had  clearly 
an  advantage  over  theories  in  general,  in 
so  much  as  it  was  every  day  reduced  to 
practice  by  a  great  proportion  of  mankind, 
and  so  proved  to  be  a  good  workable 
speeidation.  That  ho  intended  to  follow 
out  the  practical  part  of  his  scheme  with 
the  same  wisdom  he  had  exhibited  in 
choosing  his  theory  of  morals,  may  bt; 
safely  doubted.  Caution,  which  is  of  great 
use  to  all  men  in  a  densely  populated 
country,  is  an  indispensable  elemcsnt  in  the 
composition  of  one  who  would  ]>c.  vwU  at 
the  expense  of  others.  A  good-natured 
man  will  often  allow  himself  to  be  cheated 
out  of  a  sum  which  is  not  greater  than  the 
price  of  his  ease,  and  there  are  a  great 
nuinb-r  of  such  good-natured  men  in  all 
communities.  It  is  upon  these  that  clever 
men  operate  ;  without  them  a  great  portion 
of  tlio  cleverest  would  starve.  They  are 
the  lambs  with  sweet  flesh  and  soft  wool, 
making  the  plains  a  paradise  for  the  Avolves. 


A  system  of  successful  operations  carried 
on  against  these  ipnet  subjects,  for  a  num- 
ber of  years,  might  have  enabled  Mr. 
Samuel  Ramsay  Thriven  to  have  retired, 
with  his  feelings  of  enjoyment  blunted, 
and  his  conscience  ipiiekened,  to  some 
romantic  spot  where  he  might  have  turned 
poetical.  An  idle  man  is  always,  to  somo 
extent,  a  poet ;  and  a  rogue  makes  often 
a  good  sentimentalist. 

This  ought  clearly  to  have  been  the 
course  which  worldly  caution  should  have 
suggested  as  the  legitimate  working  out  of 
the  theory  of  selfishness.  13ut  Mr.  Thri- 
ven wag  not  gifted  with  the  virtue  of  ])a- 
tience  to  the  sanu"^  extent  that  he  was  with 
the  spirit  of  theorizing  on  the  great  pro- 
cess of  getting  rich,  lie  wanted  to  seize 
Plutus  by  a  coup  de  main.,  and  hug  the 
god  until  he  got  out  of  him  a  liberal  al- 
lowance. The  plan  has  been  attended 
with  success  ;  but  it  is  always  a  dangerous 
one.  The  great  deity  of  wealth  has  been 
painted  lame,  blind,  and  foolish,  because 
he  gives,  without  distinction,  to  the  unde- 
serving as  well  as  to  the  worthy — to  the 
bad  often  more  than  to  the  good.  It  is 
seldom  his  god-ship  will  be  coaxed  into  a 
gift ;  and  if  lie  is  attempted  to  be  forced, 
he  can  use  his  lame  leg,  and  send  tlie 
rough  worshipper  to  the  devil.  Neitluu- 
can  we  say  that  Mr.  Thriven's  scheme 
was  new  or  ingenious,  being  no  other  than 
to  "  break  with  the  full  hand  " — a  project 
of  great  anticpiity  in  Scotland,  and  struck 
at,  for  the  first  time,  by  the  act  1G21,  cap. 
18.  It  existed,  iiuh^ed,  in  ancient  Rome, 
and  was  compreliended  imder  the  general 
name  of  stellionate,  from  stelio,  a  littlo 
subtle  serpent,  common  in  Italy.  Always 
in  great  vogue  in  our  country,  it  at  one 
time  roused  tlu^  choler  of  our  judges  to 
such  an  extent  tliat  they  condemned  the 
culprits  eith(U-  to  Avear  the  yellow  (!ap  and 
stockings  of  different  colors,  or  be  for  ever 
at  the  mercy  of  their  creditors.  But 
these  tiuies  had  gone  by,  and  a  man  might 
make  a  very  respectable  thing  of  a  break, 
if  he  could  manage  it  adroitly  enough  to 


61 


TALES   OB'  THE  BORDERS. 


make  It  api3ear  that  he  had  himself  been 
the  victim  of  misplaced   confidence.     So 
Mr.  Samuel  having  given  large  orders  to 
the  English   houses  for  goods,  at  a  pretty 
long   credit,  got   himself  in    debt   to   an 
amount  proportioned  to  the  sum  he  wished 
to  make  by  his  failure.     There  is  no  place 
in  the  world  where  a  man  may  get  more 
easily  in  debt  than  in  Scotland.     We  go 
for  a  decent,    composed,    shrewd,    honest 
people  ;  and,  though  we  are  very  adequate- 
ly and  sufficiently  hated  by  the   volatile 
English,  whom  we  so  often  beat  on  their 
own  ground,  and  at  their  own  weapons, 
we  enjoy  a  greater  share  of  their  confidence 
in  mercantile  matters  than  their  own  coun- 
trymen.    Vouchsafe  to  John  the  privilege 
of  abusing    Sawney,  and    calling   him  all 
manner  of  hard  names,  and  he  will  allow 
his    English   neck   to   be    placed   in  the 
Scotch  noose,  with  a  civility  and  decorum 
that  is  just  as  commendable  as  his  abuse 
of  our  countryman  is  ungenerous  and  un- 
manly.    Mr.  Thriven's  warehouses  were, 
accordingly,  soon  filled  with  goods  from 
both  England  and  Scotland  ;  and  it  is  no 
inconsiderable   indication  of  a  man's  re- 
spectability that  he  is  able  to  get    pretty 
largely  in  debt.     When  a  man  is  to  enter 
upon  the  speculations  of  failing,  the  step 
we  have   now  mentioned   is  the  first  and 
most  important  preliminary.     Debt  is  the 
Ossa  which  from  the  successful  speculator 
rolls  into  the  rich  vale  of  Tempe.     There 
are  some  rugged  rocks  in  the  side  of  his 
descent  to  independence— such  as  the  ex- 
aminations under  the    statutes — that  are 
next  to  be  guarded  against,  and  the  get- 
ting over  these  is  a  more  difficult  achieve- 
ment than   the   getting  himself  regularly 
constituted  a  debtor.     The  running  away 
of  a  trusty  servant  with  a  hundred  pounds, 
especially  if  he  has  forged   the    cheque, 
may  be  the  making  of  a  good  speculator 
in  bankruptcy,  because  the  loss  of  a  thou- 
sand or  two   may  be   safely  laid  to  the 
charge  of  one  who  dare  not  appear  to  de- 
fend himself.     The  failure  and  flight  of  a 
relation,  to  whom    one   gives   a   hundred 


pounds  to  leave  him  in  his  books  a  credi- 
tor in  a  thousand,  is  also  a  very  good 
mode  of  overcoming  some  of  the  difficul- 
ties of  failing ;  and  a  clever  man,  with  a 
sharp  foresight,  ought  to  be  working  as- 
siduously for  a  length  of  time  in  collecting 
the  names  of  removing  families,  every  one 
of  whom  will  make  a  good  "  bad  debtor." 
These  things  were  not  unknown  to  Mr. 
Thriven ;  but  accident  did  what  the  devil 
was  essaying  to  do  for  him,  or  rather, 
speaking  in  a  more  orthodox  manner,  the 
great  enemy,  taking  the  form  of  the  mighty 
power,  yclept  Chance,  set  the  neighbor- 
ing uninsured  premises,  belonging  to  Miss 
Fortune,  the  milliner,  in  a  blaze ;  and  a 
large  back  warehouse,  in  which  there  was 
scarcely  anything  save  Mr.  Thriven's  led- 
gers, was  burnt  so  efi"ectually,  that  no  per- 
son could  have  told  whether  they  were  full 
of  Manchester  goods,  or  merely  atmo- 
spheric air  of  the  ordinary  weight — that  is, 
thirty-one  grains  to  a  hundred  cubic 
inches. 

When  a  respectable  man  wishes  ardently 
for  a  calamity,  he  arrays  his  face  in  comely 
melancholy,  because  he  has  too  much  re- 
spect for  public  decorum  to  outrage  the 
decencies  of  life.  Mr.  Samuel  Ramsay 
Thriven  accordingly  looked  the  loss  he 
had  sustained  with  a  propriety  that  might 
have  done  honor  to  a  widower  between 
whom  and  a  bad  wife  the  cold  grave  has 
been  shut  for  the  space  of  a  day,  and  then 
set  about  writing  circulars  to  his  creditors, 
stating  that,  owing  to  his  having  sustained 
a  loss  through  the  burning  of  a  warehouse 
where  he  had  deposited  three  thousand 
pounds  worth  of  goods,  he  was  under  the 
necessity  of  stopping  payment.  No  at- 
torney ever  made  more  of  letter-writing 
than  Mr.  Samuel  did  on  that  day :  in 
place  of  three  shillings  and  fourpence  for 
two  pages,  every  word  he  penned  was 
equal  to  a  pound. 


CHAP.   II. THE  INSCRIPTION. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Samuel  Thriven,  after 
he  had  retired  to  his  house,  "  this  has  been 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


65 


hard  and  hot  work  ;  but,  a  man  has  a  sa- 
tisfaction in  doing  his  duty,  and  that  satis- 
faction may  not  be  diminished  by  a  bottle 
of  port." 

Now  the  port  was  as  good  as  Ofiey's  ; 
and  Mr.  Thriven's  thirst  was  nothing  the 
less  for  the  fire  of  the  previous  night, 
which  he  had  done  his  utmost  not  to  ex- 
tinguish, and  as  he  was  in  good  spirits,  he, 
like  those  people  in  good  health,  who,  to 
make  themselves  better,  begin  to  take  in'  a 
load  of  Morrison's  pills,  drew  another 
cork,  with  that  increased  sound  which  be- 
longs peculiarly  to  second  bottles,  and,  in 
a  short  time,  was  well  through  with  his 
potation.  "  How  much,  now,"  said  he, 
as  he  pretended,  in  a  knowing  way,  to  look 
for  a  dead  fly  in  the  glass,  which  he  held 
up  between  him  and  the  candle,  shutting, 
in  the  operation,  the  left  eye,  according  to 
the  practice  of  connoisseurs — "  How  much 
may  I  make  of  this  transaction  in  the  way 
of  business  ?     Let  me  see — let  me  see." 

And,  as  he  accordingly  tried  to  see,  he 
took  down  from  the  mantelpiece  an  ink- 
bottle  and  a  pen,  and,  having  no  paper 
within  reach,  he  laid  hold  of  a  small  book, 
well-known  to  serious-minded  people,  and 
which  was  no  other,  in  fact,  than  "  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress,"  But  it  was  all  one 
to  Mr.  Samuel  Ramsay  Thriven,  in  the 
middle  of  his  second  bottle,  what  the  book 
was,  provided  it  had  a  blank  leaf  at  the 
beginning  or  end  thereof.  It  might,  in- 
deed, have  been  the  "  Louping-on-Stone 
for  Heavy-Bottomed  Believers,"  or  the 
'^  Economy  of  Human  Life,"  or  the 
^'  Young  Man's  Best  Companion,"  or  "  A 
New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts ;"  or  any 
other  book  or  brochure  in  the  wide  repub- 
lic of  letters  which  the  wisdom  or  wit  of 
man  has  ever  produced.  It  may  verily  be 
much  doubted  if  he  knew  himself  what 
book  it  was. 

''  Well,  let  me  see,"  he  said  again,  as 
he  seized  the  pen,  and  held  the  blank  leaf 
open  before  him.  "  The  three  thousand 
pounds  lost  by  the  fire  is  a  very  good  item  ; 
I  can  easily  make  a  very  good  list  of  very 

VOL.    II.  5 


bad  debts  to  the  extent  of  five  hundred 
pounds  ;  I  have  three  thousand  of  good 
bank-notes  in  the  house  ;  and  if  I  get  off 
with  a  dividend  of  five  shillings  in  the 
pound,  which  I  can  pay  out  of  my  stock, 
I  may  clear  by  this  single  transaction,  in 
the  way  of  business,  as  much  as  may  make 
me  comfortable  for  the  whole  period  of  my 
natural  life." 

And  havino;  made  some  monoloo;ue  of 
this  kind,  he  began  to  jot  down  particu- 
lars ;  laying  on  the  table  his  pen,  occa- 
sionally, to  take  another  glass  of  the  port 
wine,  and  resuming  his  operation  again, 
with  that  peculiar  zest  which  accompanies 
a  playfulness  of  the  fancy  on  a  subject  of 
darling  interest.  So  he  finished  his  arith- 
metical operation  and  dream,  just  about 
the  time  when  the  wine  finished  him  ;  fell 
sound  asleep  ;  and  awoke  about  two  in  the 
morning,  with  a  headache,  and  no  more 
recollection  of  having  committed  his  se- 
cret to  the  blank  leaf  of  "  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  than  if  he  had  never  written  a 
word  thereon  at  all. 


CHAP.   III. THE  FACING  OF  CREDITORS. 

Of  all  men  in  the  world,  a  bankrupt  re- 
quires to  wear  a  lugubrious  look.  It  is 
proper,  too,  that  he  should  keep  the  house, 
hold  out  the  flag  of  distress,  and  pretend 
that  he  is  an  unfortunate  mortal,  who  has 
been  the  prey  either  of  adverse  fate  or  de- 
signing rogues.  Of  all  this  Mr.  Thriven 
was  well  aware  as  ever  man  could  be  ;  no 
man  could  have  acted  the  dyvour  better 
than  he,  even  though  he  had  been  upon 
the  pillory,  with  the  bankrupt's  yellow  cap 
on  his  head.  Creditors  kept  calling  upon 
him — some  threatening  imprisonment,  and 
some  trying  to  cajole  him  out  of  a  prefer- 
ence ;  but  Mr.  Samuel  was  a  match  for 
them  all. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  look  thus  con- 
cernedly," said  Mr.  Horner,  a  large  cre- 
ditor ;  "  but  will  this  pay  the  two  hundred 
pounds  you  owe  me  .?" 

"  Would  to  heaven  that  it  miorht !"  re- 
plied  Mr.  Thriven,  drawing  his  hand  over 


66 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


his  eyes ;  "  but,  alas !  it  is  tlie  peculiar 
feature  of  tlie  misfortune  of  bankruptcy, 
that  a  man  who  has  been  himself  ruined 
ay,  burnt  out  of  his  stock  by  a  fire  that 
he  had  no  hand  in  raising,  and  thus  made 
a  beggar  of,  probably  for  ever — receives 
not  a  single  drop  of  sympathy  in  return 
for  all  the  tears  he  sheds  for  his  unfortu- 
nate creditors.  Your  case  concerns,  me, 
sir,  most  of  all ;  and,  were  it  for  nothing  in 
the  wide  world  but  to  make  up  your  loss, 
I  will  strive  with  all  my  energies,  even  to 
the  urging  of  the  blood  from  the  ends  of 
my  laborious  fingers,  and  to  the  latest  pe- 
riod of  a  wretched  existence." 

And  Mr.  Horner  being  mollified,  he  was 
next  attacked  by  Mr.  Wrench. 

"  It  is  but  fair  to  inform  you,  sir,"  said 
the  vulture-faced  dealer  in  ginghams, 
"  that  I  intend  to  try  the  effect  of  the 
prison  upon  you." 

"  That  is  because  the  most  wicked  of 
nature's  elements — fire — has  rendered  me 
a  beggar,"  replied  Mr.  Samuel,  rubbing 
again  his  eyes.  "  It  is  just  the  way  of  this 
world  :  when  fate  has  rendered  a  man  un- 
fortunate, his  fellow  creature,  man,  falls 
upon  him  to  complete  his  wretchedness  ; 
even  like  the  creatures  of  the  forest,  who 
fall   upon   the   poor    stag   that  has  been 
wounded  by  the  fall  from  the  crags,  man 
is   ever  cruelest  to  him  who  is  already 
down.     Yet  you,  who  threaten  to  put  me 
in  jail,  are  the  creditor  of  all  others  whose 
case  concerns  me  most.     The  feeling  for 
my  own  loss  is  nothing  to  what  I  suffer  for 
yours  ;  and,   I  will  never  be  satisfied  till, 
by  hard  labor,  I  make  up  to  you  what  I 
have  been  the  unwilling  and  unconscious 
instrument  of  depriving  you  of." 

And  having  got  quit  of  Wrench,  who 
declared  himself  not  satisfied,  though  his 
threat,  as  he  departed,  was  more  feebly 
expressed,  he  was  accosted  by  Mr.  Bairns- 
father. 

"  Your  face,  sir,    tortures   me,"    said 


Mr.  Samuel,  turning  away  his  head,  "  even 
as  one  is  tortured  by  the  ghost  of  the 
friend  he  has  murdered  with  a  bloody  and 


relentless  hand.  All  my  creditors  put  to- 
gether do  not  furnish  me  matter  of  grief 
equal  to  your  individual  case.  Do  not  I 
know  that  you  are  the  father  of  ten  chil- 
dren, whom  probably  I  have  ruined.  Yet 
am  I  not  also  ruined,  and  all  by  a  misfor- 
tune whose  origin  is  beyond  the  ken  of 
mortals." 

"  You  have  spoken  a  melancholy  truth, 
Mr.  Thriven,"  replied  the  father;  "but 
will  that  truth  feed  my  children." 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  I  will  feed  them,  when 
once  discharged  under  a  sequestration," 
rejoined  Mr.  Thriven.  ''  Your  case, 
above  all  the  others,  it  shall  be  my  care  to 
assuage.  Nor  night  nor  day  shall  see  my 
energies  relaxed,  till  this  wrong  shall  be 
made  right." 

"  Our  present  necessities  must  be  re- 
lieved," rejoined  "  the  parent."  "  Could 
you  not  give  us  a  part  of  our  debt,  in  the 
meantime." 

"  And  be  dishonest  in  addition  to  being 
unfortunate  !"  ejaculated  IMr.  Samuel. 
"  That,  sir,  is  the  worst  cut  of  all.  No, 
no.  I  may  be  imprisoned,  I  may  be  fed 
on  bread  and  water,  I  may  be  denied  the 
benefit  of  the  act  of  grace,  but  I  shall  never 
be  forced  to  give  an  undue  preference  to 
one  creditor  over  another.  You  forget, 
Mr.  Baii-nsfather,  that  a  bankrupt  may 
have  a  conscience." 

After  much  more  of  such  converse,  IMr. 
Bairnsfather  retired.  And  the  next  who 
came  for  the  relief  which  she  was  not  des- 
tined to  receive,  was  Widow  Mercer. 

"  This  is  a  dreadful  business,  Mr. 
Thriven,"  said  she,  as  she  ran  forwards 
in  the  confusion  of  unfeigned  anguish. 

"  Dreadful,  indeed,  my  good  lady," 
answered  he  ;  "  and  who  can  feel  it  more 
than  myself — that  is,  after  you." 

"  You  are  a  man,  and  I  am  a  woman," 
rejoined  the  disconsolate  creditor  ;  "  a 
woman  who  has  struggled  since  the  death 
of  her  good  husband,  to  support  herself 
and  a  headless  family,  who,  but  for  their 
mother's  industry,  might  have,  ere  now, 
been  reduced  to   seek  their  bread  as  the 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


boon  of  pity.  But,  all  sir,  it  cannot  be,  that 
you  are  to  class  me  with  the  rest  of  your 
creditors.  They  are  men,  and  may  make 
up  their  losses  in  some  other  way.  To 
me  the  loss  of  fifty  pounds  would  be  total 
ruin.  Oh  sir,  you  will  ! — I  know  by  that 
face  of  sympathy,  you  will  make  me  an 
exception.  Heaven  will  bless  you  for  it ; 
and  my  children  will  pray  for  you  to  the 
end  of  our  lives." 

"  All  this  just  adds  to  my  misery,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Samuel,  "  and  that  misery, 
heaven  knows,  is  great,  enough  alread3^ 
Your  case  is  that  of  the  mother  and  the 
widow ;  and  what  need  is  there  for  a  sin- 
gle word,  to  tell  me  that  it  stands  apart 
from  all  the  others.  But,  madam,  were  I  to 
pay  your  debt,  do  not  you  see  that  both 
you  and  I  would  be  acting  against  the 
laws  of  our  country.  What  supports 
me,  think  ye,  under  my  misfortune,  but 
the  consciousness  of  innocence.  Now, 
you  would  cruelly  take  away  from  me  that 
consciousness,  whereby,  for  the  sake  of  a 
fifty  pound  note,  you  would  render  me 
miserable  here,  and  a  condemned  man 
hereafter.  A  hotter  fire,  of  a  verity,  there 
is,  than  that  which  burnt  up  my  stock. 
But  I  am  bound  to  make  amends  for  the 
loss  I  have  brought  upon  you ;  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that,  as  soon  as  I  am 
discharged,  I  will  do  my  best  for  you  and 
your  poor  bereaved  sons  and  daughters." 

And  thus  Mr.  Thriven  manao;ed  these 
importunate  beings,  termed  creditors,  in 
a  manner  that  he,  doubtless,  considered 
highly  creditable  to  himself,  in  so  far  as 
he  thereby  spread  more  widely  the  fact 
that  he  had  been  ruined  by  no  fault  of  his 
own,  at  the  same  time  that  he  proved  him- 
self to  be  a  man  of  feeling,  justice,  and 
sentiment.  Meanwhile,  his  agent,  Mr. 
Sharp,  was  as  busy  as  ever  an  attorney 
could  be,  in  getting  out  a  sequestration, 
with  the  indispensable  adjunct  of  a  per- 
sonal protection,  which  the  Lords  very 
willingly  granted  upon  the  lugubrious  ap- 
peal, set  forth  in  the  petition,  that  JMr. 
Thriven's  misfortunes  were  attributable  to 


the  element  of  fire.  A  fifty  pound  note 
too,  sent  his  shopman,  Mr.  Joseph  Closs- 
muns,  over  the  Atlantic  ;  and,  the  coast 
being  clear,  Mr.  Thriven  went  through 
hivS  examinations  with  considerable  eclat. 


CHAP.    IV. 


-THE    WINDFALL. 


"  These  men,"  said  Mr.  Thriven,  after 
he  got  home  to  dinner,  ^'  have  worried 
me  so  by  their  questions,  that  they  have 
imposed  upon  me  the  necessity  of  taking 
some  cooling  liquor  to  allay  the  fervor  of 
my  blood.  I  must  drink  to  them  besides, 
for  they  were,  upon  the  whole,  less  severe 
than  they  might  have  been  ;  and  a  bottle 
of  cool  claret  will  answer  both  ends.  And 
now,"  he  continued,  after  he  drank  ofi"  a 
bumper  to  the  long  lives  of  his  creditors 
— "  the  greatest  part  of  my  danger  being 
over,  I  can  see  no  great  risk  of  my  failing 
in  getting  them  to  accept  a  composition 
of  five  shillings  in  the  pound.  But  what 
then  ?  I  have  no  great  fancy  to  the 
counter.  After  all,  a  haberdasher  is  at 
best  but  a  species  of  man  milliner  ;  and  I 
do  not  see  why  I  should  not,  when  I  get 
my  discharge  in  my  pocket,  act  the  gen- 
tleman as  well  as  the  best  of  them.  All 
that  is  necessary  is  to  get  the  devout  Miss 
Angelina  M'Falzen,  who  regenerates  the 
species  by  distributing  good  books,  to  con- 
sent to  be  my  wife.  She  has  a  spare 
figure,  a  sharp  face,  and  a  round  thousand. 
Her  fortune  will  be  a  cover  to  my  idleness ; 
and  then  I  can  draw  upon  the  sum  I  have 
made  by  my  failure,  just  as  occasion  re- 
quires." 

At  the  end  of  this  monologue,  a  sharp 
broken  voice  was  heard  in  the  passage ; 
and  Mr.  Samuel  Thriven's  bottle  of  claret 
was,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  replaced 
by  a  jug  of  cool  spring  water. 

"  Ah,  how  do  you  do,  my  dear  Miss 
M'Falzen.?"  cried  Mr.  Samuel,  as  he  rose 
to  meet  his  devout  sweetheart. 

"  Sir,"  responded  the  devout  distribu- 
ter of  tracts,  stiffly  and  coldly,  *'  you  are 
in  far  better  spirits  than  becomes  one  who 
is  the  means  of  bringing  ruin  on  so  many 


Gd 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


families.  I  expected  to  have  found  yon 
contrite  of  heart,  and  of  a  comely  sadness 
of  spirits  and  seriousness  of  look." 

"  And  yet  I  am  only  feasting  on  cold 
water,"  replied  Samuel,  letting  the  mus- 
cles of  his  face  fall,  as  he  looked  at  the 
jug.  "  But  you  know.  Miss  Angelina, 
that  I  am  innocent  of  the  consequences  of 
the  fire,  and,  when  one  has  a  clear  con- 
science, he  may  be  as  happy  in  adversity 
over  a  cup  of  water,  as  he  may  be  in  pros- 
perity over  a  bottle  of  claret." 

"  A  pretty  sentiment,  Mr.  Thriven — 
la !  a  beautiful  sentiment,"  replied  Miss 
Angelina  ;  "  and,  satisfied  as  I  am  of  your 
purity,  let  me  tell  you  that  our  intercourse 
shall  not,  with  my  will,  be  interrupted  by 
your  misfortune.  I  would  rather,  indeed, 
feel  a  delight  in  soothing  you  under  your 
affliction,  and  administering  the  balm  of 
friendship  to  the  heart  that  is  contrite, 
under  the  stroke  which  cannot  be  avert- 
ed." 

"  And  does  my  Angelina,"  cried  Samu- 
el, "  regard  me  with  the  same  kindness  and 
tenderness  in  my  present  reduced  circum- 
stances, as  when  I  was  engaged  in  a  flourish- 
ing trade,  which  might  have  emboldened 
me  to  hope  for  a  still  more  intimate,  ay, 
and  sacred  connexion .''" 

"Mr.  Thriven,"  replied  the  other, 
gravely,  '^  I  have  called  in  behalf  of  Mrs. 
Mercer." 

Samuel's  face  underwent  some  consider- 
able change. 

"  I  have  called  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  Mer- 
cer, who  has  reported  to  me  some  senti- 
ments stated  by  you  to  her,  of  so  beautiful 
and  amiable  a  character,  and  so  becoming 
a  Christian,  that  I  admire  you  for  them. 
You  promised  to  do  your  utmost,  after 
you  are  discharged  to  make  amends  to 
her  and  her  poor  family  for  the  loss  she 
will  sustain  by  your  bankruptcy.  Ah, 
sir,  that  alone  proves  to  me  that  you  are 
an  honest,  innocent,  and  merely  unfortu- 
nate insolvent ;  and  to  show  you  that  I  am 
not  behind  you  in  magnanimity,  I  have  paid 
her  the  fifty  pounds  wherein  you  were  in- 


debted to  her,  and  got  an  assignation  to 
her  debt.  You  may  pay  me  when  you 
please  ;  and,  meanwhile,  I  will  accept  of 
the  composition  you  intend  to  ofier  to  your 
creditors." 

"  Fifty  pound  ofi'her  tocher,"  mutter- 
ed Samuel  between  his  teeth,  and  then 
took  a  drink  of  the  cold  water,  in  the  full 
memory  of  the  claret. 

'^  It  scarcely  beseems  a  man,"  said  he. 
"to  be  aught  but  a  silent  listener  when 
his  pra,ise  is  spoken  by  one  he  loves  and 
respects.  But,  it  is  possible.  Miss  M'Fal- 
zen,  that  my  misfortune  has  not  changed 
those  feelings — those — excuse  me.  Miss 
Angelina — those  intentions  with  which  I 
had  reason  to  believe,  you  regarded  me." 

And,  with  great  gallantr}^,  he  seized 
the  fair  spinster  round  the  waist,  as  he 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  doino-  before  he 

O 

was  a  bankrupt,  to  show,  at  least,  that  he 
was  now  no  bankrupt  in  affection. 

"  To  be  plain  with  you,  sir,"  replied 
she,  wriggling  herself  out  of  his  hands, 
"  my  intention  once  was  to  wait  until  I 
saw  whether  you  would  come  unscatched 
and  pure  out  of  the  fiery  ordeal ;  but,  on 
second  thoughts,  I  conceived  that  this 
would  be  unfair  to  one  whom  I  had  always 
looked  upon  as  an  honest  man,  though, 
probably,  not  so  seriously  minded  a  Chris- 
tian as  I  could  have  wished  ;  therefore," 
she  added,  smiling — yet  no  smiling  matter 
to  Samuel — "  I  have,  you  see,  trusted  you 
fifty  pounds — a  pretty  good  earnest — he  ! 
he  ! — that  my  heart  is  just  where  it  was." 

Mr.  Samuel  Ramsay  Thriven  kissed 
Miss  Angelina  M'Falzen. 

"  But  oh,  sir,"  she  added,  by  way  of 
protest,  "  I  hope  and  trust  that  not  one 
single  spot  shall  be  detected  in  your  fair 
fame  and  reputation,  and  that  you  will 
come  forth  out  of  trial  as  unsullied  in  the 
eyes  of  good  men,  as  you  were  pure  in 
the  estimation  of  one  who  thus  proves  for 
you  her  attachment." 

"  Never  doubt  it,"  replied  Mr.  Samuel. 
"  Innocence  gives  me  courage  and  confi- 
dence." 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY   THRIVEN. 


69 


He  placed,  theatrically,  his  hand  on  his 
heart. 

"  And  what  think  you,"  added  Miss 
Angelina,  "  of  John  Bunyan'sbook,  which 
I  lent  you,  and  which  I  now  see  lying 
here  ?  Is  it  not  a  devout  performance — 
an  extraordinary  allegory  ?  How  much 
good  I  do  by  these  kind  of  books  !  Ha  ! 
by  the  by,  Mrs.  Bairnsfather,  good  crea- 
ture, wishes  to  read  it.  So  I  shall  just 
put  it  in  my  pocket.  To  be  plain  with 
you,  she  is  much  cast  down,  poor  creature, 
by  the  loss  ,her  husband  has  sustained 
through  your  involuntary  failure ;  and  I 
have  said  that  she  will  find  much  comfort 
in  the  '  Pilgrim's  Progress.'  '' 

"  A  stanch  book,  madam,"  replied 
Samuel,  seriously — "  an  extraordinary  al- 
legory, worth  a  piece  of  the  vellum  of  the 
old  covenant.  I  have  derived  great  satis- 
faction and  much  good  from  it.  I  have 
no  doubt  it  will  support  her,  as  it  has 
done  me,  under  our  mutual  affliction. 

"Oh,  how  I  do  love  to  hear  you  talk 
that  way,"  replied  Miss  Angelina.  "  It 
is  so  becoming  your  situation.  When  do 
you  think  you  will  get  a  discharge  ?  I 
will  answer  for  Mr.  Bairnsfather  agreeing 
to  the  composition  ;  and  you  know  I  am 
now  a  creditor  myself  in  fifty  pounds.  Of 
course  you  have  my  vote  ;  but  you  will 
tell  me  all  about  it  afterwards.  Good 
day,  Mr.  Thriven." 

"  Good  day,  Miss  M'Falzen." 

The  w^hich  lady  was  no  sooner  out  than 
was  the  bottle  of  claret.  In  a  few  minutes 
more  Mr.  Thriven  was  lauo-hino:  over  his 
replenished  glass,  as  totally  oblivious  of 
the  secret  carried  away  by  his  lover,  on 
the  blank  leaf  of  the  good  old  tinker's 
book,  as  he  was  on  that  night  when  he 
made  free  with  the  two  bottles  of  port  as 
good  as  Ofiey's. 

"  The  matter  looks  well  enough,"  said 
he.  "  I  can  make  no  manner  of  doubt 
that  my  composition  will  be  accepted  ; 
and  then,  with  the  two  thousand  five  hun- 
dred, at  least,  that  I  will  make  of  my 
bankruptcy,  and  the  round  thousand  pos- 


sessed by  Miss  Angelina  M'Falzen,  I  can 
perform  the  part  of  a  walking  gentleman 
on  the  great  stage  of  the  world." 

"  Is  Mr.  Thriven  within  .^"  he  now 
heard  asked  at  the  door. 

"  Ho,  it  is  Sharp  !"  muttered  he,  as  he 
shoved  the  bottle  and  the  glass  into  a  re- 
cess, and  laid  again  hold  of   the  water 

jug. 

"  Water,  Thriven !''  cried  the  attorney, 

as  he  bounded  forward  and  seized  the 
bankrupt  by  the  hand.  "  Water ;  and 
Miss  Grizel  M'Whirter  of  Cockenzie  dead, 
of  a  dead  certainty,  this  forenoon  ;  and 
you  her  nephew,  and  a  will  in  her  draw- 
ers, written  by  Jem  Birtwhistle,  in  your 
favor,  and  her  fortune  ten  thousand  ;  and 
the  never  a  mortal  thought  the  old  harri- 
dan had  more  than  a  five  hundred." 

"  The  devil  a  drop  !"  cried  Mr.  Samu- 
el Thriven.  ^'  The  devil  a  drop  of  water  ; 
for,  have  I  not  in  this  press  a  half  bottle 
of  claret,  which  I  laid  past  there  that  day 
of  the  fire,  and  never  had  the  courage  to 
touch  it  since.  But  ine  her  heir  !  Ho,  Mr. 
Joseph  Sharp,  you  are,  of  a  verity,  fool- 
ing a  poor  bankrupt,  who  has  not  a  penny 
in  the  world  after  setting  aside  his  compo- 
sition of  five  shillings  in  the  pound.  Me 
her  heir !  Why  I  was  told  by  herself  that 
I  was  cut  off  with  a  shilling  ;  and  yon 
must  say  it  seriously  ere  I  believe  a  word 
on't." 

"  I  say  it  as  seriously,"  replied  the 
writer,  "  as  ever  you  answered  a  home- 
thrust  to-day  in  the  sheriff's  office,  as  to 
the  amount  of  stock  you  lost  by  the  burn- 
ing of  your  premises — as  sure  as  a  decree 
of  the  fifteen.  I  say  your  loss  had  made 
her  repent ;  so  come  away  with  the 
claret.'-' 

Mr.  Thriven  emptied  the  whole  of  the 
half  bottle,  at  one  throw,  into  a  tumbler. 

"  Drink,  thou  pink  of  an  attorney  !" 
said  he,  and  then  fell  back  into  his  chair, 
his  mouth  wide  open,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
roof,  and  his  two  hands  closed  in  each 
other,  as  if  each  had  been  two  notes  for 
five  thousand  each. 


70 


TALES  OP  THE   BORDERS. 


"  Are  you  mad,  Mr.  Thriven  ?"  cried 
Sharp,  after  he  had  bolted  the  whole  tum- 
bler of  claret. 

"  Yes  !"  answered  Mr.  Samuel  Ram- 
gay  Thriven. 

''  Have  you  any  more  of  this  Bonr- 
deaux  water  in  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes !"  answered  Mr.  Thriven.  "  Open 
that  lockfast"  (pointing  to  a  press),  ^'  and 
drink  till  you  are  only  able  to  shout 
'  M'Whirter'— *  Cockenzie'— '  Thriven'— 
'  ten  thousand' — '  hurra  !' — and  let  never  a 
word  more  come  out  of  you,  till  you  fall 
dead  drunk  on  the  floor." 

The  first  part  of  the  request,  at  least, 
was  very-quickly  obeyed,  and  two  bottles 
were  placed  on  the  table,  one  of  which 
the  attorney  bored  in  an  instant,  and  had 
a  good  portion  of  it  rebottled  in  his  sto- 
mach by  the  time  that  Mr.  Thriven  got 
his  eyes  taken  off  the  roof  of  the  cham- 
ber. 

"  Hand  me  half  a  tumbler  ?"  cried  he, 
''  that  I  may  gather  my  senses,  and  see 
the  full  extent  of  my  misfortune." 

"  Misfortune  !"  echoed  Sharp. 

"  Ay  f  '  rejoined  Samuel,  as  he  turned 
the  bottom  of  the  tumbler  to  the  roof. 
"  Why  did  Grizel  M'Whirter  die,  sir, 
until  I  got  my  discharge  .'*" 

"  Ah,  sir  !"  replied  Sharp,  on  whom 
the  wine  was  already  beginning  to  operate 
— "  You  have  thus  a  noble  opportunity 
of  being  the  architect  of  a  reputation  that 
might  be  the  envy  of  the  world.  You 
can  now  pay  your  creditors  in  full — 
twenty  shillings  in  the  pound,  and  retain 
five  thousand  to  yourself,  with  the  cha- 
racter of  being  that  noblest  work  of  Na- 
ture— an  honest  man." 

"  When  a  thing  is  utterly  beyond  one's 
reach,"  rejoined  Samuel,  looking,  with  a 
wry  face,  right  into  the  soul  of  the  attor- 
ney, "  how  beautiful  it  appears." 

Sharp  accepted  coolly  the  cut,  because 
he  had  claret  to  heal  it  ;  otherwise  he 
would  have  assuredly  knocked  down  Mr. 
Samuel  Thriven. 

"  I   beg   your   pardon,    Mr.    Sharp  !" 


continued  his  friend ;  "  but  I  felt  a  little 
pained,  sir,  at  the  high  flown  expression 
of  the  great  good  that  awaits  me,  as  if  I 
were  not  already  conscious  of  being,  and 
known  to  be  that  noblest  work  of  Nature. 
The  cut  came  from  you,  Mr.  Sharp,  and 
I  only  returned  it.  All  I  regret,  sir,  is 
that  my  aunt  did  not  live  till  I  got  my 
discharge,  because  then,  not  being  bound 
to  pay  my  creditors  one  farthing,  I  might 
have  paid  them  in  full,  without  obligation 
at  all,  and  thereby  have  proved  myself 
what  I  am — a  generous  man.  No  more 
of  the  claret.  You  must  away  with  me 
to  Cockenzie,  to  see  that  the  repositories 
are  sealed,  and  the  will  safe." 

"  By  my  faith,  I  forgot  that !"  replied 
Sharp ;  "  a  pretty  good  sign  that,  if  you 
are  a  generous  man,  I  am  not  a  selfish 
one.  We  had  better,"  he  added,  "  let 
the  claret  alone  till  we  return  from 
Cockenzie.     What  think  you  .?" 

Now  Samuel  had  already  told  Sharp 
that  he  was  to  have  no  more  of  the  wine  ; 
and  the  question  of  the  attorney,  which 
was  a  clear  forestaller,  would  have  an- 
gered any  man  who  was  not  an  heir  (five 
minutes  old)  of  ten  thousand.  But  Sa- 
muel knew  better  than  to  quarrel  with  the 
attorney  at  that  juncture  ;  so  he  answered 
him  in  the  affirmative ;  and,  in  five  mi- 
nutes afterwards,  the  heir  and  the  lawyer 
were  in  a  coach,  driving  off"  to  Cockenzie, 
The  bankrupt  was^in  a  few  minutes  more, 
in  a  dream — the  principal  vision  of  which 
was  himself  in  the  act  of  paying  his  cre- 
ditors in  full  with  their  own  money,  and 
earning  a  splendid  reputation  for  honosty.. 

The  sooner  he  performed  the  gloriaus 
act,  the  greater  credit  he  would  secui*e  by 
it ;  his  name  would  be  in  the  Courant 
and  the  Mercury,  headed  by  the  large 
letters — "  Praiseworthy  instance  of  hon- 
esty, coming  out,  in  full  strength,  from 
the  ordeal  of  fire.' ^ 

"  What  has  Miss  Angelina  M'Falzen 
been  doino:  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  Bairns- 
father  .^"  cried  Sharp,  as  he  turned  from 
the  window  of  the  carriage    (now  in   the 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


71 


Canongate)  to  the  face  of  Samuel,  whose 
eyes  were  fixed  by  the  charm  of  his  glo- 
rious hallucination. 

"  Lending  her  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  !" 
answered  Samuel,  as  he  started  from  his 
dream. 

Now  Sharp  could  not  for  the  life  of 
him  understand,  this  ready  answer  of  his 
friend,  for  he  had  put  the  query  to  awaken 
him  from  his  dream,  and  without  the 
slightest  hope  of  receiving  a  reply  to  a 
question,  which  savoured  so  much  of  the 
character  of  questions  in  general ;  so  he 
left  him  to  his  dream,  and  in  a  short  time 
they  were  at  Cockenzie. 


CHAP. 


-THE    TEA     PARTY. 


'''  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Bairns- 
father  to  his  wife,  when  he  came  home  to 
tea  on  that  same  afternoon  of  which  we 
hate  now  been  narrating  the  incidents, 
"  I  hope  you  are  getting  over  our  losses  ; 
yet  T  have  no  very  good  news  for  you  to- 
day, for  all  that  Thriven  intends  to  offer 
of  dividend  is  five  shillings  in  the  pound." 

"  It  is  but  a  weary  world  this  we  live 
in  !"  said  the  disconsolate  wife.  "We 
are  all  pilgrims  ;  and  there  is  for  each  of 
us  some  slough  of  despond,  through  which 
we  must  struggle  to  the  happy  valley." 

"  What,  ho  !"  rejoined  the  husband, 
"  I  have  come  home  to  tea,  and  you  are 
giving  me  a  piece  of  Bunyan.  Come,  lay 
down  your  book,  for  Mr.  Wrench  and 
Mr.  Horner  are  to  be  here  to  get  some  of 
your  souchong." 

"  And  I,"  replied  the  goodwife,  "  asked 
Miss  Angelina  M'Falzen  to  come  back 
and  get  a  cup  with  us.  I  could  not  do 
less  to  the  devout  creature,  for  she  took 
the  trouble  of  going  to  Mr.  Thriven's  to- 
day, and  getting  from  him  '  The  Pilgrim's 
Progress,'  that  she  might  bring  it  to  me 
to  reconcile  me  to  the  evils  of  life,  and, 
among  the  rest,  the  loss  which  we  have 
sustained  by  her  friend^s  failure." 

"  Poh  !  I  hate  all  Pilgrim's-Progress- 
rcading  insolvents  !"  rejoined  the  husband. 


I  taking  the  book  out  of  his  wife's  hands. 
I "  Go,  love,  and  get  ready  the  tea,  while 
I  sojourn  with  the  Elstow  tinker,  in  the 
valley  of  humiliation,  out  of  which  a  cup 
of  China  brown  stout  and  some  converse  will 
transport  me  to  the  '  house  beautiful.'  " 

And  Mr.  Bairnsfather,  while  his  wife 
went  to  prepare  tea,  and  his  many  chil- 
dren were  dispersed  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  got  very  rapidly  into  "  Va- 
nity Fair,"  of  the  which  being  somewhat 
aweary  as  he  said,  with  a  yawn,  he  turned 
the  leaves  over  and  over,  and  at  last  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  leaf  that  had  once  been, 
thou2;h  it  was  now  no  lonsjer,  blank.  The 
awl  of  the  Elstow  tinker  himself  never 
could  have  gone  with  greater  determina- 
tion through  the  leather  of  a  pair  of  bel- 
lows, than  did  Mr.  Bairnsfather 's  eye 
seem  to  penetrate  that  written  page. 
Like  the  seer  of  the  vision  of  a  ghost  in 
the  night,  he  drew  his  head  back,  and  he 
removed  it  forwards,  and  he  shut  his  eyes, 
and  opened  his  eyes,  and  rubbed  his  eyes, 
and  the  more  he  did  all  this,  the  more  he 
was*  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  what  the 
writing  on  the  said  blank  leaf  was  intended 
to  carry  to  the  eyes  of  mortals.  It  was  of 
the  hand-writing  of  Mr.  Samuel  Ramsay 
Thriven,  for  a  certainty — he  could  swear 
to  it ;  for  the  bill  he  had  in  his  possession 
— and  whereby  he  would  lose  three  fourth 
parts  of  two  hundred  pounds — was  written 
in  the  same  character.  What  could  it 
mean  } 

"  What  can  it  mean  .'"'  he  said,  again 
and  again. 

"  How  should  I,  if  you,  who  are  a  cle- 
verer man,  do  not  know,  Mr.  Bairnsfa- 
ther," said  Mr.  Wrench,  who  was  stand- 
ing at  his  back,  having  entered  in  the 
meantime.  "  I  have  read  the  '  Pilgrim's 
Progress,'  which  Mrs.  B.  says  you  are 
reading,  more  than  once,  and  fairly  admit 
that  there  are  obscure  passages  in  it.  But 
here  comes  IMr.  Horner,  who  can  perhaps 
unravel  the  mystery,  if  you  can  point  out 
what  limb  of  the  centipede  allegory  it  is 
which  appears  to  you  to  have  a  limp." 


72 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


"  By  my  faith  it  is  in  the  tail,"  said 
Mr.  Bairnsfather,  as  he  still  bored  his  eyes 
into  the  end  of  the  book. 

"  Let  me  see  the  passage,"  said  Mr. 
Horner. 

And  all  the  three  began  to  look  at  the 
writing,  which  set  forth  the  heads  and 
particulars  of  Mr.  Samuel  Thriven's  gain 
by  his  bankruptcy. 

"  A  very  good  progress  for  a  pilgrim," 
said  Mr.  Horner  ;  and  they  looked  at 
each  other  knowingly,  and  winked  their 
six  eyes,  and  nodded  their  three  heads. 

Miss  M'Falzen  and  the  tea  came  in  at 
this  moment.  The  three  creditors  were 
mute,  and  the  devout  spinster  was  talk- 
ative. Mrs.  Bairnsfather  then  filled  up 
and  handed  round  the  tea-cups  (they  sat 
all  close  to  the  table),  and  her  husband 
handed  round  to  his  two  friends  the  book. 

"  What  an  interest  that  book  does 
produce,"  said  Miss  Angelina,  apparently 
piqued  by  the  attention  shown  to  the 
genius  of  the  tinker. 

"  Come,  now.  Miss  Angelina,"  said 
Mrs.  Bairnsfather,  "  confess  that  that 
copy  produces  no  small  interest  in  your- 
self, considering  the  hands  it  was  in  to- 
day." 

"  Fie,  fie  !  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  blush- 
ing spinster.  "  How  could  the  touch  of 
a  man's  fingers  impart  a  charm  to  mere 
paper.  If  Mr.  Thriven  had  appended 
some  pretty  piece  of  devout  or  poetical 
sentiment  to  it,  why,  you  know,  that 
would  have  made  all  the  difference  in  the 
world,  ma'am.  He  is  really  an  excellent 
man,  Mr.  Thriven  ;  though  we  have  all 
suffered  in  consequence  of  his  loss,  yet,  I 
dare  say,  we  all  feel  for  his  unmerited 
misfortune." 

The  three  creditors  were  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  Bunyan  even  to  smile. 

"  When  did  you  lend  this  copy  to  Mr. 
Thriven  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Wrench ;  and 
the  two  others  fixed  their  eyes,  filled  with 
awful  import,  on  the  face  of  the  devout 
spinster. 

"  Just  the  day  before  the  fire  !"  replied 


she;  "and  ah,  sir,  how  delighted  I  am 
that  I  did  it,  for  he  assures  me  that  it  has 
sustained  him  wonderfully  in  his  afflic- 
tion." 

The  three  men  smiled,  rose  simultane- 
ously, and  retired  to  a  parlor,  taking 
Bunyan  with  them.  Their  looks  were 
ominous ;  and  Mrs.  Bairnsfather  could 
not,  for  the  world,  understand  the  mystery. 
After  some  time,  they  returned,  and  look- 
ed more  ominously  than  before. 

"  It  is  worth  three  thousand  pounds,  if 
it  is  worth  a  penny,"  said  Mr.  Horner, 
seriously. 

*' Every  farthing  of  it,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Wrench.  "  The  most  extraordinary  book 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"  An  exposition  miraculous,  through 
the  agency  of  heaven,"  added  Mr.  Bairns- 
father. 

Now  all  this  time  their  tea  was  cooling, 
and  the  hostess  examined  and  searched 
the  eyes  of  her  husband  and  guests. 
Have  they  all  got  inspired  or  mad, 
thought  she ;  but  her  thought  produced 
no  change,  for  the  men  still  looked  and 
whispered,  and  shook  their  heads,  and 
nodded,  and  winked,  and  left  their  tea 
standing,  till  she  began  to  think  of  the 
state  of  the  moon. 

"  How  delighted  I  am,"  ejaculated  Miss 
M'Falzen ;  "  for  I  never  saw  such  an 
effect  produced  by  the  famous  allegory  in 
any  family  into  which  I  ever  introduced 
it.  You  see  the  effect  of  agitation  in 
devout  matters,  Mrs.  Bairnsfather." 

"  You  know  not  half  the  effect  it  has 
produced  on  us,  ma'arq,"  said  Mr.  Hor- 
ner. "  It  has  electrified  us — so  much  so 
indeed,  that  we  cannot  remain  longer  to 
enjoy  your  excellent  society.  You  will, 
therefore,  ladies,  excuse  us  if  we  swallow 
our  tea  cleverly,  and  go  to  promulgate  in 
the  proper  quarters  the  information  af- 
forded us  by  this  wonderful  production." 

"  The  sooner  we  are  away  the  batter," 
added  Mr.  Wrench,  drinking  off  his  cup, 
"  We  must  call  a  private  meeting,  and  lay 
it  secretly  before  them." 


MR.   SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


73 


"  Certainly,"  added  Mr.  Bairnsfather  ; 
"  and  you,  Miss  M'Falzen,  authorize  us 
to  tell  the  peregrinations  of  the  book,  into 
whose  hands  it  has  been,  and  how  it  came 
here." 

"  Bless  you,  sir,"  cried  the  devout 
spinster — while  Mrs.  Bairnsfather  kept 
staring  at  her  husband  and  guests,  unable 
to  solve  the  strange  mystery — ''  You  do 
not  know  a  tithe  of  the  good  that  this  little 
book  has  achieved.  It  has  been  in  half 
the  houses  in  the  Cowgate  and  Canongate. 
It  is  relished  by  the  poor,  and  sought  after 
by  the  rich  ;  it  mends  the  heart,  improves 
the  understanding,  and  binds  up  the 
wounds  of  those  that  are  struck  by  the 
hands  of  the  archers.  Oh  !  I  agitate  in 
the  good  cause  mightily  with  it,  and 
others  of  the  same  class ;  and  may  all 
success  attend  your  eiforts,  also,  in  so 
excellent  a  cause.  Call  meetings  by  all 
means,  read,  expound,  examine,  exhort, 
entreat,  and,  hark  ye,  take  Mr.  Samuel 
Thriven  with  you,  for  his  heart  is  in  the 
cause  of  the  improvement  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  and  he  knows  the  value  of  the 
allegory  of  the  devout  tinker  of  Elstow." 

"  We  cannot  do  without  Mr.  Thriven," 
replied  Mr.  Bairnsfather  with  a  smile  ; 
and  while  Mrs.  Bairnsfather  was  callino; 
out  to  them  to  take  another  cup,  and  ex- 
plain to  her  the  meaning  of  their  conduct, 
the  creditors  rose  altogether,  and,  taking 
their  hats  and  Bunyan,  were  on  the  point 
of  leaving  the  room  in  great  haste  and 
manifest  excitement,  when  the  door  open- 
ed, and  the  soft  voice  of  Widow  Mercer 
saluted  them. 

"  Have  you  heard  ihe  news  .?"  said  she. 

"  Does  it  concern  Mr.  Thriven  ?"  re- 
plied more  than  one. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure  it  does  !"  rejoined  she. 
'•  We  will  all  now  get  full  payment  of  our 
debts  ;  what  think  ye  of  that,  sirs  ?" 

"  Hush,  hush  !"  said  Mr.  Bairnsfather, 
in  the  ear  of  the  widow.  "  Say  nothino" 
of  '  The  Pilgi'im's  Progress.'  You  know 
Miss  M'Falzen  is  a  friend  of  Mr.  Thri- 
ven's." 


"  '  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  !' "  ejaculat- 
ed the  widow. 


re- 


agram 


"  Alas  !  he  is,  of  a  verity,  mad  !* 
joined  Mrs.  Bairnsfather. 

"  '  The    Pilgrim's    Progress,'  " 
cried  Mrs.  Mercer. 

"  Tush,  we  knew  all  about  it!"  whis- 
pered Mr.  Wrench.  "  You  also  have 
seen  the  book." 

''  Yes," replied  the  widow,  ^'  I  have,  as 
who  hasn't.?  but  Lord  bless  me  !" — and 
she  whispered  in  his  ear — ''  what,  in  the 
name  of  wonder,  has  ^  The  PiWim's  Pro- 
gross  got  to  do  with  Mr.  Thriven  having 
got  ten  thousand  pounds  left  him  hj  Mrs. 
Grizel  M'Whirtcr  .?" 

The  whisper  was  communicated  to  the 
two  other  creditors  by  Mr.  Wrench. 
The  three  merchants,  stimulated  at  the 
same  moment  by  the  same  impulse  of  joy, 
laid  hold  of  the  good  widow,  and  whirled 
her  like  a  top  round  the  room,  snappino- 
their  fingers  the"  while,  and  exhibiting 
other  perfectly  innocent  demonstrations 
of  gladness. 

"  The  most  extraordinary  method  of 
proselytizing,"  said  the  spinster,  "  that  I, 
who  have  carried  on  the  trade  of  mending 
the  species  for  many  years,  have  ever  yet 
seen." 

"It is  all  beyond  my  poor  wits  toge- 
ther," added  the  wife. 

And  beyond  her  poor  wits  the  creditors 
allowed  it  to  remain,  for  they  immediately 
went  forth  upon  their  intended  mission. 
In  some  hours  afterwards,  accordingly, 
there  was  a  secret  meeting  in  ''  The  White 
Horse,"  not  less  dangerous  to  Mr.  Sa- 
muel Thriven  than  was  that  held  in  the 
Trojan  one  to  old  Troy. 


CHAP.   VI. THE  PAYMENT. 

Now  all  this  time,  while  Mr.  Thriven 's 
creditors  were  in  "  The  White  Horse," 
he  himself  was  in  heaven  ;  for  Sharp  and 
he  having  found  all  right  at  Cockenzie, 
returned  and  sat  down  to  finish  the  claret 
which   had  been  forestalled  by  the  attor- 


n 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


nej  before  setting  out.  They  resolved 
upon  consigning  Mrs.  Grizel  M'Whirter 
to  the  cold  earth  -a  day  sooner  than  cus- 
tom might  have  warranted ;  and  the  rea- 
son for  this  especial  care  was  simply  that 
Mr.  Samuel  wished,  with  all  the  ardor 
inspired  by  the  Bourdeaux  waters,  to 
make  a  grand  and  glorious  .display  of  his 
honesty,  by  calling  all  his  creditors  toge- 
ther, and  paying  them  principal  and  in- 
terest— twenty  shillings  in  the  pound. 
They  even,  at  this  early  period,  set  about 
making  a  draft  of  the  circular  letter, 
which  was  to  announce  the  thrilling  intel- 
ligence. 

"  Heavens  !  what  a  commotion  this  will 
produce  among  the  trade  !"  said  Samuel, 
as  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
fixed  his  enchanted  eye  on  Sharp's  copy. 
"  It  will  electrify  them ;  and,  sir,  the 
editors  of  the  newspapers  are  bound  as  pa- 
trons of  public  virtue,  to  set  it  forth  as  an 
example  to  others  to  induce  them  to  do 
the  same  in  time  coming.  And  now, 
since  we  have  discussed  so  much  business 
and  claret,  we  will  retire  to  our  beds  ;  I  to 
enjoy  the  satisfaction  of  having  resolved  on 
a  noble  action,  and  you  the  hope  of  mak- 
ing a  few  six-and-eightpences  by  the  death 
of  Grizel  M'Whirter  of  Cockenzie." 

"  A  few .'"  cried  Sharp,  in  an  attor- 
ney's heroics.  "  You  will  see  when  you 
count  them,  I  am  not  less  honest  or  gene- 
rous than  yourself." 

The  friends  thereupon  separated,  to  en- 
joy in  their  beds  the  two  pleasures  inci- 
dent to  their  peculiar  situations. 

At  the  end  of  the  period — less  by  one 
day,  than  the  customary  time  of  corpses 
being  allowed  to  remain  on  the  face  of 
the  earth— Mrs.  Grizel  M'Whirter  was 
buried  ;  and  as  her  will  containeda  spe- 
cific assignation  to  the  greater  part  of 
her  money,  the  same  was,  in  a  day  or 
two  afterwards,  got  hold  of  by  Mr.  Thri- 
ven, and  out  went  the  round  of  circulars 
to  the  creditors,  announcing  that  on  the 
following  Thursday,  Mr.  Thriven  would 
be  seated  in  his  house,  ready  to  pay  all 


his  creditors  their  debts,  and  requesting 
them  to  attend  and  bring  with  them  their 
receipts.  Among  these  circulars  was  one 
to  Miss  Angelina  M'Falzen — the  very 
woman  he  had  promised,  before  he  suc- 
ceeded to  Miss  Grizel  M'Whirter's  for- 
tune, to  make  a  wife  of ;  a  pretty  plain 
proof  that  now,  when  he  had  become  rich, 
he  intended  to  shake  off  the  devout  spin- 
ster who  had  attempted  to  reform  him  by 
lending  him  of  the  allegory  of  Tinker  of 
Elstow.  The  eventful  day  at  length  ar- 
rived, when  Mr.  Thriven  was  to  enjoy  the 
great  triumph  he  had  panted  for — viz.,  to 
pay  his  creditors  in  full  every  Girthing  with 
their  own  money  ;  and,  at  the  hour  ap- 
pointed, a  considerable  number  arrived  at 
his  house,  among  whom  not  a  few  knew, 
as  well  as  they  did  the  contents  of  their 
own  Bibles,  the  nefarious  device  of  the 
haberdasher.  When  the  creditors  were 
seated — 

"It  ill  becomes  a  man,"  said  Mr.  Thri- 
ven, affecting  a  comely  modesty — "  It  iU 
becomes  one  who  resolves  merely  to  do  an 
act  of  ordinary  justice,  to  take  credit  to 
himself  for  the  possession  of  uncommon 
honesty.  Therefore,  I  say,  away  with  all 
egotistical  assumption  of  principles,  which 
ought  to  belong  to  a  man,  merely  (as  we 
say  in  trade)  as  part  and  parcel  of  hu- 
manity ;  for,  were  it  a  miracle  to  be  honest, 
why  should  we  not  tolerate  dishonesty, 
which  yet  is,  by  the  voice  of  all  good  men, 
condemned  and  put  down.  The  debts  due 
to  you  I  incurred,  why  then  should  1  not 
pay  them  ?  It  makes  not  a  nail  of  differ- 
ence that  I  lost  three-fourths  of  the 
amount  thereof  by  fire  ;  because,  what  had 
you  to  do  with  the  fire  ?  You  were  not 
the  incendiaries.  No  ;  the  fault  lay  with 
me  ;  I  should  have  insured  my  stock,  in 
gratitude  for  the  credit  with  which  you 
honored  me.  It  is  for  these  reasons  that  I 
now  disdain  to  take  any  credit  to  myself 
for  coming  thus  cleverly  forward  to  do  you 
an  act  of  justice,  which  the  will  of  heaven 
has  put  in  my  power,  by  the  demise  of 
that  lamented  woman,  Mrs.  Grizel  jNI'- 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


7& 


Whirter,  and  which  you  could  by  law 
have  forced  mo  to  do,  though,  probably, 
not  so  soon  as  I  now  propose  to  do  it  of 
my  own  free  will  and  accord." 

Mr.  Thriven  paused  for  a  burst  of  ap- 
plause ;  and  Mr.  Bairnsfather,  with  a 
smile  on  his  face,  stood  up. 

"  It  is  all  very  well,"  said  he,  glancing 
to  his  friends,  "  for  Mr.  Thriven  to  pre- 
tend that  no  merit  attaches  to  one  who 
acts  in  the  noble  and  generous  way  he  has 
resolved  to  follow  on  this  occasion.  Every 
honest  act  deserves  applause,  were  it  for 
nothing  else  in  the  world  than  to  keep  up 
the  credit  of  honesty.  No  doubt  we 
might  have  compelled  Mr.  Thriven  to  pay 
us  out  of  the  money  to  which  he  has  suc- 
ceeded, and  to  this  exteiit  we  may  admit 
his  plea  of  no  merit  but  the  readiness,  if 
not  precipitancy  he  has  exhibited  on  the 
measure  is  not  only  in  itself  worthy  of 
high  commendation  ;  but,  by  a  reflex  ef- 
fect, it  satisfies  us  all,  of  that  of  which 
we  probably  were  not  very  sceptical,  that 
his  failure  was  an  honest  one,  and  that  he 
is  not.  now  making  a  display  of  paying  us 
out  of  any  other  money  than  his  own." 

''  Shall  we  not  accord  to  these  senti- 
ments of  our  brother  creditor  .?"  said  Mr. 
Wrench,  rising  with  great  seriousness. 
"  How  seldom  is  it,  in  the  ordinary  affairs 
of  life,  that  we  find  the  true  Mr.  Great- 
heart  of  '  The  Pilgrim's  Progress ;'  but 
when  we  do  find  him,  shall  we  not  say  to 
him,  let  him  have  his  reward — and  what 
shall  that  reward  be  ?  Empty  praise  ? 
No  I  Mr.  Thriven  needs  not  that,  be- 
cause he  has  the  voice  of  conscience 
sounding  within  him — far  more  musical,  I 
deem,  to  the  ear  of  honesty  than  the  hol- 
low notes  of  external  applause.  A  piece 
of  plate  ?  very  good  for  praise-devouring 
politicians  to  place  on  the  table  when  the 
clique  is  carousing  and  settling  the  afiairs 
of  the  State  ;  but  altogether  unsuitable  for 
the  gratification  of  meek,  self-denied,  re- 
tiring honesty.  A  book  of  morals  ;  what 
say  ye  to  that,  friends  .^"  I  throw  it  out 
merely  as  a  hint." 


"  And  I  second  the  suggestion,"  said 
Mr.  Horner,  "  with  the  amendment,  that 
there  shall  be  an  inscription  on  a  blank  leafy 
setting  forth,  in  detail,  the  merits  of  the 
individual,  and  where  could  we  find  a  bet- 
ter than  the  allegory  of  the  progress  of  the 
pilgrim,  written  by  the  tinker  of  Elstow  .?" 

A  round  of  applause,  fully  suitable  to 
the  appetite  of  Mr.  Samuel,  followed  Mr. 
Horner's  amendment.  The  process  of 
payment  commenced,  and  was  completed 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties  ;  and  when 
the  creditors  went  away,  Mr.  Thriven  sat 
down  to  consider  the  position  in  which  he 
stood.  H[e  had  got  applause,  but  he  did 
not  well  understand  it.  Above  all,  he 
could  not  comprehend  the  allusion  to  the 
book  written  by  John  Bunyan.  "  Well," 
he  said,  as  he  took  up  the  Mercury ^  "  it 
is  beyond  my  comprehension ;  and,  after 
all,  the  good  people  may  only  mean  to 
present  me  with  some  suitable  gift  in  con- 
sideration of  the  act  of  justice  I  have  this 
day  done  them.  Let  me  see  if  there  be 
any  news  ;"  and  he  fell  back  in  his  chair 
in  that  delightful  langueur  d?esprit  to  which 
a  newspaper  of  all  things  is  the  most  ac- 
ceptable. '•'■  Why,"  he  continued,  as  he 
still  searched  for  some  racy  bit,  "  did  not 
Sharp  undertake  to  get  a  notice  inserted, 
by  way  of  an  editor's  advertisement,  of 
three  lines,  to  immortalize  me,  and  pave 
my  way  to  the  hand  of  Miss  Clarinda 
Pott  .^"  And  he  wrung  the  muscles  of  his 
face  as  if  they  had  been  like  a  dishclout 
filled  with  the  humor  of  his  bile.  At 
length  his  eye  stood  in  his  head,  his  mouth 
opened,  and  he  became  what  artists  would 
call  "  a  living  picture."  The  part  of  the  | 
paper  which  produced  this  strange  eff"ect, 
consisted  of  merely  a  few  lines  to  this  im- 
port:— '■'■  New  light. — The  matter  which 
the  fire  in Street  failed  to  illu- 
mine has,  we  understand,  been  illustrated 
by  no  less  an  individual  than  John  Bun- 
yan, tinker  at  Elstow.  Everything  may 
be  reduced  to  an  allegory  ;  the  world  itself 
is  an  allegory ;  and  this  scrap  of  ours  is 
nothing  but  an  allegoi-y." 


76 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Samuel  laid  down  the  paper.  "  Wliat 
can  this  mean  ?"  said  he.  "  If  this  be  not 
an  allegory,  I  know  not  what  is." 

"  Ah,  sir,  you  are  a  man  this  day  to  be 
envied,"  said  Miss  M'Falzen,  who  now 
entered.  "  You  have  proved  yourself  to 
be  an  honest  man.  I  was  sure  of  it ;  and 
you  know,  Samuel,  when  all  deserted  you, 
I  stuck  fast  by  you,  and  even  gave  the — 
the — excuse  me,  sir — the  consent  you 
asked  of  me,  while  you  had  no  prospect 
before  you  in  this  bad  world  other  than 
beggary." 

"  What  consent,  ma'am  .?"  replied  Mr. 
Thriven,  with  a  face  that  displayed  no 
more  curiosity  than  it  did  love. 

"  Bless  me,  Mr.  Thriven,  do  you  for- 
get } — Is  it  possible  that  you  can  have  for- 
gotten so  interesting  an  occasion  .^" 

"  I  believe,  by  the  by,  ma'am,  you  have 
called  for  your  debt,"  said  Mr.  Thriven. 

"Debt!"  ejaculated  the  devout  spin- 
ster. "  Why  should  there  be  any  debt 
between  two  people  situated  as  we  are. 
Why  should  not  all  claims  be  extinguished 
by  the  mixture  of  what  Mr.  Sharp  calls 
the  goods  in  communion.  If  1  take  this 
money  from  you  to-day,  won't  I  be  giving 
it  back  after  the  ceremony.  True,  my 
small  fortune  is  now  nothing  to  yours ; 
yet  I  will  remember  with  pleasure,  and 
you  will  never  surely  forget,  that  all  I  had 
was  at  your  service  when  you  had  lost  all 
you  had  in  the  world  ;  so,  you  see,  my 
dear  Samuel,  if  you  have  this  day  proved 
yourself  to  have  a  noble  sphit,  I  am  not 
behind  you.'' 

"  What  is  the  exact  amount  of  your 
claim.  Miss  M'Falzen  P"*  said  Mr.  Thri- 
ven, with  a  determination  to  distance  sen- 
timent. 

"  And  would  you  really  pay  it,  cruel, 
cruel  man  ?"  said  she,  somewhat  alarmed. 

"  C6rtainly,  ma'am,"  replied  he  drily. 

"  Are  you  serious  .^"  said  she  again, 
looking  him  full  and  searchingly  in  the 
face. 

"  Yes,"  answered  he  more  drily  than 
ever. 


"  Can  it  be  possible  that  your  sentiments 
towards  me  have  undergone  a  change,  Mr. 
Thriven  V  rejoined  she.  "  Ah  !  I  for- 
got. You  are  now  a  man  of  ten  thousand 
pounds,  and  I  have  only  one.  The  film 
is  falling  off  my  eyes.  O  deluded  Ange- 
lina !" 

"  Then  you  will  see  the  better  to  count 
the  money  I  am  to  pay  you,"  said  he,  at- 
tempting to  laugh.  "  Fifty  pounds, 
ma'am.  Here  it  is,  I  will  thank  you  for 
Mrs.  Mercer's  bill." 

"  Well,  sir,  since  it  has  come  to  this,  I 
will  none  of  the  money.  Alas !  this  is 
the  effects  of  John  Bunyan's  famous  book. 
Good-day — good-day,  Mr.  Samuel ;"  and 
the  spinster,  covering  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief,  rushed  out  of  the  room. 


CHAP.  V!I. 


-THE    DENOUEMENT. 


"  Thus  have  I  got  quit  of  the  spinster," 
said  Mr.  Thriven,  "  and  thus  have  I,  too, 
got  quit  of  my  creditors.  But  how  comes 
this  }  She  also  talks  of  Bunyan  ;  every 
body  talks  of  Bunyan.  But  this  paper  } 
No,  spite — spite — let  them  present  me 
with  an  inscription  on  a  blank  leaf.  It 
will  do  as  well  as  a  piece  of  plate.  I  will 
get  the  words  of  praise  inserted  in  another 
newspaper,  and  then  begin  to  act  the  gen- 
tleman in  earnest  on  my  ten  thousand.  I 
shall  instantly  engage  a  buggy  with  a 
bright  bay ;  and  a  man-servant  with  a 
stripe  of  silver  lace  round  his  hat,  shall 
sit  on  my  sinister  side.  Let  them  stare 
and  point  at  me.  They  can  only  say  there 
rides  an  honest  man  who  failed,  and  paid 
his  creditors  twenty  shillings  a  pound. 
Ho!  here  comes  Sharp." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  .'"  said 
he,  holding  out  the  paper.  "  Some 
wretched  joke  of  an  editor  who  would 
take  from  me  the  honor  intended  for  me 
by  my  creditors.  I  see  by  your  face  that 
you  smell  an  action  of  damages." 

"  Joke  !"  echoed  Sharp.  "  That  copy 
of  Bunyan  which  Miss  M'Falzen  was 
lending    to    Mrs.   Bairnsfather  that   day 


MR.  SAMUEL  RAMSAY  THRIVEN. 


77 


when  we  went  to  Cockenzie,  is  now  in  the 
hands  of  the  Procurator  Fiscal." 

"  Oh,  the  devout  maiden  lends  it  to 
everybody,"  replied  Samuel.  She  will  be 
to  get  the  fiscal  to  reclaim  sinners  by  it, 
rather  than  to  punish  them  by  the  arm  of 
the  law." 

"Is  it  possible,  Mr.  Thriven,  that  you 
can  thus  make  light  of  an  affair  that  in- 
volves banishment  r"  said  Sharp.  "  Did 
you  really  write  on  a  blank  leaf  of  that 
book  the  details  of  the  profit  you  were  to 
make  of  the  burning  .?" 

Samuel  jumped  at  least  three  feet  from 
the  floor  ;  and  when  he  came  down  again, 
he  muttered  strange  things,  and  did  strange 
things,  which  no  pen  could  describe,  be- 
cause they  were  unique,  had  no  appropri- 
ate symbols  in  language,  had  never  been 
muttered  or  done   before  since  the  begin- 
ning  of   the  world,   and,   probably,   will 
never  be  again.     It  might,  however,  have 
been  gathered  from  his  ravings,  that  he 
had  some  recollection  of  having  scribbled 
something  about  his  failure,  but  that  he 
thought  it  was  in    the   blank   leaf  of  a 
pocket-book,  the  which  book  he  grasped 
and  examined,  but  all  was  a  dead  blank. 
He  then  threw  himself  on  a  chair,  and 
twisted  himself  into  all  possible  shapes, 
cursing  Miss  Angelina  M'Falzen,  himself, 
his    creditors,    every    one   who    had    the 
smallest  share  in  this  tremendous  revolu- 
tion from  wealth,  hopes  of  a  high  match, 
buggy,  servant  with  silver  lace,  even  to 


disgrace,  confiscation,  and  banishment. 

"  You  are  renowned  for  the  quickness, 
loopiness,  subtleness,  of  thy  profession. 
Can  you  not  assist  me,  Sharp  i  A  man's 
scrawls  are  not  evidence  of  themselves." 

"  But  with  the  testimony  of  Clossmuns, 
who  has  returned  from  Liverpool,  they  will 
be  conclusive,"  replied  the  attorney,  whose 
game  now  lay  in  Mr.  Samuel's  misfor- 
tunes. "  Such  evidence  never  went  be- 
fore a  jury  since  the  time  of  the  regiam 
majestatem.''^ 

"  What  then  is  to  be  done  .^"  inquired 
Samuel. 


"  Fly  !  fly  !  and  leave  me  a  power  of 
attorney  to  collect  your  moneys.  There 
is  two  thousand  of  Grizel  M'Whirter's 
fortune  still  to  uplift — ^your  stock  in  trade 
is  to  be  disposed  of — I  will  manage  it  beau- 
tifully for  you,  and  in  spite  of  an  outlaw- 
ry, get  the  proceeds  sent  to  you  whereso- 
ever you  go." 

"  Dreadful  relief!"  ejaculated  the  other, 
"  to  fly  one's  country,  and  leave  one's  af- 
fairs in  the  hands  of  an  attorney." 

"  Better  than  banishment,''  replied 
Sharp,  grinding  his  teeth,  as  if  sharp  set 
for  the  quarry  that  lay  before  him. 
"  What  do  you  resolve  on  ?  shall  I  write 
out  the  power  of  attorney,  or  will  you 
wait  till  the  officers  are  on  you  .^"  mut- 
tering to  himself  in  conclusion — "  a  few 
six-and-eightpences — i'faith,  I  have  him 
now  !" 

"  Then  there  is  no  alternative  .?"  re- 
joined Samuel. 

"  None  !"  replied  Sharp.  "  I  have  it 
on  good  authority  that  the  warrant  against 
you  was  in  the  act  of  being  written  out, 
when  I  hurried  here,  as  you  find,  to  save 
you.  Shall  I  proceed  to  prepare  the 
commission  .?" 

"  Yes — yes !  as  quick  as  an  ellwand 
that  leaps  three  inches  short  of  the 
yard." 

And  while  he  continued  in  this  extremi- 
ty of  his  despair,  Sharp  set  about  writing 
at  the  factory — short  and  general — ^giving 
all  powers  of  uplifting  money,  and  reserv- 
ing none.  It  was  signed.  In  a  few  min- 
utes more  Mr.  Thriven  was  in  a  post- 
chaise,  driving  on  to  a  sea-port  in  Eng- 
land. The  news  of  the  flight  of  the 
honest  merchant,  with  all  the  circumstan- 
ces, soon  reached  the  ear  of  the  devout 
spinster,  even  as  she  was  weeping  over  the 
result  of  the  interview  she  had  had  with 
her  cruel  lover.  She  wiped  her  eyes  and 
repressed  her  sobs,  and  congratulated  her- 
self on  the  consequences  of  her  devout 
labors.  Mr.  Thriven  was  not  heard  of 
again  ;  neither  was  his  cash. 


78 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


THE    D  OUBLE-BEDDED    RO  OM. 


"  Say  you  love 
His  person — be  not  asham'd  oft ;  he's  a  man 
For  whose  embraces,  though  Endymion 
Lay  sleeping  by,  Cynthia  would  leave  her  orb 
And  exchange  kisses  with  him." 


Massingee, 


"  The  morn  was  fair,  the  sky  was  clear," 
when  Mr.  Andrew  Micklewhame  set  his 
foot  aboard  one  of  the  "  Stirling,  Alloa, 
and  Kincardine  Steam  Company's"  boats, 
at  the  Chain  Pier,  Newhaven,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  proceeding  to  the  first-named 
place,  on  a  visit  to  his  old  friend,  David 
Kerr,  who  had  been,  for  upwards  of  twenty 
years,  a  respectable  ironmonger  in  that 
romantic  town.  On  reaching  Alloa,  how- 
ever, where,  as  every  one  knows,  the 
steamers  pause  for  such  length  of  time  as 
enables  them  to  take  in  a  supply  of  coals, 
and  the  tide  to  run  up,  it  began  to  rain, 
in  the  manner  best  expressed  by  the  house- 
hold phrase,  "  auld  wives  and  pipe  stap- 
ples."  Notwithstanding  this,  Andrew 
being  determined  to  make  the  most  of  his 
time — for  a  week  was  the  utmost  limit  of 
his  leave  of  absence  from  the  Edinburgh 
cloth  establishment  in  which  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  wearing  away  his  days  and  his 
coat  sleeves — ascended  from  the  cabin 
where  he  had  been  luxuriating  over  the 
only  volume — the  first  of  ''  Wilson's  Tales 
of  the  Borders"  —  of  which  its  library 
could  boast ;  and  unfurling  his  umbrella, 
walked  ashore  in  the  fond  hope  of  seeing 
or  hearing  something  worth  the  seeing  or 
hearing.  And  Andrew  was  not  disap- 
pointed ;  for,  to  his  unspeakable  delight, 
he  descried  against  the  gable -end  of  a 
white  house,  a  play-bill,  on  which  "  Ve- 
nice Preserved,"  appeared  in  letters  of 
half-au-inch  deep  ;  the  part  of  Pierre,  by 
Mr.  Ferdinand  Gustavus  Trash,  and  Jaf- 
fier,  by  Mr.  Henry  Watkins.  The  after- 
piece, "  Rob   Roy."      Being   extremely 


partial  to  theatrical  amusements,  of  what- 
ever description,  and,  moreover,  being  a 
contributor  to  a  dramatic  review,  publish- 
ed weekly  in  the  Scottish  metropolis,  it 
occurred  to  Mr.  Andrew  Micklewhame 
that  here  he  might,  in  all  probability,  find 
materials  sufficient  on  which  to  establish ' 
a  funny  critique,  that  would  print  to  the 
extent  of  at  least  six  of  the  twelve  pages 
of  the  aforesaid  dramatic  review,  and  3'ield 
him  good  pay.  Such  an  opportunity  was 
not  to  be  lost.  He,  therefore,  resolved  on 
remaining  at  Alloa  that  night  to  witness 
the  performances,  and  proceeding  to  Stir- 
ling next  morning  by  the  earliest  convey- 
ance. 

Having  arranged  this  to  his  own  con- 
tent, he  stalked  majestically  into  an  inn — 
without  stopping  to  notice  the  sign  which 
projected  angularly  over  the  door,  bearing 
the  representation  of  a  ship  in  full  sail, 
among  emerald  waves,  with  moon-rakers 
and  sky-scrapers  ingeniously  mixed  up 
with  the  indigo  clouds  above — and  stoutly 
called  for  a  pint  of  porter  and  a  biscuit, 
to  take  the  edge  off  his  appetite.  This 
inn  rejoiced  not  in  a  landlord  ;  he  that  teas 
the  landlord  had,  some  twelve  years  be- 
fore, taken  himself  off  to  '^  that  undisco- 
vered country  from  whose  bourne  no  tra- 
veller returns,"  and  his  widow  had  not 
been  lucky  enough  to  meet  with  another 
ready  and  willing  to  let  himself  become 
entangled  with  her  in  the  meshes  of  matri- 
mony.  The  waiters  who  had,  in  her  hus- 
band's time,  been  wont  to  serve  the  cus- 
tomers, had  either  died  out,  or  gone  to 
other  and  better  situations,  and  left  her 


THE  DOUBLE-BEDDED   ROOM. 


19 


with  one  solitary  maid  of  all  work — tlie 
same  wlio  had  officiated  as  barmaid  to  the 
inn  for  fifteen  years. 

This  maid  of  all  work— Kirsty  by  name 
— was  a  tall,  hard-featured  woman,  of — 
by  her  own  acknowledgment — two-and- 
forty ;  not  very  tidy  in  her  adornment, 
nor  very  bewitching  in  her  manner.  She 
it  was  who  brought  Mr.  Andrew  Mickle- 
whame  the  pint  of  porter  and  the  biscuit. 

"  I  suppose,  my  dear  !"  said  Andrew — 
(He  had  been  a  gay  deceiver  in  his  youth, 
and,  ever  since  that  period,  the  phrase, 
*' my  dear!"  had  stuck  to  him,  and  al- 
ways when  speaking  to  a  female  did  he 
use  it) — "  I  suppose,  my  dear,"  continu- 
ed he,  '^  I  can  have  tea,  and  a  beef-steak, 
or  something  of  that  kind,  to  it,  in" — 
(here  he  stopped,  and  looked  at  his  watch, 
from  which  he  ascertained  that  it  was  then 
half-past  four  o'clock)^"  in  an  hour  and 
a  half;  and,  as  I  purpose  staying  here  to- 
night, I  should  like  a  bed.  Will  you  ar- 
range this  for  me  .''" 

"  Ye  can  easily  get  yer  tea,  sir,"  said 
the  woman  of  forty-two,  looking  pleased 
at  being  addressed  "  my  dear  ;"  but,  as 
for  the  bed,  unless  ye  like  to  sleep  in  a 
dooble-bedded  room,  we  canna  gie  ye  ac- 
commodation. The  lad  that  sleeps  in  ane 
o'  the  beds,  is  a  dacent  sort  o'  a  callant. 
We  dinna  ken  much  aboot  him  though  ; 
for  he  only  comes  here  at  nicht  for  his 
bed  ;  and  in  the  mornings,  after  his  break- 
fast, awa'  he  gangs,  and  we  never  sees  his 
face  till  nicht  again ;  except  upon  the 
Sundays,  when  he  aye  has  a  pairty  o'  braw 
loddics  an'  gentlemen  to  dinner  wi'  him. 
He  has  leevt  that  way  for  a  fortnicht  or 
three  weeks  ;  an'  my  mistress  hasna  been 
the  woman  to  ask  him  for  a  penny.  Fegs  ! 
I'm  thinkin'  she  has  taen  a  notion  o'  the 
callant.  What  he  is  or  what  he  dia  we 
dinna  ken,  an'  naebody  can  tell  us." 

'^  IMysterious  being  !"  inwardly  ejacu- 
lated (as  the  novelists'  phrase  goes)  Mr. 
Micklewhame ;  then  turning  to  Knsty, 
with  an  inquiring  look,  he  said — "  Is  he 


genteel  in  appearance  }  of  good  address  :* 
of  pleasing  manner  .''     Is  he" 

"  Ou,  ay!"  was  the  reply;  "he's  a' 
that — I  never  seed  a  genteeler  young  man 
in  a'  my  days ;  and  sae  handsome  too  ;  sic 
black  whiskers,  an'  sae  broad  aboot  the 
shuthers.  My  certie,  he's  a  stalworth 
chiel.  An',  as  for  his  address,  heth,  man, 
he  often  gies  me  a  kiss  in  the  mornings  as 
he  gangs  oot,  and  promises  me  anither 
whan  he  comes  back  again.  Ye  needna 
be  the  least  feared  to  sleep  in  the  same 
room  wi'  him." 

"Feared!"  muttered  Micklewhame. 
"  Afraid  of  a  man  with  black  whiskers 
and  broad  shoulders  !  I  flatter  myself  I 
never  was  afraid  in  my  hfe."  So  saying, 
he  elevated  himself  on  his  pins  to  the  same 
degree  as  he  rose  at  that  moment  in  his 
own  estimation.  Then  turning  to  the 
table  whereon  he  had  deposited  his  hat, 
he  seized  it  up,  and,  with  a  dexterous 
jerk,  stuck  it  on  his  head,  at  the  same 
time  exclaiming — "  Ye  may  prepare  the 
bed  for  me — I'll  sleep  in  the  room  with 
this  mysterious  man ;  and,  while  the  tea 
is  getting  ready,  I'll  just  take  a  short 
stroll." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  inn. 

Mr.  Andrew  Micklewhame  was  a  mid- 
dle-aged man,  with  a  rotundity  of  corpus, 
and  a  bachelor  to  boot.  In  his  youthful 
days  his  love  for  the  fair  sex  had  partaken 
more  of  a  general  than  a  particular  charac- 
ter ;  and  now  that  he  had  arrived  at  the 
meridian  of  life,  his  taste  had  grown  too 
particular  for  him  to  choose  a  partner  for 
the  remainder  of  his  days  from  among 
those  unmarried  ladies  whom  he  ranked 
among  his  acquaintances.  "  Girls,"  he 
would  say,  "  are  not  now  half  so  pretty,  nor 
half  so  domestic,  as  they  were  in  my  young 
days."  Then  he  would  enter  into  a  long 
tirade  against  the  march  of  intellect,  usu- 
ally ending  with  a  few  observations  upon 
pianoforte  playing,  and  cooking  a  beef- 
steak, the  latter  accomplishment  being  in 
;  his  opinion — as  it  is  in  that  of  every  well- 


80 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


thinking  person — the  greater  accomplish- 
ment of  the  two.  One  lady  was  too  young  ; 
another  was  too  old  ;  a  third  was  too  tall ; 
a  fourth  was  too  small;  a  fifth  had  no 
money ;  a  sixth  had  money,  but  was  down- 
right ugly  ;  a  seventh  was  ill-tempered  : 
in  short,  with  every  one  on  whom  his  ma- 
trimonial ideas  had  condescended  to  set- 
tle, he  had  some  fault  to  find.  There  is 
no  pleasing  one  who  is  predetermined  not 
to  be  pleased. 

Once,  indeed,  at  a  party  to  which  he 
had  been  accidentally  invited,  he  had  felt  a 
kind  of  a  sort  of  a  nervous  tremulousness 
come  over  him  on  being  set  down  at  the 
supper  table  beside  a  lady,  who,  he  dis- 
covered, was  a  widow  ;  not  from  her  garb, 
however ;  for  widows  —  that  is,  young 
widows  free  of  encumbrance  —  usually 
dress  themselves  in  a  much  gayer  manner 
than  they  were  wont  to  do  when  "  nice 
young  maidens."  He  had  made  himself 
as  agreeable  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  do, 
drinking  wine  with  her  at  least  half-a- 
dozen  times,  and  otherwise  doing,  as  he 
supposed,  "the  polite."  Nay,  he  even 
went  so  far  as  to  volunteer  his  services  in 
seeing  her  home  ;  and  on  the  way  over 
(she  was  from  the  country,  and,  pro  tem- 
porSj  resided  with  a  friend  in  Bruntisfield 
Place,  fronting  the  Links),  he  had  the 
boldness  to  pop  the  question.  He  was 
accepted,  and  invited  to  breakfast  with  the 
lady  the  following  morning.  The  morn- 
ing came  ;  but  Andrew  did  not  go — the 
fumes  of  the  wine  having  subsided,  and 
"  Richard  being  himself  again."  He  had 
taken  a  second  thought  on  tke  subject, 
and  determined  on  remaining  a  bachelor  ; 
by  which  arrangement  the  Widow  Brown 
was,  like  Lord  Ullin  for  his  daughter, 
"  left  lamenting."  Who  her  husband  had 
been .''  whether  she  had  money  ?  what  was 
her  situation  in  life  ?  were  what  Andrew 
tried  long  and  earnestly  to  discover,  but 
in  vain — the  Widow  Brown  seemed  wrap- 
ped in  mystery ;  and,  from  that  hour, 
when  he  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her  lips, 
under  a  lamp-post,  at  two  o'clock  in  the 


morning,  in  Bruntisfield  Place,  he  had 
neither  seen  nor  heard  of  her.  Years — 
six  in  number — had  elapsed  since  then, 
and  Andrew  had  not  ventured  to  accept 
another  invitation  to  an  evening  party ; 
but,  as  soon  as  his  business  for  the  day 
was  over,  he  returned  to  his  solitary  lodg- 
ing in  Richmond  Street ;  and,  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  evening,  followed  the  ex- 
ample of  the  gentlemen  of  England,  and 
"  lived  at  home  at  ease,"  never  stirring 
out,  except  to  pay  an  occasional  visit  to 
the  theatre. 

The  localities  of  Alloa  were  quite  un- 
known to  Andrew,  for  the  best  reason  in 
the  world — he  had  never  been  in  it  before  ; 
but,  by  dint  of  attending  to  the  usual  ex- 
pedient resorted  to  on  like  occasions — 
that  of  following  his  nose — in  the  space  of 
a  few  minutes  he  discovered  that  his  feet, 
or  fate,  had  led  him  into  a  dockyard, 
where  a  vessel  ■vt^as  just  upon  the  point  of 
being  wedded  to  the  ocean.  Some  women 
and  men — the  former,  as  usual,  predomi- 
nant— were  seated  on  logs  beneath  a  shed  ; 
others,  the  more  impatient,  seemingly, 
were  walking  about  with  umbrellas  and 
parasols  above  their  heads — young  men 
with  young  misses — old  men  and  babes. 
Children  in  their  first  childhood,  of  vari- 
ous shapes  and  sizes,  chiefly  barefooted, 
were  scampering  among  the  wet  sawdust, 
round  about  the  logs  of  wood,  in  the  shed 
and  out  of  it,  quite  absorbed  in  the  spirit- 
stirring  game  of  "  tig" — ever  and  anon 
yelping  out  each  other's  names,  and  other- 
wise expressing  their  joy  at  not  being 
"  it.'*  Among  their  seniors  there  was  a 
great  deal  of  gabble  to  very  little  purpose, 
with  a  preponderate  share  of  bustle  and 
agitation. 

'*  Carpenters  were  thumping  away  at 
the  blocks  on  which  the  vessel  rested, 
making  more  noise  than  progress.  At 
length  the  blocks  were  fairly  driven  out, 
and  away  boomed  the  vessel  into  the 
Forth,  amid  the  cheers  of  the  assembled 
spectators.  The  general  interest  then 
subsided  ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes  there- 


THE  DOUBLE-BEDDED  ROOM. 


81 


comedians 

and  lield  tlieir  orgies  oq 


after,  witk  the  exception  of  the  carpen- 
ters and  some  stray  children,  the  dock- 
yard presented  the  picture  of  emptiness. 
The  dill  had  ended  ;  and  the  multitude, 
reversing  the  condition  of  Rob  Roy,  had 
left  desolation  where  they  had  found 
plenty. 

Tea  over,  Mr.  Andrew  Micklewhame, 
having  first  seen  to  his  accommodation  for 
I !  the  night,  and  secure'd  a  place  in  the  Stir- 
I  j    ling  omnibus,  which  was  advertised  to  start 

I  j  the  next  morning  precisely  at  nine,  wend- 
j  ed  his  way  quietly  to  the  theatre.  It  was 
ij  I  in  the  Assembly  Room- — a  rumbling  old 
j !    mansion,  on  the  windows  of  which  "  Time's 

I I  effacing  fingers"  had  taken  pains  to  leave 
\  I  their  marks  so  efiectually,  that  sundry  de- 
1 1    tachments  of  old  soot-bedizened  "  clouts" 

filled  up  those  interstices  where  glass  had 
once  been.     "  The  nonpareil  company  of 
entertained    their    audiences 
the  second  fioor 
— the  first  being  occupied  as  an  academy, 
where    "  young  gentlemen  are  taken  in 
and  done  for."     The  scenes  in  which  the 
establishment  rejoiced,  were  five  in  num- 
ber.    Luckily,  "  Venice  Preserved  "  did 
aot  require  so  many  ;  but  in  "  Rob  Roy," 
the  manager  was  compelled  to  make  them 
perform  double  duty  ;  and,  consequently, 
the  same  scene  was  thrust  on  for  the  in- 
side of  a  village  inn  apartment  in   Bailie 
JNicol  Jarvie's,  and  the  interior   of  Jean 
M' Alpine's  change-house.     The  audience 
department   was   most    gorgeous  ;    there 
were  boxes,  pit,  and  gallery  ;  or,  in  other 
words,  front,  middle,  and  back  seats — the 
term  "  boxes"  being  applied  to  the  front 
form,  to  which  there  was  a  back  attached, 
most  aristocratically  garnished  with  green 
cloth,  with  bmss  nails  in  relief.     At  the 
farther    end   of  this   form    "  an    efl&cient  ; 
orchestra"  was  placed.     It  consisted  of  a  I 
boy  to  play  the  panpipes  and  the  triangles  | 
at  one  and  the  same  moment,  a  lad  to  ' 
thump  away  at  the  ba?;s  drum,  and  a  blind  | 
man  to  perform  on  the  clarionets— the  last  ■ 
being  dignified  in  the  bills  by  the  title  of  , 
*'  leader  of  the  orchestra,  and  condaictor  of  ' 

VOL.    II.  6 


music."  The  whole  under  the  immediate 
superintendence  of  Mr.  Ferdinand  Gus- 
tavus  Trash, 

After  an  immensity  of  preliminary  puffs 
into  the  clarionet,  occasional  rattles  on  the 
drum,  and  consultations  among  them- 
selves as  to  the  air  to  be  played,  the  mu- 
sicians struck  up  the  spirit-stirring  "  All 
Round  my  Hat ;"  which,  though  achieved 
in  a  beautiful  disregard  of  time  and  con- 
cord, was  received  with  great — ay,  with 
very  great  applause,  by  the  momentarily 
increasing  audience,  some  of  wliom  mis- 
took it  for  "  God  Save  the  King,"  and, 
in  an  extreme  fit  of  loj'^alty,  bawled  out — 
"  Off  hats  !  stand  up  !"  with  which  com- 
mand many  did  not  hesitate  to  comply. 

There  was  a  pause,  interrupted  at  length 
by  the  loudly  expressed  wish  of  the  gods 
that  the  curtain  should  draw  up.  Up  it 
went  accordingly,  and  "  Venice  Preserv- 
ed" commenced  with  some  show  of  en- 
thusiasm. Belvidera  was  personated  by 
an  interesting  female  of  five-and-thirty, 
who,  after  parting  in  tears  from  Jaffier,  a 
youth  of  eighteen,  as  the  means  of  ac- 
quainting the  audience  with  her  extra- 
ordinary vocal  abilities,  consoled  herself 
and  them  with  that  very  appropriate  ditty 
— "  Within  a  Mile  of  Edinburgh  Town," 
accompanied  by  the  orchestra.  The  Doge 
of  Venice,  not  to  be  outdone  as  it  were, 
left  his  throne  after  the  terrific  disclosures 
of  Jaffier,  and,  in  honest  exultation  at  the 
discovery  of  the  horrid  plot,  solaced  the 
mysterious  Council  of  Ten  with — "  I  was 
the  boy  for  bewitching  them."  The  bass 
drum  was  particularly  distinguished  in  the 
accompaniment, 

in  a  critique  of  the  performances  which 
Mr.  Micklewhame  wrote,  he  says — "  It 
would  have  greatly  added  to  the  delight 
of  those  conversant  with  the  pure  English 
idiom,  had  many  of  the  actors  paid  a  visit, 
for  a  short  time,  to  the  Jirst  floor  of  the 
Assembly  Room,  ere  ventm-ing  to  appear 
on  the  second." 

The  meagreness  of  the  company  compelled 
several  of  the  principal  performers  to  play 


82 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


inferior  parts  in  addition  to  those  against 
which  their  names  appeared  in  the  bill. 
For  instance,  in  "  Rob  Roy,"  the  same 
person  who  performed  Rashleigh  had  to 
^'  go  on"  in  the  capacity  of  a  peasant,  and 
sing  a  bass  solo  in  the  opening  glee.  Owen 
and  Major  Galbraith  were  dojie  by  the 
same  individual.  Mattie  sang  in  the 
opening  glee,  and  danced  the  Highland 
Fling  and  the  Pass  of  Lochard,  with  Dou- 
gal  and  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie.  Some  of  the 
audience  were  scandalized  at  the  appear- 
ance of  Mattie  on  this  occasion,  and  be- 
gan to  entertain  great  doubts  of  thef 
morality  of  the  Bailie,  when  they  saw  his 
handmaid  in  his  company  so  far  from  the 
Trongate. 

Seated  on  the  front  form,  with  green 
cloth  back  studded  with  brass  nails,  and 
immediately  behind  a  row    of  sixpenny 
dipped  candles,  tastefully  arranged  in  or- 
der among  an  equivalent  number  of  holes 
in  a  stick  placed  in  front  of  the  drop-scene, 
to   divide  the  audience  from  the  actors, 
Andrew  Micklewhame  gazed  on  all  this 
with  the  stoical  indifference  of  one  who  is 
used  to  such  things :  in  short,  he  gazed  on 
it  with  the  eye  of  an  experienced  critic — 
the  best  of  all  possible  ways  to  mar  one's 
enjoyment  of  a  play.     Occasionally,  how- 
ever, he  felt  inclined  to  indulge  in  a  hearty 
laugh  ;  but  the  dignity  of  the  critic  came 
to  his  aid,  and  he  restrained  it  by  turning 
away  his  face  from  the  stage  and  casting 
his  scrutinizing  glance  around  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  seats  in  the    rear,  or  listened 
to  the  remarks  of  those  in  the  pit.     It  was 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  performance 
of  the  first  act,  and  the  interval  between 
it  and  the  second,  that  he,  in  this  man- 
ner, overheard  the  fragments  of  a  con- 
versation carried  on,  sotto  voce^  in  the 
seat  immediately  behind  him.     He   had 
the   curiosity   to    steal   a   glance    at   the 
speakers.     They   were  a  young  woman, 
with  fine  dark  eyes,  and  a  young  man,   of 
apparently  five-and- twenty  years  of  age, 
with  cheeks  ret^olent  of  rouge,  enveloped 
in  a  faded  Petersham  greatcoat,  whom  An- 


drew immediately  set  down  as  belonging 
to  the  company  of  comedians.  He  could 
hear  the  young  woman  with  the  dark  eyes 
upbraiding  the  young  man  with  the  color- 
ed cheeks  for  deserting  her ;  then  the 
young  man  said  he  had  intended  to  write 
to  her  soon,  with  some  money,  so  she 
ought  not  to  have  followed  him. 

"  I  am  pretty  well  situated  in  lodgings 
here  at  present,"  continued  the  younnr 
man  ;  "  but  I  cannot  venture  to  take  you 
there  to-night,  for  the  fact  of  my  being  a 
married  man  would  not,  were  it  known, 
raise  me  in  the  estimation  of  the  landlady. 
But  I  will  procure  other  lodgings  for  you 
after  the  play  is  over  ;  and  if  you  do  not 
hear  from  me  in  the  morning,  at  farthest 
by  ten,  you  may  call  for  me  at  the  inn 
where  1  am  staying."  He  ended  by  ob- 
serving that  he  was  wanted  in  the  next 
act  to  go  on  as  a  Highlander  ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, he  left  her,  and  crept  in  behind 
the  curtain. 

There  was  nothing  very  extraordinary 
in  all  this  ;  yet,  though  Andrew  knew  that 
such  occurrences  happened  daily,  he  could 
not  help  thinking  of  what  he  had  just  over- 
heard, and  feeling  interested  in  the  dam- 
sel of  the  sparkling  eyes.  He  did  not 
dare,  however,  to  take  another  peep  at 
her,  as  he  thought  it  would  be  too  marked  ; 
and  when  he  rose,  at  the  termination  of 
the  performances,  to  go  away,  the  seat  be- 
hind him  was  quite  vacant  ;  nor  could  he 
discern,  among  the  dense  mass  of  human 
beings  that  obstructed  the  door-way,  the 
slightest  vestige  of  her,  or  the  youth  in  the 
shabby  greatcoat,  who  had  acknowledged 
himself  her  husband. 

The  rain  had  not  ceased  when  Mr. 
Micklewhame  left  the  Assembly  Room,  so 
he  hurried  to  bis  inn  with  all  possible 
despatch.  Mr.  IMicklewhame  prided  him- 
self on  his  knowledge  of  the  principles  of 
economy ;  and  when  he  travelled,  he  in- 
variably made  it  a  point  to  take  no  more 
than  two  meals  per  diem — breakfast  and 
tea — both  with  a  meat  accompaniment ; 
but  this  evening — this  particular  evening 


THE  DOUBLE-BEDDED  ROOM. 


■ — as  lie  sat  toasting  liis  toes  before  an  ex- 
cellent fire,  in  a  comfortable  parlor  of  a 
comfortable  inn,  and  heard  the  rain  patter- 
ing against  the  casement,  it,  some  how  or 
other,  entered  into  his  head  that  a  tumbler 
of  punch  would  be  by  no  means  amiss.  A 
tumbler  of  punch  was  ordered  in  accord- 
ingly ;  after  that  came  a  second  ;  and  a 
third  ;  and — no  we  can't  exactly  say  that 
there  was  a  fourth.  At  all  events,  th-ere 
wa,s  a  marked  inclination  first  towards  one 
side  of  the  staircase,  and  then  towards  the 
other,  in  Mr.  Andrew  Micklewhame's  as- 
cent to  his  bedroom  that  evening.  Nay, 
more  ;  he  attempted  to  kiss  Kirsty  as  she 
was  depositing  the  candlestick  upon  the 
table  ;  but  he  missed  his  aim,  and  measured 
his  length  on  the  floor.  By  the  time  he 
was  up  again,  Kirsty  had  vanished. 

Mr.  Micklewhame  was  a  little  annoyed 
that  he  could  not  use  the  precaution  of 
bolting  his  door.  The  mysterious  man, 
with  the  black  whiskers  and  broad  shoul- 
ders, had  not  yet  claimed  his  bed,  although 
it  was  pretty  well  on  towards 

"  The  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twaL" 

"  I  don't  half  like  this  sleeping  in  a 
double-bedded  room,  with  a  man  I  never 
saw,"  he  thought,  but  did  not  venture  to 
say  it  aloud,  lest  some  one  might  be  with- 
in ear  shot,  and  set  him  down  as  a  coward. 
"  I  wonder,"  exclaimed  he,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  undress  before  the  yet  glowing 
embers  of  a  consumptive  fire,  "  whether — 
hie — whether  the  f — f — fellow  snores.  I 
sha'nt  sleep,  I'm  sure— hie — I  sha'nt — hie 
— sleep,  if  the  f — f — fellow  snores." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  very 
sensible  observation,  he  £!;ot  into  one  of 
the  beds  in  the  best  way  he  could,  covered 
himself  up  warm,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

Dreams  visited  his  pillow  ;  distorted 
visions,  in  which  Kirsty,  the  dark-eyed 
damoiselle,  and  the  man  with  the  black 
whiskers,  bore  prominent  parts,  flitted 
across  his  fancy.  Then  he  felt  himself  borne 
through  the  air  by  a  vulture  in  a  shabby 
brown  greatcoat,  which  set  him  down  on 
the  top  of  a  high  house,  and  flew  away. 


He  thought  he  got  up  and  groped  his  way 
along  the  house-top  ;  but,  missing  his 
footing,  he  fell  over,  and  would  certainly 
have  had  his  brains  dashed  out  upon  the 
pavement  below,  had  not  the  motion  of 
his  descent  caused  him  to  start  and 
awaken.  All  was  still  within  the  chamber. 
He  looked  out  of  bed,  but  could  discover 
no  signs  of  the  appearance  of  his  mysteri- 
ous neighbor  ;  ^q  he  composed  himself  to 
sleep  again.  This  time,  however,  he  was 
not  so  successful  as  at  first ;  for  it  was 
only  after  some  time  that  he  could  coax 
himself  into  a  sort  of  doze — something  be- 
twixt sleeping  and  waking.  While  in  this 
state,  he  fancied  he  saw  the  man  in  the 
brown  greatcoat  enter  the  room  ;  then  he 
saw  a  flash  of  light ;  then  he  imagined  he 
smelt  sulphur  ;  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 
he  felt  himself  in  reality  pulled  half  out 
of  bed, 

"  Hollo  !  hollo  !"  cried  he  ;  "  what 
the  deuce  is  the  matter  V  and  he  rubbed 
his  eyes  until  he  found  himself  wide 
awake, 

"Sir,  sir!"  cried  a  voice,  "you've 
made  a  mistake — you've  got  into  my  bed 
in  place  of  your  own." 

Any  one  in  Andrew's  place  but  Andrew 
himself,  would  have  cursed  and  sworn  like 
a  trooper  at  a  person  daring  to  awaken 
him  from  a  comfortable  snooze,  upon  such 
slight  pretences  ;  but  Andrew  was  a  peace- 
able man — he  never  liked  to  make  any 
disturbance — and  he  actually,  without  say- 
ins:  a  word,  turned  out  of  the  bed  he  had 
warmed  for  himself,  and  allowed  the  stran- 
ger to  get  into  his  place.  He  was  sure, 
at  all  events,  that  he  had  not  given  up  his 
bed  to  any  but  the  lawful  tenant  of  the 
room  ;  for  a  blink  of  firelight  gleamed  upon 
a  pair  of  extensive  whiskers,  with  shoul- 
ders to  correspond.  The  features  struck 
Andrew  as  being  familiar  to  him  ;  but  he 
could  not,  though  he  tried,  for  the  life  of 
him,  recollect  where  he  had  before  seen 
them.  He  cursed  the  fellow's  impudence, 
as  he  discovered  that  the  smell  of  sulphur 
which  had  saluted   his  olfactory  nerves, 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


was  not  the  smell  of  sulphur,  but  of  a  can- 
dle having  been  blown  out.  He  did  not 
dare,  though,  to  utter  a  word  on  the  sub- 
ject. He  felt  very  much  afraid — indeed, 
so  much  so,  that  it  was  not  till  after  an 
hour's  perambulation  through  the  room, 
that  he  could  prevail  on  himself  to  lie 
down  in  the  empty  bed.  Again  he  fell 
fast  asleep. 

When  he  awoke,  the  morning  light  was 
streaming  into  the  room  through  the  chinks 
of  the  shutters.  He  wondered  very  much 
what  o'clock  it  was,  as  he  remembered 
that  he  purposed  setting  off  hj  the  omni- 
bus at  nine,  and  groped  about  for  his 
watch.  Horror  ! — he  had  left  it  beneath 
the  pillow  of  the  other  bed. 

Jumping  to  the  floor  with  considerable 
agility,  and  opening  the   shutters  with  a 
bang,  in  the  hope  that  noise  and  daylight 
would  bring  him  courage,  the  first  objects 
that  met  his  astonished  gaze,  were  a  shab- 
by brown  greatcoat  and  a  shocking  bad 
hat,  lying  carelessly  on  a  chair.    Had  any 
one  asked  Andrew  to  shave  his  head  without 
soap,  or  give   sixpence  for  a  penny  loaf, 
he   could  not  have  been  more  amazed  or 
terror-stricken  than  he  was  at  that  mo- 
ment.    That  the  shabby  brown  greatcoat 
and  the  shockina;  bad  hat  belonged  to  the 
mysterious  man  with  the  black  whiskers, 
and  that  the    mysterious   man    with  the 
black  whiskers,  and  he  who  had  sat  be- 
side  the  damsel  with  the  bright  eyes  at 
the  play,  were  one  and  the  same  individu- 
al, Mr.  Andrew    Micklewhame   had  not 
the  smallest  doubt,  and  thereupon  he  be- 
gan to  get  a  little  fidgetty  regarding  his 
watch.     The    curtains    of   the    bed   were 
closely   drawn — so    closely    that    Andrew 
could  not  see  in  ;  and  he  did  not  just  like 
at  first  to  open   the  curtains,   and  disturb 
the  whiskered  youth  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  whiskered  youth  had  disturbed  him. 
No.     Andrew  was  a  more  generous  mind- 
ed man  than  that. 

He  paced  the  room  for  some  time,  fan- 
cying all  sorts  of  things  about  the  owner 
of  the  shabby  brown  greatcoat,  but  never 


taking  his  eye  off  the  curtains,  resolved  to 
rush  forward  on  the  first  appearance  of 
their  opening. 

"  'Tis  foT  no  good  this  fellow  lives 
here,"  thought  Andrew.  *'  All  a  sham, 
too,  his  being  connected  with  these  play- 
era.  I  have  no  doubt  in  mj  own  mind 
that  he  is  either  the  murderer  of  Begbic 
in  disguise,  or  a  resurrectionist.  Ah  I 
perhaps  he  has  run  away  from  the  world, 
and  come  here  for  the  purpose  of  commit- 
ting suicide  in  a  quiet  way.  But  no ; 
why  should  he  ?  That's  quite  improba- 
ble." And,  after  thinking  all  this,  he 
paused  for  about  five  minutes,  then  ex- 
claimed, not  aloud,  however — "  I  can  bear 
this  suspense  no  longer.  Ecod  !  I'll  ask 
the  fellow  who  he  is,  and,  at  the  same  time^ 
claim  my  watch  !" 

So  saying,  he  rushed  forward  with  a  de- 
termined air,  drew  the  curtains,  and  dis- 
covered— the  bed  was  empty  I 

''  He  can't  have  gone  far,  for  he  left 
his  coat  and  hat  behind  him,"  were  An- 
drew's reflections  ;  and  as  he  said  this,  he 
looked  for  his  watch,  and  then  for  his 
clothes.  Amazement !  they  were  all  gone  ; 
watch,  shirt,  cofit,  vest,  ar^d  inexpressi- 
bles— all  had  vanished.  In  a  parozysm 
of  fury  he  rang  the  bell;  and,  presently, 
the  voice  of  Kirsty,  from  without,  in- 
quired, as  she  half- opened  the  door,  and 
thrust  forward  a  pair  of  well  worn  Wel- 
lino-tons,  which  Andrew  rocoimised  as  not 
belonging  to  him — "  D'ye  please  to  want 
ony thing  else  .^" 

"  Anything  else !"  roared  Andrew, 
choking  with  rage,  and  utterly  regardless 
of  the  respect  due  to  the  sez  of  the  speaker. 
"  Come  in  here,  and  help  me  to  find  my 
trousers  !" 

"  O  you — ye '11  wait  awhile,  I'm  thinkin, 
or  I  do  siccan  a  thins'." 

"  Zounds  !  that  infernal  fellow  must 
have  carried  them  off  I''  muttered  An- 
drew. 

"  Na,  na,"  said  Kirsty  ;  "  it's  no  the 
infernal  gentleman  ava,  man.  I  wadna 
bo   the  least   surprised  but  it's  that  auld 


n'l 


THE  DOUBLE-BEDDED  ROOM. 


85 


punchy  Ibiiddy  that  sleepit  in  this  room 
last  nicht,  and  ran  awa  this  morning,  wi' 
the  nine  o''clock  omnibush,  without  payin 
his  reckonin,  that's  ta'en  your  breeks  ; 
but  ye  needna  mind,  ye  can  just  pit  on  his 
for  a  day." 

This  was  too  much.  To  be  told  that 
he  himself  was  the  thief  of  his  own  o-no- 
we-R9ver-mention-ems,  and  that  he  had 
run  away  that  morning  without  paying  his 
reckoning,  was  more  than  Andrew  Mickle- 
whame  co^ld  bear. 

"  Are  you  mad,  Woman.  ?"  cried  he. 
*'  Confound  3^ou,  Til  leave  your  house  in- 
stantly, and  bring  an  action  for  the  re- 
covery of  my  cloth  es»" 

"  Your  claes,  quotha — your  ciaes.  My 
man,  thae  tricks  winna  do  here,  I  can  tell 
ye.  Ye 're  fund  oot  at  last.  My  ceilie,  • 
to  hear  a  fallow  speakin  o'  claes,  whan 
it's  weel  kenned  he  had  nae  maer  than  a 
brown  greatcoat,  an  auld  hat,  an'  a  pair 
o'  boots  I  wadna  gie  tippence  for.  Ye're 
fund  oot  at  last.  There's  twa  chaps  be-  - 
low  has  twa  or  three  words  to  say  to 
ye." 

"  They  may  go  to  the  devil,  and  you 
along  with  them  !"  was  Andrew's  pert  re- 
joinder. 

^'  Bide  a  bit— juist  bide  a  bit  Hy," 
cried  Kirsty,  seemingly  over  the  bannis- 
ters of  the  stair,  to  some  unkaowji  indivi- 
dual or  individuals  below.  "  Stap  up  this 
w-ay,  will  ye  ?" 

And  fast  upon  the  heels  of  this  sum- 
mons, in  walked  two  justice  of  peace  offi- 
cers, who,  despite  the  asseverations  of  Mr. 
Andrew  Micklewhame  that  he  was  him- 
self and  no  other,  ordered  him  to  don  the 
brown  G;reatcoat,  and  the  sho-ckino-  bad 
hat,  and  follow  them. 

'-'■  WeVe  pursued  you  from  Queens- 
ferry,"  said  the  first — ^'  round  by  Edin- 
l)urgh,  Glasgow,  and  Stirling  ;  and  Grog 
the  innkeeper  is  determined  to  punish 
jou,  unless  you  pay  him  for  the  eight 
weeks'  board  you  had  in  his  house,  and 
our  espouses  over  and  above," 

It  was   in  vain  that   Mr,   Mi<^klewhame 


protested  he  had  never  been  in  Queens- 
ferry  in  his  life  ;  nor  had  he  the  honor  of 
the  acquaintance  of  Grog  the  innkeeper  ; 
but,  at  length,  seeing  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  convince  the  officers  to  the  contrary, 
he  thought  it  advisable  to  pay  the  amount 
of  their  demand,  and  trust  to  law  and  jus- 
tice afterwards  for  retribution.  Even 
with  this  he  found  himself  unable  to  com- 
ply— his  purse,  containing  every  rap  he 
owned  in  the  Avorld,  was  in  the  pockets  of 
his  inexpressibles. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  With  de- 
spair in  his  countenance,  he  dofaned  the 
shabby  brown  greatooat  and  the  dilapidat- 
ed Wellingtons,  took  the  shocking  bad 
hat  in  his  hand,  and,  in  silence,  followed 
the  officers  of  justice  down  stairs,  deter- 
mining to  appeal  to  the  generosity  of  the 
landlady,  who,  he  had  no  doubt,  would 
give  full  credence  to  his  story. 

The  present  mishap  of  Mr.  Mickle- 
whame had  arisen  solely  fi*om  the  fact  of 
his  having  taken  so  much  toddy  overnight, 
which  was  the  means  of  his  sleeping  long- 
er and  more  soundly  in  the  morning  than 
usTial.  Kirsty,  ever  vigilant,  had  gone  to 
the  door  of  the  double-bedded  room  and 
knocked,  at  the  same  time  calling  out, 
with  a  stentorian  voice,  that  "  The  omni- 
bush was  ready  to  start."  All  this  was 
unheeded  by  Andrew,  who  slept  on,  utter- 
ly u£c©nscious  of  the  progress  of  time. 
Not  so,  however,  was  it  with  the  other 
occupant  of  the  chamber  ;  for  no  sooner 
did  he  hear  Kirsty 's  summons,  than  a 
lucky  thought  occurred  to  him  ;  and  he 
bawled  through  the  door,  in  tones  "  not 
loud  but  deep,"  that  he  would  be  down 
instantly.  He  then  proceeded,  in  the 
coolest  manner  possible,  to  adorn  himself 
in  the  habiliments  of  his  somniferous 
neighbor ;  which,  he  soon  perceived,  were 
"  a  world  too  wide"  for  him — a  fault 
which  he  instantly  remedied  by  the  assist- 
ance of  a  pillow,  disposed  of  after  the 
manner  he  had  seen  greater  actors  than 
himself  "  make  themselves  up"  for  the 
character    of  Falstaff.      Thus    equipped, 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


lie  removed  Andrew's  watch  from  beneath 
the  pillow,  and  placed  it  in  the  same 
pocket  it  had  occupied  the  preceding  d-ay  ; 
took  off  his  portable  bushy  whiskers,  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket ;  then  bidding  adieu 
to  his  brown  greatcoat  and  napless  hat^ 
which,  with  the  accompaniment  of  a  pair 
of  well-worn  Wellington  boots,  had  been 
his  only  attire  for  many  a  day,  he  strode 
from  the  apartment,  carefully  shutting  the 
door  behind  him.  As  he  got  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  there  was  Kirsty  in  the  outer 
passage.  For  a  moment  he  felt  undeter- 
mined what  course  next  to  pursue  ;  but 
his  never-failing  wit  came  to  his  aid,  and 
stepping  into  a  side  room,  the  window  of 
which  looked  out  into  the  street,  he  de- 
sired Kirsty  to  bring  him  his  bill  of  fare — 
i.  e.y  the  bill  of  fare  peculiar  to  Mr.  An- 
drew Micklewhame — and  a  sheet  of  writ- 
ing-paper, with  pens  and  ink.  Those 
being  brought,  and  Kirsty  having  shut  the 
door,  leaving  him  "  all  alone  in  his  glory," 
he  scribbled  a  few  lines  on  the  paper,  and 
made  it  up  in  the  form  of  a  letter.  This 
was  no  sooner  done,  than  the  "  impatient 
bugle" — vulgo  vocato,  tin  horn — of  the 
omnibus  cad,  who  stood  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  just  behind  the  omnibus, 
holding  open  the  door  with  his  left  hand, 
blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  shrill,  that  all  those 
in  waiting  in  the  street,  who  had  seri- 
ous intentions  of  proceeding  to  Stirling  by 
that  conveyance,  seemed,  of  one  accord, 
to  know  that  it  was  their  last  warning  ;  so 
shaking  hands  with  the  friends  who  had 
come  "  to  see  them  off,"  they  scrambled 
nimbly  up  the  steps  of  the  omnibus,  and 
passed  before  the  view  of  the  bystanders 
into  its  ponderous  interior.  Our  actor 
saw  this,  and,  without  more  ado,  he  open- 
ed the  window  and  jumped  into  the  street. 
His  letter  he  deposited  in  the  post-office 
receiving-box,  and  his  body  in  the  omni- 
bus, which,  being  now  full,  the  cad  banged 
to  the  door,  gave  the  signal  to  the  driver, 
and  off  the  omnibus  rattled  ;  nor  did  Kirs- 
ty or  her  mistress  know  of  the  escapement 
of  their  guest,  whom  they  both  believed 


to  be  Andrew  Micklewhame,  until  he  was 
a  considerable  part  on  his  way  to  Stir- 
ling. 

*  #  *  #  # 

Kirsty  was  in  the  bar,  stamping  the  post- 
mark on  some  letters^ — for  her  mistress 
was  'postmaster — and  talking  to  a  young" 
woman  with  bright  eyes. 

"  The  villain  that  he  is  !"  said  Kirsty. 
"  A  married  man !"  Wha  wad  hae  thoucht 
it  ?  an'  a  playactor  too,  crinkypatie  !  He'll 
be  doon  the  noo,  and  ye'll  see  him  then. 
There's  twa  gentlemen  gaen  up  ta  him  a 
wee  while  ag-o." 

At  this  moment  the  landlady  opened 
the  door  of  a  parlor  off  the  bar,  and  hand- 
ed to  Kirsty  some  letters,  which  she  had 
been  ostensibly  arranging  for  delivery — in 
reality,  making  herself  acquainted  with 
their  contents. 

"  Here's  six  for  delivery,  and  one  to  lie- 
till  called  for  !"  Kirsty  took  them  ;  and 
as  her  mistress  shut  the  door,  read  aloud 
from  the  back  of  the  letter — "  To  lie  till 
called  for."  The  name,  '  Mrs.  Isabella 
Young !'  " 

"What'"  exclaimed  the  dai'k  eyed 
young  woman,  starting,  "  a  letter  for  me  .'"' 
And  she  almost  snatched  it  out  of  Kirsty 'is 
hand.  A  gleam  of  joy  played  upon  her 
handsome  face  as  she  read — 

"  Dear  Isy, — I  enclose  you  a  crown  ; 
if  you  want  more,  apply  to  Manager  Trash 
for  my  arrears  of  salary.  I'm  off  to  Perth 
with  the  toggery  of  an  old  fellow  who 
slept  in  the  same  room  with  me  last  night. 
They'll  perhaps  talk  of  pursuing  me ;  if 
so,  detain  them  as  long  as  possible,  and 
follow,  at  your  leisure, 

"  Your  affectionate 

"  Patrick  Young." 

At  this  juncture  appeared  Andrew  in  the 
custody  of  the  two  officers  ;  and  the  dam- 
sel of  the  dark  eyes,  taldng  her  cue  from 
the  document  she  had  just  perused,  rushed 
forward  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms, 
exclaiming,  "  My  own,  my  lost  one  ! — Oh  ! 
do  not — do  not    drag   my  husband  from 


THE  DOUBLE-BEDDED  ROOM. 


87 


me  !"  The  latter  part  of  her  sentence 
was  addressed  to  the  officers  of  justice. 

''Loshifjcairyme!"  cried  Kirsty;  "he's 
lost  his  bonny  black  whiskers,  and  turned 
fatter  nor  he  was!"  Then,  after  a  mo- 
ment's reflection,  she  added — "  But  thae 
player  buddies  can  do  ony thing!" 

"  My  pretty  one,"  said  Andrew,  "  I 
know  nothing  of  you  !"  Yet  the  young 
woman  still  clung  to  his  embrace.  "  You 
vile  woman,"  he  continued,  waxing  wroth, 
"  get  you  gone.  I'll  tell  your  husband  if 
you  don't !"  But  Mrs.  Young  clung  closer 
and  closer  to  him.  He  then  addressed 
himself  to  Kirsty,  desiring  her  to  inform 
her  mistress  that  he  wished  to  say  a  few 
words  to  her.  "  Tell  her,''  he  continued, 
"  that  J  am  in  great  tribulation  here,  and 
I  wish  her  to  advance  a  small  sum  of  mo- 
ney to  these  gentleman,  which  will  be  re- 
turned with  grateful  thanks  as  soon  as  I 
get  to  Edinburgh." 

Kirsty  grumbled  a  little  at  being  sent  on 
such  an  errand ;  but  proceeded  into  the 
little  parlor  off  the  bar.  In  a  few  seconds 
she  returned,  saying — "  My  mistress'll  no 
advance  money  to  ony  man  unless  to  her 
lawfu'  husband ;  and  she  says  gif  ye  like 
to  marry  her  she'll  do't,  but  no  unless. 
I'm  sure  I  dinna  ken  what  she  means,  see- 
ing ye're  a  married  man  already  !"" 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Andrew  ;  "  marry 
a  woman  I  never  saw  .?" 

"  On  nae  ither  condition  will  she  ad- 
vance the  money.  Between  oorsels,  my 
mistress  is  worth  at  least  twa  thousand." 

"  Two  thousand  pounds  !''  thought  An- 
drew. "  The  speculation  wouldn't  be 
such  a  bad  one,  after  all."  And,  after  a 
show  of  hesitation,  he  gave  a  reluctant 
consent,  as  the  only  way,  and  a  speedy 
one,  to  relieve  him  from  his  difficulties. 
His  private  debts  amounted  to  at  least  a 
hundred  pounds ;  and  with  two  thousand 
pounds  he  could  pay  that ;  ay,  and  live 
like  a  prince  besides. 


The  whole  party  was  ushered  into  the 
little  back  parlor,  where,  to  complete  An- 
drew's amazement,  he  descried,  seated 
over  a  cup  of  coffee,  the  identical  Widow 
Brown  to  whom  he  had  given  the  slip  six 
years  before.  She  rose  and  shook  him  by 
the  hand. 

"Be  not  amazed!"  she  said.  ^' The 
moment  I  saw  you,  from  the  window  of 
this  room,  enter  my  inn  yesterday,  I  re- 
cognised you,  and  my  love  for  you  return- 
ed. I  know  all."  She  certainly  did, 
for  she  had  read  Patrick  Young's  letter 
to  his  wife.  "  I  shall  procure  your  imme- 
diate release  ;  and  should  you  rue  the  con- 
sent you  have  just  given,  you  are  free  to 
return  to  Edinburgh  as  you  came — a  single 


man 


"Generous  woman!"  cried  Andrew, 
sinking  on  one  knee.  "  This — this  is  too 
much !  Think  ye  I  could  again  desert 
you.?  No,  by  heaven!" — Here  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  his  breast,  and  turned  up 
the  white  of  his  eyes  in  an  attempt  to  look 
pathetic.  The  widow  raised  him  and  led 
him  to  a  seat.  The  officers  were  dismissed ; 
and  the  damsel  with  the  dark  eyes  escaped 
through  the  open  door  as  they  went  out, 
fearful  of  beino-  detained  for  her  deceitful 
attempt  upon  the  person  of  Andrew 
Micklewhame. 

In  a  few  days  the  nuptials  were  solem- 
nized; and  Andrew  Micklewhame  ever 
blessed  the  lucky  chance  that  led  him  to 
Alloa. 

History  is  silent  regarding  the  ultimate 
fate  of  Mr.  Patrick  Young ;  but  it  is  to 
be  hoped  that  he  was  either  hanged  or 
sent  to  Botany  Bay.  Neither  Mr.  nor 
Mrs.  Micklewhame  thought  it  worth  their 
while  to  pursue  him  for  the  injuries  he  had 
done  them  ;  and  Grog  the  innkeeper  could 
not,  for  his  myrmidons  had  lost  the  scent 
of  the  stroller  from  the  moment  he  fled 
from  Alloa. 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


RINGAN     OLIVER. 


There  is,  perhaps,  no  traditionary  history 
so  popular  in  Jed  Forest  as  that  of  Ringan 
Oliver  of  Smailcleughfoot.  Ringan  was 
one  of  the  champions  of  the  Covenant — 
one  of  those  stern,  devoted  worthies  to 
whom  Scotland  owes  so  much  of  its  civil 
and  religious  liberty.  He  was  a  man  of 
uncommon  strength  and  courage,  excel- 
ling in  every  athletic  exercise,  but  especi- 
ally in  that  of  the  broadsword,  in  which 
he  might  be  said  to  be  almost  matchless. 
It  is  reported  of  him,  that  he  measured 
nearly  a  yard  across  the  shoulders,  being 
otherwise  well  built  in  proportion  ;  and 
also  that,  when  an  old  man,  he  could 
have  taken  up  in  the  wield  of  his  arm  a 
ten  half-fu'  boll  of  barley,  and  thrown  it 
on  a  horse's  back  with  the  utmost  ease. 
Of  his  early  life  there  are  comparatively 
few  anecdotes  preserved  ;  but  it  would 
appear  that  he  was  all  along  a  steady  and 
active  supporter  of  his  party  ;  for  it  is  well 
known  that  he  fought  in  many,  if  not  in 
all  of  the  battles  wherein  his  misused 
country  asserted  its  disposition  never  to 
submit  to  misrule  and  tyranny.  At  the 
skirmish  of  Drumclog  he  fought  side  by 
side  with  Hackston  of  Rathillet,  and  Hall 
of  Haughead,  and  won  their  especial  ap- 
plause by  his  bravery  ;  and  at  Bothwell 
Bridge  he  was  one  of  the  three  hundred 
who,  under  Hackston  and  Hall,  so  well 
contested  the  passage,  and  for  a  while 
withstood  the  repeated  efforts  of  Mon- 
mouth's army.  In  this  service,  besides 
being  severely  wounded,  he  had  his  hip 
joint  dislocated,  but  was  saved  from  fall- 
ing into  the  hands  of  the  enemy  by  the 
exertions  of  his  friends.  In  the  long  and 
relentless  persecution  to  which  the  Cove- 
nanters were  subjected  by  this  unfortunate 
battle,  Ringan,  like  many  others,  was  a 
proscribed  fugitive.     While  under  hiding, 


he  was  much  in  the  company  of  his  friend 
Hall — a  man  to  whose  character  his  own, 
in  many  points,  closely  approximated,  and 
with  whose  family,  at  a  subsequent  period, 
he  was  connected  by  marriage.  The  fate 
of  Hall  is  well  known.  He  lost  his  life 
at  Queensferry,  in  defending  himself  when 
about  to  be  taken  by  the  governor  of 
Blackness.  He  had  parted  from  Ringan 
only  a  short  while  before  this  happened ; 
and  bitterly,  bitterly  did  the  latter  ever 
afterwards  regret  his  being  from  the  side 
of  a  friend  to  whom  he  was  so  much  at- 
tached, in  his  hour  of  need.  But  in  those 
days,  when  oppression  and  slaughter  made 
such  cruel  mastery  of  an  afflicted  country, 
the  regrets  of  friendship  were  particularly 
unavailing. 

The  dark  period  of  crime  and  bloodshed 
at  length  ended  in  the  Revolution  ;  and 
Ringan,  whose  principles  forbade  him  to 
remain  idle  while  the  good  work  was  uii- 
finished,  again  girt  on  his  sword  and  gave 
his  services  to  the  army  that  was  sent  to 
oppose  the  rebellion  of  Dundee.  He  was 
at  the  battle  of  Killieerankie,  where  he 
greatly  distinguished  himself,  killing,  as  it 
is  said,  all  that  came  before  him.  In  the 
disastrous  defeat  and  dispersion  of  Mae- 
kay's  army  which  followed,  he  and  a  small 
party  of  friends,  by  keeping  together, 
made  good  their  retreat,  and  reached 
Dunkeld  next  morning  a  little  after  day- 
break. Here  a  circumstance  occurred 
which  sufficiently  proves  that  Ringan 
lacked  nothing  of  the  true  spirit  of  chi- 
valry— a  quality,  by  the  wa}'',  for  which 
the  Covenanters  were  not  much  celebrated 
— their  fighting  not  being  for  personal 
honor,  but  for  the  establishment  of  what 
they  considered  to  be  the  true  kingdom  of 
Christ,  and  the  extirpation  of  Popery, 
Prelacy,    and    Erastianism.       The    party 


r.LXGAN  OLIVER. 


89 


had  lialtad  at  a  frieiurs  lioiisc  in  tli3  to^vn, 
for  111.)  purpoB3  of  taking  somo  refrcsli- 
iiioiit,  and  had  just  SL'ated  thomsr^lves  at 
tahk^,  when  thjir  eiv.s  \vOi-c  rogalod  bj  a 
proclamation  niado  on  the  strdit  opposite 
their  windov:.  it  Tvas  bawled  foith,  in 
ton.^s  of  fire  and  brimstone,  from  the  lea- 
tliern  lungs  of  an  nnch:nt,  Einolio-dried 
Highland  drummer,  and  ran  as  foilovrs  : — 

'•  Ochilow,  an'  a  petter  ochilow  !  This 
is  to  p3  kiving  notice  to  ail  it  may  pc 
conceining,  that  Rory  Dim  Mhorc  of  ta 
clan  Donocdiy,  \Yill  pe  keeping  ta  crown 
of  ta  causeway,  in  ta  town  of  Tunkeld,  for 
wan  hour  an'  nmore  ;  an'  he  is  tesiring  it 
civilly  to  pe  knovrn,  that,  if  there  pe  auy 
canting,  poohooing,  psalm -singing,  Whig 
repollioner  in  ta  toiin,  let  him  peso  bonld 
as  t.)  pe  coining  forth  from  his  holes,  an' 
lookin'r  ta  said  iU)ry  Dhu  in  ta  face  ;  an' 
ta  said  I'ory  -Ohu  hereby  kives  promise  to 
pe  so  III  "ry  condescending  as  to  pc  cutting 
ta  same  filthy  Whig  loon  shorter  py  ta 
lue'S,  for  ta  honor  of  King  Shames. 
Ochilow  1   Cot  save  King  Shames  !" 

Weary,  dispiiitj^d,  and  satiated  \Yith 
carnage  as  he  was,  this  ridicidons  chal- 
lenge was  so  uuii'ormiy  insuitino;  in  its 
tenor,  tliat  Kiugan  did  not  for  a  moment 
h^sitat)  in  resolvino'  to  answer  it.  His 
f  i  'ndslcft  no  argument  untried  to  dissuade 
him  from  his  purpos3  ;  they  ropresc-ntsd 
to  him  Vv'hat  madness  it  was  for  men  in 
lh  ir  condition  to  notice  every  foolish  bra- 
vado ]  also,  what  small  chance  he  "would 
h;ivo  of  anything  like  fair  play,  in  a  place 
so  decidedly  in  favor  of  a  barbarous  ene- 
my ;  and,  these  means  failing,  they  made 
fast  t.h3  door,  in  hopes  to  restrain  him  by 
personal  force  ; — but  all  was  in  vain — hi.s 
determination  was  fixed,  not  to  be  shaken, 

"  My  friends,*^  said  he,  rising,  and 
grasping  his  sword.  "  let  me  out,  1  beseech 
you.  i  r.uist  and  will  light  with  this 
Philistine.  God  do  so  to  mc  and  mere 
also,  if  1  do  not  cither  humble  this  proud 
boaster,  or  he  shall  humble  me." 

The  words  had  not  been  well  spoken, 
before    the    speaker   had   made   his  way 


through  tli^  window,  end  in  a  few  mo- 
ni'Mits  more  had  confrontc-d  the  challenger, 
who  was  parading  the  street  a  few  paces 
in  rear  of  the  (*ld  drummer,  Ihrj  chal- 
lenger, it  mtiy  be  romarke(],  was  a  Hig-h- 
landman  amon^::  -i  t^iousand.  To  agigaiitio 
stature  and  a  H'^rcuban  mak'%  he  added 
the  reputation  of  being  one  of  tlie  best 
swordsmen  of  his  da}',  having  slain  more 
men 'in  single  fight  than  he  "^^as  years  old. 
lie  was,  besides,  a  personage  of  the  m  '-t 
ferocious  air  and  aspect  ;  isnd,  as  he  u  >\v 
appeared  in  all  his  accoutrements,  striding 
alon:;;  and  bearing  himself  so  proudly,  with 
his  head  thrown  back,  and  his  turned  up 
nose  scornfully  snafHng  the  morning  wind, 
the  sight  might  well  have  appalled  any 
Christian  that  had  the  least  reirard  for  the 
thin»  called  self-preservation. 

"  Diaoul  !  fwat  may  she  pe  that  will  pe 
approaching,  in  such  wnys  and  uianners, 
pefoi-e  a  Highland  jshentlemans  .^  "  a-^ked 
Rory  Dh.u  ?ilhore,  4»f  the  clan  Donoehy — 
already  snorting  with  cholor  nt  thj  sight 
of  an  antagonist 

"i  am,''  said  Ringan,  calmly,  '*the 
soldier  of  Kinij  William,  onr  temporal 
deliverer,  and  the  servant,  however  nn- 
TTorthy,  of  King  Christ,  our  Spiiitual 
Redeemer  ;  and  here  I  staod  to  bid  you 
make  good  your  proud  snd  profane 
boastin9'. '' 

"  Fhei'V  go-ot,  intent,''  rcfuraed  Uory 
Dhu,  writhing  his  grim  features  into  li 
sneer  of  the  most  haughty  eontempi; ; 
"  fhn-y  goot,  inteet.  You  were  ;?ft:r  sup- 
perina'  at  Kiliiecrankie  and  now  you  are 
after  a  prcakfast  at  Dunkcld.  And  you 
shall  have  it  '"  roared  tiie  speaker,  draw- 
ing the  sword,  and  brandishing  it  round 
his  head.  '•  Come  on,  you  everlasting 
Lov/lau'l  baist,  and  I  wi'I  pe  kiviug  yonr 
carrion  to  the  crows  of  the  airth." 

Thus  menac  -d,  Ringan  lost  not  a  mo- 
ment in  drawing  in  his  tu-n ;  and  the 
combat  commenced.  For  some  time  its 
issue  appeared  somewhat  doubt fal.  With 
regard  to  both  str^-ngth  and  skill,  the  par- 
ties  were  w^dl   matched  ;  but   the  riigh- 


90 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


landman,  besides  being  the  fresher  of  the 
two,  had  retained  his  target — the  use  of 
which  gave  him,  in  the  long  run,  no  small 
advantage.  Ringan  soon  became  aware  of 
the  oversight  he  had  been  guilty  of  in 
fighting  upon  an  unequal  footing  ;  but  it 
was  now  too  late  to  remonstrate.  In  all 
his  battles  he  had  never,  by  individual 
prowess,  been  so  hard  bestedd.  The 
longer  he  fought,  the  more  was  he  sensible 
the  day  went  against  him.  Both  he  and 
his  enemy  were  wounded ;  but  his  own 
wounds  were  the  most  severe,  and  he  ex- 
perienced so  much  faintness  that,  ulti- 
mately, he  was  able  only  to  protract  the 
contest  by  yielding  ground,  and  warding 
off  the  fastcoming  blows.  His  friends  saw 
his  condition,  and  their  hopes  grew  faint; 
but  when  at  length  they  saw  his  antagonist 
bear  so  hard  upon  him  as  to  bring  him  to 
his  knee,  they  gave  up  his  fate  as  decided. 
But  in  this  they  were  happily  mistaken ; 
for,  while  every  eye  was  strained  to  see 
him  receive  the  finishing  blow,  the  fortune 
of  the  war,  by  one  of  those  circumstances 
which  so  frequently  baffle  foresight,  was 
instantaneously  reversed.  In  his  eager- 
ness to  finish  the  work,  the  Highlandman 
had  for  a  moment  forgot  to  preserve  his 
defensive;  and  the  Borderer,  who  had 
been  watching  for  this  as  his  last  chance, 
summoned  all  his  lagging  vigor,  and  di- 
rected a  thrust  at  a  part  of  his  opponent's 
body  left  uncovered  by  the  target ;  which 
thrust  proved  efiectual,  the  steel  piercing 
him  through  the  entrails.  On  receiving 
the  fatal  wound,  and  so  unexpectedly, 
Rory  Dhu  Mhore,  of  the  clan  Donochy, 
uttered  a  loud  abrupt  roar,  like  that  of  a 
stricken  ox,  sprang  several  feet  upwards 
into  the  air,  and  then  tumbled  down  upon 
the  causeway,  a  dying  man.  A  yell  of 
mingled  grief  and  rage,  for  the  fall  of  their 
champion,  burst  from  such  of  the  specta- 
tors as  were  his  friends ;  and,  as  it  was 
accompanied  by  a  general  rush  towards 
the  immediate  scene  of  contest,  it  is  likely 
that  the  victor  would  have  been  butchered 
on  the  spot,  had  not  his  fellows  been  on 


the  alert,  and  ready  at  the  instant  to  sur- 
round him  and  bear  him  back  to  their 
quarters — a  service  which  they  accom- 
plished with  some  difficulty,  and  no  small 
danger.  To  have  prolonged  their  stay  in 
Dunkeld,  under  the  existing  circumstan- 
ces, would  have  been  madness.  The 
party,  therefore,  after  Riugan's  wounds 
had  been  hastily  dressed,  and  his  strength 
recruited  by  some  slight  refreshment,  left 
the  house  by  a  back  door,  gained  the  Tay 
unobserved,  and,  getting  across  in  a  chance 
boat,  took  the  road  to  Perth  without  mo- 
lestation. It  is  more  than  probable,  how- 
ever, that  the  fugitives  would  not  have 
been  allowed  to  escape  so  easily,  had  not 
the  intelligence  just  been  received  in 
Dunkeld  of  the  fall  of  Lord  Dundee — a 
circumstance  more  adverse  to  the  hopes 
of  the  Jacobites  than  if  his  victory  had 
been  a  defeat. 

The  wounds  which  Ringan  had  received 
in  the  duel  did  not  prevent  him  from  im- 
mediately joining  the  Cameronian  regi- 
ment, under  the  gallant  Cleland,  nor  from 
returning  with  it  to  Dunkeld,  within  the 
brief  period  of  three  weeks,  to  act  a  con- 
spicuous part  in  the  defence  of  that  place 
against  the  forces  of  Colonel  Cannon, 
Dundee's  successor.  But  the  memory  of 
this  action,  in  which  a  handful  of  brave 
men  withstood,  and  eveatually  repulsed, 
an  army  above  five  times  their  own  num- 
ber, occupies  a  brilliant  place  in  the  page 
of  history. 

After  the  liberties  of  his  country  had 
been  fully  secured,  Ringan  returned  home, 
to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  and  in  the  undis- 
turbed exercise  of  the  duties  of  his  reli- 
gion. He  resided  at  Smailcleughfoot — a 
small  farm  which  he  held  of  Lord  Douglas, 
distant  three  miles  from  Jedburgh,  and 
half  a  mile  from  Ferniehirst,  then  the  seat 
of  the  Marquis  of  Lothian.  In  his  retire- 
ment on  the  "  sylvan  Jed,"  the  old  Co- 
venanter was  not  more  famed  for  his  feats 
as  a  warrior  than  he  was  respected  as  a 
most  intelligent  man,  whose  integrity  was 


RINGAN  OLIVER. 


91 


unimpeachable.  His  character  did  not 
escape  the  notice  of  his  neighbor  the 
Marquis,  who  not  only  held  him  in  high 
estimation,  but  frequently  sought  his 
counsel  in  affairs  of  the  greatest  moment. 
This  friendship,  however,  was  ultimately 
destined  to  prove  the  source  of  the  brave 
old  man's  ruin.  The  Marquis,  on  being- 
called  to  London  by  some  pressing  busi- 
ness, sent  for  Ringan  before  his  departure, 
and,  showing  him  a  room  in  Ferniehirst 
Castle  Vv^herein  lay  his  most  valuable 
papers,  gave  him  the  key  thereof,  and 
told  him  that  he  left  it  to  his  exclusive 
keeping  during  his  absence.  This  honor- 
ary trust  he  accepted  ;  but  soon  had  rea- 
son to  think  that  it  was  not  without  its 
perils.  No  sooner  was  the  Marquis  gone, 
than  his  son  and  heir,  who.  it  would  ap- 
pear, was  a  very  different  man  from  his 
father,  came  to  Ringan,  and  peremptorily 
demanded  the  key.  It  needs  scarcely  be 
said,  that  this  demand  was  met  by  a  re- 
spectful but  decided  refusal.  The  young 
man,  however,  was  unwilling  to  be  said 
nay ;  he  entreated,  threatened,  and  even 
mistook  his  man  so  far  as  to  proffer  bribes  ; 
but  all  was  to  no  purpose — Ringan  was 
by  no  means  to  be  wrought  upon  ;  he 
turned  away  from  the  unprincipled  suppli- 
cant, with  only  a  look  of  indignant  con- 
tempt. Time  wore  away — the  Marquis 
returned,  and  found  that  he  had  not  mis- 
placed his  confidence.  Everything  in  the 
strong  room  remained  in  the  exact  condi- 
tion in  which  he  had  left  it.  In  restoring 
the  key  to  its  owner,  and  receiving  his 
acknowledgments,  the  old  man  made  no 
mention  of  the  applications  wherewith  he 
had  been  insulted  in  the  discharsre  of  his 
trust ;  for  he  considered  that  such  a  dis- 
closure, however  consistent  it  might  be 
with  duty,  could  not  be  made  without 
wounding  the  feelings  of  a  father. 

Shortly  after  this  event  the  old  noble- 
man died,  and  was  succeeded  in  his  titles 
and  estates  by  his  son.  The  new  Marquis, 
who  had  never  for  a  moment  forgot  the 


contumacy  of  Ringan  in  the  matter  of  the 
key,  now  determined  upon  the  gratification 
of  his  revenge  ;  and  the  contiguity  of  the 
Covenanter's  farm  to  the  baronial  resi- 
dence, rendered  this  task  comparatively 
easy  of  accomplishment.  Incited  by  their 
lord,  the  vassals  of  Ferniehirst  commenced 
a  regular  series  of  insults  and  injuries,  not 
only  to  the  old  man  in  person,  but  to  all 
that  belono;ed  to  him.  For  a  lono-  time 
Ringan  bore  this  bad  treatment  patiently, 
resenting  it  neither  by  word  nor  deed. 
He  knew  that  it  was  in  vain  for  him  to 
attempt  contending  with  so  powerful  an 
adversary,  and  thought  to  disarm  his 
malice  by  non-resistance.  But  in  this  he 
was  mistaken;  his  forbearance  produced 
only  fresh  and  aggravated  persecution. 
At  last  it  fell  out,  on  a  harvest  day,  that 
the  Marquis,  having  gathered  together  a 
company  of  his  retainers,  with  horses  and 
hounds,  crossed  the  Jed,  and  chose  for  a 
hunting  ground  Ringan's  field  of  barley ; 
the  grain  being  dead  ripe  and  ready  for 
the  sickle.  This  outrage  was  not  to  be 
borne.  Ringan  went  to  the  huntsmen, 
and  civilly,  but  firmly,  told  them  to  desist 
from  hunting  in  his  field,  as  they  were  ut- 
terly destroying  his  crop. 

"  And  pray,  Father  Greybeard,"  asked 
the  person  who  acted  as  chief  huntsman, 
"  are  you  to  prescribe  limits  to  where  my 
Lord  Marquis  is  to  sport,  and  where  he  is 
not .?  Let  me  give  you  a  small  piece  of 
advice,  my  old  hero — carry  yourself  home, 
and  look  to  the  preservation  of  your  health, 
by  keeping  your  feet  warm  and  your  pate 
rather  cool." 

To  this  talk  the  old  man  made  reply, 
that  he  was  unaccustomed  to  jesting ;  that 
in  what  he  requested  of  them  there  was 
nothing  unreasonable  ;  and  he  concluded 
by  saying  that,  if  they  persisted  in  the  de- 
struction of  his  corn,  he  would  certainly 
shoot  their  dogs. 

"  Foh !  go  home  and  pray,  you  old 
canting  scoundrel,"  cried  the  huntsman. 
"  Shoot  our  dogs,  indeed !   I'll  tell  you 


92 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


i^ 


what,  if  3'0ii  persist  much  longer  in  insult- 
ing gentlemen,  wo  will  hunt  you  to  your 
old  haunts— th3  hills." 

This  provocation  Avas  far  too  gross  for 
the  spirit  of  the  old  man  to  brook.  Ho 
retired  into  the  house,  and,  returning  with 
Ins  gnn,  instantly  put  his  threat  into  exe- 
cution, by  shooting  two  of  the  hounds. 
In  haYina:  driven  him  to  the  commission  of 
this  act,  the  huntsmen  had  attained  their 
purpose ;  they,  therefore,  now  departed, 
uttering  vov/s  of  deep  vengeance.  The 
Marquis  rode  directly  to  the  sheriff  of  the 
county,  and  complained  that  he  had  been 
interrupted  in  his  field  sports  by  an  old 
Camcronian  rascal,  who  had  given  him  in- 
sultinir  lan2;uao;e,  and  shot  two  of  his  best 
dogs.  A  summons  was  immediately  issued 
for  Ringan  to  appear  and  answer  for  his 
misdemeanor  at  the  sheriff- court ;  but  he 
refused  to  comply;  "for,"  said  he,  "1 
have  done  no  wrong  ;  I  am  accused  neither 
by  ray  God  nor  my  conscience.  What  I 
did  was  done  in  defence  of  my  lawful  pro- 
perty, and  1  am  resolved  to  abide  by  the 
issue,  whether  it  be  for  weal  or  wo." 

The  offender  proving  thus  contumacious, 
the  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  prepare 
a  warrant   for   his   apprehension,  and  for 
bringing  hlui  to  justice  by  force.     But  in 
this  course  an  unforeseen  difficulty  present- 
ed itself — no  sheriffs  officer  can  be  found 
that  would  undertake  to  put  the  warrant 
in  execution,  it  being  well  known  that  the 
old  man  would   never   suffer  personal  re- 
straint without  making  a  stout  resistance. 
In  this  dilemma   the   sheriff  could   think 
of  no  plan  of  proceeding   against   the  ac- 
cused party  so  feasible  as  that  of  employ- 
ins;  ao-ainst  him  his  accuser.     He  accord- 
ingly  lodged  the  warrant   in  the  hands  of 
the  Marquis,  telling  him  to  secure  the  old 
rebel  at  all  events.      '-'•  If  one  man,"  said 
the  sheriff,    "  be  insufficient  for  the  pur- 
pose,  take    two ;   if  two   cannot    do    the 
business,  take   three,  take   ten,  take  fifty, 
take   a  hundred  if  you  will ;  but    secure 
him,  alive    or    dead."     Thus    authorized 
and  encouraged,  the  Marquis  hastily  col- 


lected   and    armed  a   large    party  of  his 
friends  and  vassals,  and  set  about  the  in- 
stant execution  of  his  enterprise.    Ringan, 
meanwhile,  had  seen  the  storm  gathering 
around  him  ;  and   now  that  it  was  about 
to  burst  on  his  defenceless   grey  head,  he 
felt  no  dismay.     His  friends  would  have 
advised   him  to  seek   safety  in  flight ;  but 
this  he  refused,  saying—"  I  fled  not  from 
danger  when  I  was  young  and  desirous  of 
living,  and  shall  I  flee  now,  when  1  am  old 
and  ready  for  the    grave  .?     He    charged 
his  advisers   that   they  were   upon  no  ac- 
count to  take  any  part   in  his  quarrel,  as 
their  doing  so  could  serve  little  purpose, 
and  would  infallibly  be  the  means  of  draw- 
ing  down   vengeance    upon    themselves. 
Accordingly,  when   the    Marquis  and  his 
little  army  were  seen  approaching   Smail- 
cleughfoot,  Ringan's  friends  and  family — 
none  of  the  latter  being   able  to  lend  him 
any  assistance — retired   from    the    house, 
and  stationed  themselves  on  the  top  of  a 
high   scaur   immediately   opposite,   where 
they  might  witness  the  issue  of  the  contest. 
The  old  man  was  not,  however,  left  alto- 
gether alone ;  he   had  an  auxiliary  in  the 
person  of  a  devoted  maid-servant,  whom 
no  entreaties  could  induce  to  desert  her 
loved   and  revered  master  in  the  time  of 
need.     With  her  help  he  secured  the  door 
and  windows,   putting  the   house    into   as 
good  a  state  of  defence   as  circumstances 
would   admit  of.     He  next   collected  to- 
2;ether  all  the  firearms  in  his  possession — 
these  consisting  of  two  or  three  old  rusty 
muskets,  and  as  many  horse  pistols — and 
instructed  the  maid  in  the  process  of  load- 
ing thom.  Tlicse  preparations  had  scarcely 
been  made  before  his  assailants  were  close 
at  hand.     The}'  halted  at  a  short  distance 
in  front  of  the  house  ;  and,  on  his  present- 
ing himself  at  a  window,  Sir  John  Ruther- 
ford— a  friend  of  the  IMarquis,  acting  as 
leader  and  spokesman  of  the  party — sum- 
moned him  to  surrender  himself  their  pri- 
soner, otherwise,  by  virtue  of  the  sheriff's 
warrant,  they  would  proceed  to  take  him 
by  force  of  arms. 


RINGAN  OLIVER. 


^3 


^^  Sirs,"  said  Ringan,  ''•  you  shall  havo 
my  answer  in  few  words.  I  will  surrender 
my  libert}^  to  no  one  so  long  as  I  can  de- 
fend it,  or  at  least  till  you  can  make  it 
appear  that  1  have  been  guilty  of  a  broacli 
of  tlio  laws  of  my  country.  But  this  you 
cannot  do,  for  I  have  done  no  wrong  to 
any  one,  and  therefore  protest  against  all 
your  proceedings  as  oppressive  and  cruel." 
"  Hillo,  hillo  !-— none  of  your  preaching, 
old  fellow,"  cried  Sir  John.  "  You  are 
going  to  favor  us  with  a  new  act  and  tes- 
timony. In  a  word,  do  you  surrender 
yourself  our  prisoner,  or  do  you  not .?" 

"  I  do  not,"  was  the  reply,  given  in  a  firm 
tone.  "  1  am  ready,  God  supporting  me, 
to  defend  myself  to  the  last  estremity." 

"  Forward,  then,  my  friends !"  cried 
Sir  John.  "  Let  us  burst  open  the  door, 
and  drag  the  old  canting  thief  out  by  the 
cars." 

In  obedience  to  this  command,  the  be- 
siegers had  advanced  a  few  steps,  when 
the  besieged  presented  his  musket,  and 
told  them  to  approach  the  door  at  their 
peril. 

"  The  old  rebel  resists  the  course  of 
justice — shoot  him,  friends  !  '  cried  Sir 
John  Rutherford ;  and  he  had  not  the 
words  well  uttered  when  half-a-score  of 
carabines  flashed,  and  their  contents  rat- 
tled through  the  window  at  which  the  old 
man  was  stationed.  | 

"  Bad  ball  practice  for  so  many, "-coolly  ; 
remarked  the  veteran,  as,  levelling  his 
musket,  he  fired  in  his  turn,  and  with  such 
narrow  elfect  that  the  bullet  carried  away 
one  of  the  curls  of  Sir  John  Rutherford's 
wi<T^. 

Actual  hostilities  havinc:  thus  commenc- 
ed,  both  the  attack  and  the  defence  were, 
from  this  time  forward,  carried  on  with 
unabating  vigor.  Shower  after  shower  of 
bullets  lattled  and  rang  through  the  win- 
dows :  one  detachment  of  the  beseio-ers 
attempting  to  burst  open  the  door,  and 
another  to  set  fire  to  the  roof;  but  the 
efforts  of  neither  were  attended  with  suc- 
cess—the  door  being  of  trusty  oak,  and 


the  thatch  of  the  roof  too  damp  to  burn. 
The  boseiged,  on  their   part,  were  no  less 
active  than  their  assailants  ;  while,  to  their 
strength,  they  were    certainly  both  more 
skilful    and   determined.     The  maid  sup- 
plied  her  master  with  loaded  guns ;  and 
he  kept  up  so  brisk    and   well-directed  a 
fire,  that    his    enemies  were    repulsed  in 
every  attempt  they  made   to  efiect  an  in- 
gress by  the  windows,  or  those  parts  of  the 
house   that  v/ere  of  themselves   the   least 
defensible.     How  long  this  unequal  war- 
fare might   have   lasted,  it  is  hard  to  say, 
had  not  the  course  of  events  been   preci- 
pitated by  the  fate  of  Ringan's  tiithful  as- 
sistant.    The  old   man  had  cautioned  the 
maid  against   exposing   herself  within  tho 
range  of  the   enemy's  guns,  telling  her  to 
keep  always  close  behind  him  ;  but,  in  her 
zjal  to  render  him  good  service,  this  cau- 
tion was  neglected — a   bullet  pierced  her 
heart — she  uttered  but   one  sio-h,  and  fell 
dead  at  his  feet.     All  the  veteran  warrior's 
self-possession  now  forsook    him  :  he  in- 
stantly adopted    the    dssperatj  resolution 
of  opposing  himself  to  the  dastardly  mur- 
derers  in  an   open   field ;  of  being  fully 
avenged,  or — he  did   not   care  which — of 
perishing  in  the  attempt.     Grasping  his 
broadsword  in  one  hand,  and  a  heavy  axe 
in  the  other,  he  undid   the    door,  and  was 
in  the   act   of  springing  forth,  v/hen — his 
foot  having  got  entangled  in  a  rope  which 
had  been  used  in  fastening  a  bolt — he  fell, 
and,  ere  he  could  recover  himself,  a  ruf- 
fianly  wretch   of   the    name   of  Allan,    a 
tinker,  struck  him  on  the  head  with  a  fore- 
hammer — the  blow  St  unning  him  and  break- 
ing his  jawbone.     To  remove  his  weapons 
and  bind  hia  hands  v/as  nov;  the  work  of  a 
moment;  and  it  was  attended  with  neither 
difficulty  nor  danger,  as  he  was  past  mak- 
ing the  least  resistance.     When  his  senses 
began  to   recover,  his    eyes   opened   first 
upon  the   ?»Iarquis,  who,  probably  fearing 
he  had    carriid    his    revenge  too  fiir,  was 
bending  over   his  victim,  and  wiping  the    i 
blood  from  his  face,  in  order  to  ascertain    | 
the  extent  of  his   injury.     Instantly  the 


94 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


old  man  darted  on  his  oppressor  a  look  of 
stern  reproach,  and,  spurning  him  from 
him  with  his  foot,  told  him  that  he  could 
endure  his  hatred  but  not  his  kindness. 
The  victors  now  led  their  prisoner  away, 
and,  as  they  crossed  the  Jed  at  Fernie- 
hirst  Mill,  where  there  is  a  fine  well,  the 
old  man,  feeling  faint  from  his  loss  of 
blood,  begged  for  a  little  of  the  water, 

"  Poor  Ringan  !"  cried  the  Marquis, 
half  in  pity,  half  in  mockery — "  give  him 
a  drink,  by  all  means — perhaps  it  may 
help  to  cool  his  choler." 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  captive,  with 
dignity,  "I  am  in  your  power,  and  your 
childish  taunts  cannot,  therefore,  insult 
me.  You  have  finished  your  day's  work, 
and  I  cannot  help  saying,  that  it  has  been 
a  day's  work  more  befitting  a  butcher  than 
a  Scottish  nobleman.  It  is  well  that  your 
father  is  in  his  grave  ;  he  has  b^en  spared 
from  witnessing  Tiis  son's  degeneracy.'' 

The  rest  of  Ringan's  story  shall  be 
briefly  told.  He  was  conveyed  to  Jed- 
burgh, and  fi-om  thence  to  Edinburgh, 
where  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  Tolbooth. 
After  a  confinement  of  eight  years,  he  was 
at  leno-th  released,  but  so  much  altered  in 
appearance,  that  they  who  had  known  him 
well  in  his  better  days,  could  not  now  re- 
coo-nise  him.  He  survived  the  date  of  his 
release  only  a  few  years,  and  died  in  a 
house  in  the  Crosscauseway,  Edinburgh, 
in  1736.  He  was  buried  among  the  mar- 
tyrs in  Greyfriars'  churchyard. 

It  may  not  be  unpleasing  to  add,  that 
Ringan  left  behind  him  a  son  named  Ro- 
bert, who  was  a  child  at  the  time  of  his 
father's  capture,  and  who,  after  he  had 
grown  a  man,  met  with  Allan  the  tinker 
at  the  well  near  Ferniehirst  Mill.  Robert 
had  long  tracked  the  old  fellow,  with  a 
desire  to  inflict  on  him  that  punishment 
which  the  station  of  his  father's  other  ene- 
mies placed  it  beyond  his  power  to  inflict. 
The  tinker  was  sitting  at  the  side  of  the 
small  well,  with  his  wallet  open  before 
him,  a  female  companion  along  side  of 
hun,  and  in  the  act  of  enjoying  that  "  feast 


of  liberty  in  which  all  strollers  so  much 
delight. 

"Meantime,  far  hind,  out  owre  the  lee, 
Fu'  snug,  in  a  glen  whar  nane  could  see 
Thir  tvva,  in  kindly  sport  and  glee, 
Cut  frae  a  new  cheese  a  whang." 

And,  every  now  and  then,  the  old  gaber- 
lunzie  was  trilling,  in  an  old,  broken,  but 
still  joyous  voice,  some  of  the  old  lilts 
that,  in  his  younger  days,  were  composed 
on  the  great  religious  contest  in  which  he 
had  taken  a  part.  Again  he  applied  to 
his  wallet ;  and  he  did  not  hesitate,  old  as 
he  was,  to  have  occasional  recourse  to  the 
lips  of  her  who  sat  beside  him. 

"  The  preeing  was  guid,  it  pleased  them  baith  ; 
To  loe  her  for  aye  he  gave  his  aith  ; 
Quo  scho,  '  To  leave  thee  I  will  be  laithj 
My  winsome  gaberlunaie  man.'  " 

The  scene  roused  the  blood  of  Robert, 
who  thoucfht  of  the  treacherous  and  cruel 
part  the  old  sinner  before  him  had  played 
on  that  melancholy  occasion,  when  his 
father's  misfortunes  were  crowned  with  the 
last  and  greatest  of  his  evils.  Stepping 
forward,  he  accosted  the  loving  couple, 
and  dehberately  took  his  seat  by  the  side 
of  the  well,  from  which  his  father  had,  on 
that  memorable  day,  been  denied  a  drink 
of  its  pure  water. 

''  Ha  !  callant !"  cried  Allan,  "  I  hae 
seen  the  time  when  a  drap  o'  that  water 
was  prayed  for  by  an  auld,  cantin  Came- 
ronian,  as  if  it  had  belanged  to  that  spring 
o'  life  they  thought  nane  had  ony  richt  to 
drink  frae  but  themselves.  But  the,  deil 
a  drap  o't  he  got,  the  auld  prayin  rynk  ; 
and  his  wizzened  craig  was  left  to  whcezle 
forth  his  prayers,  or  curses  on  the  heads 
o'  them  wha  fought  for  the  guid  cause  o' 
the  kirk  and  '  the  man.'  " 

"  What  was  the  name  o'  the  prayin 
rynk,  as  ye  ca'  him .'"'  said  Robert, 

"  Wha  hasna  heard  o'  Ringan  Oliver, 
the  Cameronian  ?"  replied  Allan.  "  Faith, 
an'  he  was  nae  feckless  smaik  that,  either 
in  bane,  limb,  or  lire.  How  he  did  drive 
his  lano-  iron  kevel  into  the  wames  o'  the 
troopers,  and   murgeoned  his  Cameronian 


THE  GUIDWIFE  OF  COLDINGHAM. 


95 


aitlis  as  lie  saw  their  smolt  spirits  scour 
awa  to  heaven  like  fire  flaughts  !  But  it 
was  braw  to  see  the  auld  scoundrel  worry 
wi'  drouth  on  the  day  when  he  couldna 
get  a  drink  frae  that  wall  to  cool  his  burn- 
in  craig." 

"  Stand  up,  my  freen,"  said  Robert, 
rising  in  great  wrath  ;  and,  taking  the  old 
beggar's  stick,  put  it  into  his  hands. 
"  Stand  up.  A  man  that's  no  owre  auld 
to  love  and  lee,  is  no  owre  auld  to  fecht 
in  his  ain  defence. 

The  sturdy  carle  sought  his  feet,  and, 
clutching  his  burly  knotted  piece  of  oak, 
asked  the  plea  of  battle. 

"  I  am  Ringan  Oliver's  son,"  cried  Ro- 
bert, while  his  eyes  flashed  a  fire  that  told 
his  deadly  revenge. 

*'  And  a  stalwart  warlock  ye  are,"  re- 
plied the  tinker;  "but,  auld  as  I  am,  I'll 
mense  my  stafi"  against  yours  yet,  for  the 
memory  o'  that  auld  Cameronian  wolf." 

And  he  did  not  wait  for  the  onset  of  his 
younger  foe,  but  dealt  a  heavy  blow  on  the 
head  of  Robert,  who  was,  in  the  meantime, 
laid  hold  of  by  the  gipsy  quean  behind. 


His  youth  and  vigor,  however,  were  too 
much  for  his  opponents.  The  first  sturdy 
blow  brought  the  beggar  to  his  knees  ;  and, 
while  he  was  rising,  Robert  put  the  wo- 
man hors  de  combat^  and  then  returned  to 
wreak  his  vengeance  on  his  principal  ene- 
my. This  he  did  with  so  much  address 
and  with  such  stern  determination,  that 
he  left  him  lying  on  the  ground  all  but 
dead. 

Thus  was  one  of  the  enemies  of  his 
father  punished ;  and  often  did  Robert  try 
to  get  some  satisfaction  for  the  old  man's 
wrongs  from  those  who  had  a  greater  share 
in  his  misfortunes  ;  but  in  this  he  never 
succeeded.  They  lay  beyond  his  reach ; 
and  the  chief  workman,  to  whom  so  much 
responsibility  attached  itself,  was  allowed 
to  go  free.  Such,  alas,  is  the  way  of  the 
world !  It  only  remains  to  be  said,  that 
the  old  champion's  broad-sword — a  true 
Andrew  Ferrara — is  still  preserved.  It 
is  at  present  in  the  possession  of  his  col- 
lateral descendant,  Mr.  James  Veitch  of 
[nchbonny,  by  Jedburgh,  the  self-taught 
'  natural  philosopher. 


THE    GUIDWIFE    OF    COLDINGHAM; 


OR,  THE    SURPRISE    OF    FAST    CASTLE. 


Near  where  St.  Abb  stretches  in  mas- 
sive strength  into  the  sea,  still  terrible, 
oven  in  ruins,  may  be  seen  the  remains  of 
Fast  Castle,  one  of  the  most  interesting;  in 
its  history — as  it  is  the  most  fearfully  ro- 
mantic in  its  situation — of  all  the  moul- 
dering strongholds  which  are  still  to  be 
traced  among  the  Borders,  like  monuments 
of  war,  crumbling  into  nothingness  be- 
neath the  silent  but  destroying  touch  of 
tim.e.  After  the  death  of  the  blufi"  Harry 
the  Eighth  of  England,  who  had  long 
kept  many  of  the  corruptible  amongst  the 


Scottish  nobility  and  gentry  in  his  pay, 
the  ambitious  Somerset,  succeeding  to  the 
ofiice  of  guardian  of  the  young  king, 
speedily,  under  the  name  of  Protector, 
acquired  an  authority  nothing  inferior  to 
the  power  of  an  absolute  monarch.  He 
had  not  long  held  the  reins  of  government 
when  he  rendered  it  evident  that  it  was  a 
part  of  his  ambition  to  subdue  Scotland, 
or  the  better  portion  of  it,  into  a  mere 
province  of  England. 

The  then  governor  of  Scotland,  Hamil- 
ton, Earl  of  Arran  (for  Queen  Mary  was 


3<> 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


but  a  child )  was  not  ignorant  of  the  designs 
of  Somerset,  and  every  preparation  was 
made  to  repel  him  on  his  crossing  the 
Borders.  It  was  drawing  towards  evening 
on  the  first  of  September  lo47,  when  the 
Protector,  at  the  head  of  an  army  of 
eighteen  thouvsand  men,  arrived  at  Ber- 
wick  ;  and  nearly  at  the  sariie  instant, 
while  the  gloaming  yet  lay  light  and  thin 
upon  the  sea,  a  fleet,  consisting  of  thirty- 
four  vessels  of  war,  thirty  transports,  and 
a  galley,  were  observed  sailing  round  Em- 
manuel's head — the  most  eastern  point  of 
Holy  Island.  On  the  moment  that  the 
fleet  was  perceived,  St  Abb's  lighted  up 
its  fires,  thiowinga  longline  of  light  along 
the  darkening  sea,  from  the  black  shore  to 
the  far  horizon ;  and  scarce  had  the  first 
flame  of  its  alarm-fire  v,^aved  in  the  wind, 
till  the  Dow  Hill  repeated  the  fiery  signal ; 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  Domilaw,  Dum- 
prender,  and  Arthur's  Seat,  exhibited 
tops  of  fire  as  the  night  fell  down  on  them, 
bearing  the  tidings,  as  if  lightnings  flying 
on  different  courses  revealed  them  through 
Berwickshire  and  the  Lothians,  and  ena- 
blin'^  Roxb-irdishire  and  Fife  to  read  the 
tale;  while  Binning's  Craig,  repeating 
the  telegraphic  fire,  startled  the  burghers 
of  Linlithgow  on  the  one  hand,  and  on 
the  other  aroused  the  men  of  Lanark- 
shire. 

Before,  therefore,  the  vessels  had  ar- 
rived in  the  bay,  or  the  Protector's  army 
had  encamped  in  the  Magdalen  Fields 
around  Berwick — Berwickshire,  Rox- 
burgh, the  Lothians,  Fife,  and  Lanark, 
were  in  arnvs.  The  cry  from  the  hills  and 
in  the  glens  was,  "  The  eneniy  is  conre  ! — 
the  English  !  -  to  arms  !"  The  shepherd 
drove  his  Hocks  to  the  inaccessible  places 
in  the  mountains  ;  he  threw  down  his 
crook  and  grasped  his  spear. 

At  the  same  time  that  Somerset  crossed 
the  Borders  on  the  east,  the  Earl  of  Len- 
nox, who,  from  disappointed  ambition,  had 
proved  false  to  his  country,  entered  it  at 
the  head  of  another  English  army  to  the 
west. 


But  I  mean  not  to  v>'rite  a  history  of 
Somerset's  invasion — of  the  plausible  pro- 
posals which  he  made,  and  which  were 
rejected — nor  of  the  advantages  which  the 
Scots,  through  recklessness  or  want  of  dis- 
cipline, flung  away,  and  of  the  disasters 
which  followed.  All  the  places  of  strength 
upon  the  Borders  fell  into  his  hands,  and 
he  garrisoned  them  from  his  army,  and  set 
governors  over  them.  The  first  place  of 
his  attack  was  Fast  Castle  ;  in  which,  af- 
ter taking  possession  of  it,  he  left  a  go- 
vernor and  strong  garrison,  composed  of 
English  troops  and  foreign  mercenaries, 
causing  also  the  people  around,  for  their 
own  safety,  to  make  to  him  an  oath  of 
fealty,  renouncing  their  allegiance  to  the 
young  queen.  But  while  there  v/ere  many 
who  obeyed  his  command  with  reluctance, 
there  were  others  who  chose  rather  to  en- 
danger or  forfeit  their  lives  and  property 
than  comply  with  it.  It  had  not,  however, 
been  two  years  in  the  hands  of  the  Eng- 
lish when,  by  a  daring  and  desperate  act 
of  courage,  it  was  wrested  from  them. 

A  decree  went  forth  from  the  English 
governor  of  the  Castle,  commanding  them 
to  bring  into  it,  from  time  to  time,  all 
necessary  provisions  for  the  use  of  the 
garrison,  for  which  they  should  receive 
broad  money  in  return  ;  for  Somerset  and 
his  chief  ofiioers — tlie  Lord  Grey  and 
others — had  caused  it  to  be  published,  that 
they  considered  the  inhabitants  of  that 
part  of  Scotland  as  the  subjects  of  young 
Edward,  in  common  with  themselves,  and 
not  as  a  people  with  whom  they  were  at 
v,'ar,  or  from  whom  their  soldiers  might 
collect  provisions,  and  pay  them  with  the 
sword. 

The  English,  indeed,  paid  liberally  for 
whatsoever  they  received  ;  and  there  was 
policy  in  their  so  doing,  for  there  were  not 
a  few  who  preferred  lucre  to  their  country, 
and  the  effigy  of  a  prince  upon  a  coin  to 
allegiance  to  their  lawful  monarch.  But, 
while  such  obeyed  with  alacrity  the  com- 
mand of  the  governor  of  Fast  Castle  to 
bring  provisions    to   his   garrison,  there 


THE   GUIDWIFE   OF  COLDINGHAM. 


97 


were  many  others  who  acquiesced  in  it  re- 
luctantly, and  only  obeyed  from  the  con- 
sciousness that  disobedience  would  be  the 
price  of  their  lives. 

At  this  period,  there  dwelt  in  Colding- 
ham  a  widow  named  Madge  Gordon.  She 
was  a  tall  and  powerful  woman,  and  her 
years  might  be  a  little  below  fifty.  Daily 
she  indulged  in  invectives  against  the 
English,  and  spoke  contemptuously  of  the 
spirit  of  her  countrymen,  in  submitting  to 
the  mandate  of  the  governor  of  Fast  Cas- 
tle. She  had  two  cows  and  more  than  a 
score  of  poultry  ;  but  she  declared  that 
she  would  spill  the  milk  of  the  one  upon 
the  ground  every  day,  and  throw  the  eggs 
of  the  other  over  the  cliffs,  rather  than 
that  either  the  one  or  the  other  should  be 
taken  through  the  gates  of  the  Castle 
while  an  English  garrison  held  it. 

Often,  therefore,  as  Madge  beheld  her 
neighbors  carrying  their  baskets  on  their 
arms,  their  creels  or  sacks  upon  their 
backs,  or  diiving  their  horses,  laden  with 
provisions,  towards  the  Castle,  her  wrath 
would  rise  against  them,  and  she  was  wont 
to  exclaim — 

"  O  ye  slaves  ! — ye  base  loun-hearted 
beasts  o' burden  ! — hoo  lang  will  ye  boo 
before  the  hand  that  strikes  ye,  or  kiss  the 
foot  that  tramples  on  ye  ?  Throw  doun 
the  provisions,  and  gang  hame  and  bring 
what  they  better  deserve — for,  if  ye  will 
gie  them  bread,  feed  them  on  the  point  o' 
yer  faither's  spears." 

Some  laughed  as  Madge  spoke  ;  but  her 
words  sank  deep  into  the  hearts  of  others  ; 
and  a  few  answered — 

"  Ye  are  as  daft  as  ever,  Madge — but  a 
haverel  woman's  tongue  is  nae  scandal,  and 
ye  ken  that  the  governor  winna  tak  cog- 
nizance o'  ye." 

"  Me  ken  or  care  for  him,  ye  spiritless 
coofs,  ye!"  she  replied;  "  gae  tell  him 
that  Madge  Gordon  defies  him  and  a'  his 
men,  as  she  despises  you,  and  wad  shake 
the  dirt  frae  her  shoon  at  baith  the  ane 
and  the  other  o'  ye.  Shame  fa'  ye,  ye 
degenerate,  mongrel  race  !   for,  if  ye  had 

VOL.    II.  T 


ae  drop  o'  the  bluid  o'  the  men  in  yer 
veins  wha  bled  wi'  Wallace  and  wi'  Bruce, 
before  the  sun  gacd  doun,  the  flao-  o' 
bonny  Scotland  wad  wave  frae  the  Castle 
towers." 

"  Mother  !    mother  I"  said  an  interest- 
ing-looking girl  of  nineteen,  who  had  come 
to  the  door  as  the  voice  of  Madge  waxed 
louder    and    more    bitter — "  dinna    talk 
foolishly — ye  will  bring  us  a'  into  trouble." 
"  Trouble !    ye    silly   lassie,    ye,"    re- 
joined Madge  ;    '*  these  are  times  indeed, 
to   talk  o'   the   like  o'  us  being  brought 
into  trouble,  when  our  puir  bluiding  coun- 
try is  groaning  beneath  the  yoke  o'  an 
enemy,  and  we  see  them  harrying  us   not 
only    oot   o'   hoose    and    ha',    but    even 
those  that  should  be  our  protectors  oot  o' 
their  manhood  !     See,"  added  she,  "  do 
ye  see  wha  yon  is,  skulking  as  far  as  he 
can  get  frae  our   door,  wi'  the  weel-filled 
sack  upon  his  shouthers  ?     It  is  yer  ain 
dearie,  Florence  Wilson  !     0  the  betrayer 
o'  his   country  !— He's  a  coward,  Janet, 
like  the  rest  o'  them,  and   shall  ne'r  ca' 
ye  his  wife  while  I  hve  to  ca'  ye  daughter." 
"  0  mother  !"    added  the  maiden,  in  a 
low  and  agitated  voice — "  what  could  poor 
Florence  do  }     It  isna  wi'  a  man  body  as 
it  is  wi'  the  like  o'  us.     If  he  didna  do  as 
the  lave  do,  he  wad  be  informed  against, 
and  he  maun  obey  or  die  !" 

"  Let  him  die,  then,  as  a  man,  as  a 
Scotchman  !"  said  the  stern  Guidwife  of 
Coldingham. 

Florence  Wilson,  of  whom  Madge  had 
spoken,  was  a  young  man  of  three  or  four 
and  twenty,   and  who  then  held,  as   his 
fathers  had  done  before  him,  sheep-lands 
under  the  house  of  Home.     He  was  one  of 
those  who   obeyed  reluctantly  the   com- 
mand  of  the   governor   to   bring   provi- 
sions   to    the    garrison ;     and,  until    the 
day  on  which  Madge  beheld  him  with  the 
sack  upon  his   shoulders,  he   had  resisted 
doing  so.     But  traitors  had  whispered  the 
tale  of  his  stubbornness  and  discontent  in 
the  Castle  ;  and,  in  order  to  save  himself 
and  his  flocks,  he  that  day  took  a  part  of 


98 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


bis  substance  to  tlie  garrison.  He  had 
long  been  the  accepted  of  Janet  Gordon  ; 
and  the  troubles  of  the  times  alone  pre- 
vented them,  as  the  phrase  went,  from 
"  commencing  house  together."  He  well 
knew  the  fierce  and  daring  patriotism  of 
his  intended  mother-in-law,  and  he  took  a 
circuitous  route,  in  order  to  avoid  passing 
her  door  laden  with  a  burden  of  provisions 
for  the  enemy.  But,  as  has  been  told,  she 
perceived  him. 

In  the  evening,  Florence  paid  his  night- 
ly visit  to  Janet. 

"  Out !  out  I  ye  traitor  !"  cried  Madge, 
as  she  beheld  him  crossing  her  threshold  ; 
"  the  shadow  o'  a  coward  shall  ne'er  fall 
on  my  floor  while  I  hae  a  hand  to  prevent 
it." 

"  I'm  nae  coward,  guidwife,"  retorted 
Florence,  indignantly. 

"  Nae  coward  !"  she  rejoined  ;  "  what 
are  ye,  then  }  Did  not  1,  this  very  day, 
wi'  my  ain  een,  behold  ye  skulking  and 
carrying  provisions  to  the  enemy  !" 

*'  Ye  might,"  said  Florence — "  but  ae 
man  canna  tak  a  castle,  nor  drive  frae  it 
five  hundred  enemies.  Bide  ye  yet. 
Foolhardy  courage  isna  manhood  ;  and, 
had  mair  prudence  and  caution,  and  less 
confidence,  been  exercised  by  our  army 
last  year,  we  wouldna  hae  this  day  to 
mourn  owre  the  battle  o'  Pinkie.  I  tell 
ye,  therefore,  again,  just  bide  ye  yet." 

"  Come  in,  Florence,"  said  Madge ; 
"  draw  in  a  seat  and  sit  doun,  and  tell 
me  what  ye  mean." 

"  Hoots,  Florence,"  said  Janet,  in  a 
tone  partaking  of  reproach  and  alarm, 
"  are  ye  gaun  to  be  as  daft  as  my  mother  ? 
What  matters  it  to  us  wha's  king  or  wha's 
queen  } — it  will  be  lang  or  either  the  ane 
or  the  ither  o'  them  do  ony thing  for  us. 
When  ye  see  lords  and  gentry  in  the  pay 
o'  England,  and  takin  its  part,  what  can 
the  like  o'  you  or  my  mother  do  .^" 

"  Do  !  ye  chicken-hearted  trembler  at 
yer  ain  shadow!"  interrupted  Madge — 
"  though  somewhat  past  its  best,  I  hae 
an  arm  as  strong  and  healthy  as  the  best 


o'  them,  and  the  blood  that  runs  in  it  is 
as  guid  as  the  proudest  o'  them." 

Now,  the  maiden  name  of  Madge  was 
Home  ;  and  when  her  pride  was  touched, 
it  was  her  habit  to  run  over  the  genealogi- 
cal tree  of  her  father's  family,  which  she 
could  illustrate  upon  her  fingers,  begin- 
ning, on  all  occasions — "  I  am,  and  so  is 
every  Home  in  Berwickshire,  descended 
frae  the  Saxon  kings  o'  England  and  the 
first  Earls  o'  Northumberland."  Thus 
did  she  run  on,  tracing  their  descent  from 
Crinan,  chief  of  the  Saxons  in  the  north 
of  England,  to  Maldredus  his  son,  who 
married  Algatha,  daughter  of  Uthred, 
prince  of  Northumberland,  and  grand- 
daughter of  Ethelrid,  king  of  England  ; 
and  from  Maldredus  to  his  son  Cospatrick, 
of  whose  power  William  the  Conqueror 
became  jealous,  and  who  was,  therefore, 
forced  to  fly  into  Scotland  in  the  year 
1071,  where  Malcolm  Canmore  bestowed 
on  him  the  manor  of  Dunbar,  and  many 
baronies  in  Berwickshire.  Thus  did  she 
notice  three  other  Cospatricks,  famous 
and  mighty  men  in  their  day,  each  suc- 
ceeding Cospatrick,  the  son  of  his  pre- 
decessor ;  and  after  them  a  Waldreve,  and 
a  Patrick,  whose  son  William  marrying 
his  cousin,  he  obtained  with  her  the  lands 
of  Home,  and,  assuming  the  name,  they 
became  the  founders  of  the  clan.  From 
the  offspring  of  the  cousin,  the  male  of 
whom  took  the  name  of  Sir  William  Home, 
and  from  him  through  eleven  other  suc- 
cessors, down  to  George,  the  fourth  Lord 
Home,  who  had  fallen  while  repelling  the 
invasion  of  Somerset  a  few  months  before, 
did  Madge  trace  the  roots,  shoots,  and 
branches  of  her  family,  carrying  it  back 
through  a  period  of  more  than  six  hundred 
years  ;  and  she  glowed,  therefore,  with 
true  aristocratic  indio'nation  at  the  remark 
of  her  daughter  to  Florence — "  What  can 
the  like  o'  you  or  my  mother  do  .^"  And 
she  concluded  her  description  of  her  ge- 
ncological  tree,  by  saying — "  Talk  noo  the 
like  o'  yer  mother,  hizzy  !" 

"  Aweel,  mother,"  said  Janet  mildly — 


THE  GUIDWIFE  OF  COLDINGHAM. 


99 


"  that  may  a'  be  ;  but  there  is  nae  cause 
for  you  fleeing  into  a  tift  upon  the  matter, 
for  nae  harm  was  meant.  I  only  dinna 
wish  Florence  to  be  putting  his  life  in 
jeopardy  for  neither  end  nor  purpose.  I'm 
sure  I  wish  that  oor  nobility  would  keep 
to  their  bargain,  and  allow  the  queen, 
though  she  is  but  a  lassie  yet,  to  be  mar- 
ried to  young  king  Edward,  and  then  we 
might  hae  peace  in  the  land,  and  ither 
folk  would  be  married  as  weel  as  them." 

"  We  shall  be  married,  Janet,  my  doo," 
said  Florence,  gazing  on  her  tenderly — 
"  only  ye  bide  a  wee." 

Now,  it  must  not  be  thought  that  Janet 
loved  her  country  less  than  did  her  mother 
or  her  betrothed  husband  ;  but,  while  the 
land  of  blue  mountains  was  dear  to  her 
heart,  Florence  Wilson  was  yet  more 
dear  ;  and  it  was  only  because  they  were 
associated  with  thoughts  of  him  that  they 
became  as  a  living  thing,  as  a  voice  and  as 
music  in  her  bosom.  For,  whence  comes 
our  fondness  for  the  woods,  the  mountains, 
the  rivers  of  our  nativity,  but  from  the 
fond  remembrances  which  their  associa- 
tions conjure  up,  and  the  visions  which 
they  recall  to  the  memory  of  those  who 
were  dear  to  us,  but  who  are  now  far  from 
us,  or  with  the  dead  ?  We  may  have 
seen  more  stupendous  mountains,  nobler 
rivers,  and  more  stately  woods — but  they 
were  not  ours !  They  wore  not  the  moun- 
tains, the  rivers,  and  the  woods,  by  which 
we  played  in  childhood,  formed  first 
friendships,  or  breathed  love's  tender 
tale  in  the  ear  of  her  who  was  beautiful 
as  tue  young  moon  or  the  evening  star, 
which  hung  over  us  like  smiles  of  heaven  ; 
nor  were  they  the  mountains,  the  woods, 
and  the  rivers,  near  which  our  kindred, 
the  flesh  of  our  flesh,  and  the  bone  of  our 
bone,  SLEEP  !     But  I  digress. 

"  Tell  me,  Florence,"  said  Madge, 
''what  mean  ye  by  'bide  a  wee.'^'  Is 
there  a  concerted  project  amongst  ony  o' 
ye,  an'  are  ye  waiting  for  an  opportunity 
to  carry  it  into  eiiect .?" 

"No,"  answered  he,  "  I  canna   say  as 


how  we  hae  devised  ony  practicable  scheme 
o'  owrecoming  our  oppressors  as  yet ;  but 
there  are  hundreds  o'  us  ready  to  draw 
our  swords  an'  strike,  on  the  slio;htest 
chance  o'  success  ofiering — and  the  chance 
may  come." 

"  An'  amongst  the  hundreds  o'  hands 
ye  speak  o',"  returned  Madge,  "  is  there 
no  a  single  head  that  can  plot  an'  devise  a 
plan  to  owrecome  an'  drive  our  persecutors 
frae  the  Castle  .?" 

"  I  doot  it — at  least  I  hae  ne'er  heard 
ony  feasible-like  plan  proposed,"  said  Flo- 
rence, sorrowfully. 

Madge  sat  thoughtful  for  a  few  minutes, 
her  chin  resting  on  her  hand.  At  length 
she  inquired — "  When  go  ye  back  to  sell 
provisions  to  them  again  .^" 

"  This  day  week,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Then  I  shall  tak  my  basket  wi'  eggs 
an'  butter,  an'  gae  wi'  ye,"  answered 
Madge. 

"  O  mother  !  what  are  ye  sayin  .^"  cried 
Janet;  "  ye  maun  gang  nae  sic  gate.  I 
ken  yer  temper  wad  flare  up  the  moment 
ye  heard  a  word  spoken  against  Scotland, 
or  a  jibe  broken  on  it ;  an'  there  is  nae 
tellin  what  might  be  the  consequence." 

"  Leave  baith  the  action  an'  the  conse- 
quence to  me,  Janet,  my  woman,"  said 
the  patriotic  mother  ;  "  as  I  brew,  I  will 
drink.  But  ye  hae  naething  to  fear  ;  I 
will  be  as  mim  in  the  Castle  as  ye  wad  be 
if^gieing  Florence  yer  hand  in  the  kirk." 

The  day  on  which  the  people  were 
again  to  carry  provisions  to  the  garrison 
in  Fast  Castle  arrived ;  and,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  every  one,  Madge,  with  a  laden 
basket  on  each  arm,  mingled  amongst 
them.  Many  marvelled,  and  the  more 
mercenary  said  — 

"  Ay,  ay  ! — Madge  likes  to  turn  the 
penny  as  weel  as  ither  folk.  The  English 
will  hae  guid  luck  if  ony  o'  them  get  a 
bargain  oot  o''  her  baskets," 

She,  therefore,  went  to  the  Castle, 
bearing  provisions  with  the  rest  of  the 
peasantry  ;  but,  under  pretence  of  dispos- 
ing of  her  goods  to  the  best  advantage, 


100 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


she  went  througli  and  around  the  Castle, 
and  quitted  it  not  until  she  had  ascertained 
where  were  its  strongest,  where  its  weakest 
points  of  defence,  and  in  what  manner  it 
was  guarded. 

When,  therefore,  Florence  Wilson  again 
visited  her  dwelling,  she  addressed  him, 
saying— 

"  Noo,  I  hae  seen  oor  enemies  i'  the 
heart  o'  their  strength ;  an'  I  hae  a  word 
to  say  to  ye  that  will  try  yer  courage,  an' 
the  courage  o'  the  hunders  o'  guid  men 
an'  true  that  ye  hae  spoken  o'  as  only 
bidin  their  time  to  strike.  Noo,  is  it  yer 
opinion  that,  between  Dunglass  an'  Eye- 
mouth, ye  could  gather  a  hundred  men 
willing  an'  ready  to  draw  the  sword  for 
Scotland's  right,  an'  to  drive  the  invaders 
frae  Fast  Castle,  if  a  feasible  plan  were 
laid  before  them  .^" 

''  I  hae  nae  doot  o't,"  replied  he. 

"  Doots  winna  do,"  said  she  ;  "  will  ye 
try  it  .^" 

"  Yes,"  said  he. 

"  Florence,  ye  shall  be  my  son,"  added 
she,  taking  his  hand — "  I  see  there  is 
spirit  in  ye  yet." 

"  Mother,"  said  Janet,  earnestly,  "  what 
dangerous  errand  is  this  ye  wad  set  him 
■^pQ^  _? — what  do  ye  think  it  could  matter 
to  me  wha  was  governor  of  Fast  Castle, 
if  Florence  should  meet  his  death  in  the 
attempt  ?" 

*'  Wheesht  !  ye  silly  lassie,  ye,"  re- 
plied her  mother ;  '^  had  I  no  borne  ye,  I 
wad  hae  said  that  ye  hadna  a  drap  o'  my 
bluid  i'  yer  veins.  What  is't  that  ye 
fear  }  If  they'll  abide  by  my  counsel, 
though  it  may  try  their  courage,  oor  pur- 
pose shall  be  accomplished  wi'  but  little 
scaith." 

"  Neither  fret  nor  fear,  dear,"  said 
Florence,  addressing  Janet ;  "I  hae  a 
hand  to  defend  my  head,  an'  a  guid  sword 
to  guard  baith."  Then  turning  to  her 
mother,  he  added — "  An'  what  may  be 
yer  plan,  that  I  may  communicate  it  to 
them  that  I  ken  to  be  zealous  in  our  coun- 
try's cause  .?" 


"  Were  I  to  tell  ye  noo,"  said  she, 
"  that  ye  might  communicate  it  to  them, 
before  we  were  ready  to  put  it  in  execu- 
tion, the  story  wad  spread  frae  the  Tweed 
to  John  o'  Groat's,  and  frae  St.  Abb's  to 
the  Solway,  and  our  designs  be  prevented. 
Na,  lad,  my  scheme  maun  be  laid  before 
a'  the  true  men  that  can  be  gathered  to- 
gether, at  the  same  moment,  an'  within  a 
few  hours  o'  its  being  put  in  execution. 
Do  ye  ken  the  dark  copse  aboon  Hound- 
wood,  where  there  is  a  narrow  and  crook- 
ed opening  through  the  tangled  trees,  but 
leading  to  a  bit  o'  bonny  green  sward, 
where  a  thousand  men  might  encamp  un- 
observed .^" 

"  I  do,"  answered  Florence. 

"  And  think  ye  that  ye  could  assemble 
the  hundred  men  ye  speak  o'  there,  on 
this  night  fortnight .?" 

"  I  will  try,"  replied  he. 

"  Try,  then,"  added  she,  "  and  I  will 
meet  ye  there  before  the  new  moon  sink 
behind  the  Lammermoors." 

It  was  a  few  days  after  this  that  INIadge 
was  summoned  to  the  village  of  Home,  to 
attend  the  funeral  of  a  relative  ;  and  while 
she  was  yet  there,  the  castle  of  her  ances- 
tors was  daringly  wrested  from  the  hands 
of  the  Protector's  troops,  by  an  aged 
kinsman  of  her  own,  and  a  handful  of 
armed  men.  The  gallant  deed  fired  her 
zeal  more  keenly,  and  strengthened  her 
resolution  to  wrest  Fast  Castle  from  the 
hands  of  the  invaders.  She  had  been  de- 
tained at  Home  until  the  day  on  which 
Florence  Wilson  was  to  assemble  the 
stout-hearted  and  trust-worthy  in  the  copse 
above  Houndwood.  Her  kindred  would 
have  detained  her  longer  ;  but  she  resisted 
their  entreaties  and  took  leave  of  them, 
saying  that  "  her  bit  lassie,  Janet,  would 
be  growing  irksome  wi'  being  left  alane, 
an'  that,  at  ony  rate,  she  had  business  on 
hand  that  couldna  be  delayed." 

She  proceeded  direct  to  the  place  of 
rendezvous,  without  going  onwards  to  her 
own  house  ;  and,  as  she  drew  near  the 
narrow  opening  which  led  to  the  green 


THE  GUIDWIFE   OF  COLDINGHAM. 


101 


Space  in  the  centre  of  the  dark  copse,  the 
young  moon  was  sinking  behind  the  hills. 
As  she  drew  cautiously  forward,  she  heard 
the  sound  of  yoices,  which  gradually  be- 
came audible. 

"  Well,  Florence,"  said  one,  "  what 
are  you  waiting  for  ?  Where  is  the  grand 
project  that  ye  was  to  lay  before  us  .'"' 

"  Florence,"  said  others,  "  let  us  pro- 
ceed to  business.  It  is  gaun  to  be  very 
dark,  and  ye  will  remember  we  have  to 
gang  as  far  as  the  Peaths*  the  night  yet." 

Florence  answered  as  one  perplexed, 
but  in  his  wonted  words — "  Hae  patience 
— bide  a  wee  ;"  and  added,  in  a  sort  of 
soliloquy,  but  loud  enough  to  be  overheard 
by  his  companions — "  She  promised  to  be 
here  before  the  moon  gaed  down  upon  the 
Lammer  m  o  or  s . " 

"  Wha  did? — ^wha  promised  to  be 
here  .''"  inquired  half  a  dozen  voices. 

^'  I  did  I"  cried  Madge,  proudly,  as  she 
issued  from  the  narrow  aperture  in  the 
•copse,  and  her  tall  figure  was  revealed  by 
the  fading  moonbeams.  With  a  stately 
step,  she  walked  into  the  midst  of  them, 
and  gazed  around  as  though  the  blood  and 
dignity  of  all  the  Homes  had  been  centred 
in  her  own  person. 

"  Weel,  Madge,''  inquired  they,  "  and, 
since  ye  are  come,  for  what  hae  ye  brought 
us  here  .?" 

"  To  try,"  added  she,  "  whether,  in- 
heriting, as  ye  do,  yer  faithers'  bluid,  ye 
also  inherit  their  spirit — to  see  whether 
ye  hae  the  manhood  to  break  the  yoke  o' 
yer  oppressors,  or,  if  ye  hae  the  courage 
to  follow  the  example  which  the  men  o' 
Home  set  ye  the  other  nicht." 

"  What  have  they  done .?"  inquired 
Florence. 

"  Hearken,"  said  she,  "  ane  and  a'  o' 
ye,  and  I  will  tell  ye  ;  for,  wi'  my  ain 
een,  I  beheld  a  sicht  that  was  as  joyfu'  to 
me  as  the  sight  o'  a  sealed  pardon  to  a 
condemned  criminal.  Ye  weel  ken  that, 
for  near  twa  years,  the  English  have  held 

*  The  Pease  Bridge. 


Home  Castle,  just  as  they  still  hold  Fast 
Castle  beside  us.  Now,  it  was  the  other 
nicht,  and  just  as  the  grey  gloam  was 
darkening  the  towers,  that  an  auld  kins- 
man o'  mine,  o'  the  name  o'  Home,  scaled 
the  walls  where  they  were  highest,  strong- 
est, and  least  guarded ;  thirty  gallant 
countrymen  had  accompanied  him  to  their 
foot,  but,  before  they  could  follow  his  ex- 
ample, he  was  perceived  by  a  sentinel, 
wha  shouted  out — '  To  arms  ! — '  to  arms  !' 
'  Cower,  lads,  cower  I'  said  my  auld  kins- 
man, in  a  sort  o'  half  whisper,  to  his  fol- 
lowers ;  and  he  again  descended  the  wall, 
and  they  lay  down,  with  their  swords  in 
their  hands,  behind  some  whin  bushes  at  the 
foot  o'  the  battlements.  There  was  run- 
ning, clanking,  and  shouting  through  the 
castle  for  a  time  ;  but,  as  naethinof  like 
the  presence  o'  an  enemy  was  either  seen 
or  heard,  the  sentry  that  had  raised  the 
alarm  was  laughed  at,  and  some  gaed  back 
to  their  beds,  and  others  to  their  wine. 
But,  after  about  two  hours,  and  when 
a'thing  was  again  quiet,  my  kinsman  and 
his  followers  climbed  the  walls,  and,  rush- 
ing frae  sentinel  to  sentinel,  they  owre- 
cam  ane  after  anither  before  they  could 
gie  the  alarm  to  the  garrison  in  the  cas- 
tle ;  and,  bursting  into  it,  shouted — ^  Hur- 
ra ! — Scotland  and  Home  for  ever  ! ' 
Panic  seized  the  garrison  ;  some  started 
fi:^e  their  sleep — others  reeled  frae  their 
cups — some  grasped  their  arms — others 
ran,  they  knew  not  where — but  terror 
struck  the  hearts  o'  ane  and  a' ;  and  still, 
as  the  cry  '  Scotland  and  Home  for  ever  !' 
rang  frae  room  to  room,  and  was  echoed 
through  the  lang  high  galleries,  it  seemed 
like  the  shouting  o'  a  thousand  men  ;  and, 
within  ten  minutes,  every  man  in  the  gar- 
rison was  made  prisoner  or  put  to  the 
swordl  And  noo,  neebors,  what  my  kins- 
man and  a  handfu'  o'  countrymen  did  for 
the  deliverance  o'  the  Castle  o'  Home, 
can  ye  not  do  for  the  Fast  Castle,  or  will 
ye  not — and  so  drive  every  invader  oot  o' 
Berwickshire  ?" 

'•'■  I  dinna  mean  to  say,  Madge,"  an- 


102 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


swered  one,  who  appeared  to  be  the  most 
influential  personage  amongst  her  auditors 
— "  I  dinna  mean  to  sajbut  that  your  re- 
lation and  his  comrades  hae  performed  a 
most  noble  and  gallant  exploit — one  that 
renders  them  worthy  o'  being  held  in 
everlasting  remembrance  by  their  coun- 
trymen— and  glad  would  I  be  if  we  could 
this  night  do  the  same  for  Fast  Castle. 
But,  woman,  the  thing  is  impossible ;  the 
cases  are  not  parallel.  It  mightna  be  a 
difficult  matter  to  scale  the  highest  part  o' 
the  walls  o'  Home  Castle,  and  ladders 
could  easily  be  got  for  that  purpose  ;  but, 
at  Fast  Castle,  wi'  the  draw-bridge  up,  and 
the  dark,  deep,  terrible  chasm  between 
you  and  the  walls,  like  a  bottomless  gulf 
between  time  and  eternity  ! — I  say,  again, 
for  my  part,  the  thing  is  impossible. 
Wha  has  strength  o'  head,  even  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  look  doun  frae  the  dark  and  dizzy 
height  o'  the  Wolf's  Craig? — and  wha 
could  think  o'  scaling  it  ?  Even  if  it 
had  been  possible,  the  stoutest  heart  that 
ever  beat  in  a  bosom  would,  wi'  the  sick- 
ening horror  o'  its  owner's  situation,  be- 
fore he  was  half-way  up,  be  dead  as  the 
rocks  that  would  dash  him  to  pieces  as  he 
fell !  Na,  na,  I  should  hae  been  glad  to 
lend  a  helping  and  a  willing  hand  to  ony 
practicable  plan,  but  it  would  be  madness 
to  throw  away  our  lives  where  there 
couldna  be  the  slightest  possibility  o'  suc- 
cess." 

^'  Listen,"  said  Madge  ;  ''  I  ken  what 
is   possible,    and  what   is  impossible,   as 
weel  as  ony  o'  ye.     I  meant  that  ye  should 
tak  for  example  the  dauntless  spirit  o'  my 
kinsman  and  the  men  o'  Home,  and  ho 
their  manner  o'  entering  the  castle.     But, 
if  yer   hearts   beat  as  their   hearts   did, 
before    this   hour    the    morn's   nicht   the 
invaders  will  be  driven  frae  Fast  Castle. 
In  the  morning  we  are  ordered  to  take 
provisions   to   the   garrison.     I    shall  be 
wi'  ye,    and   in   the   front   o'   ye.     But, 
though  my  left  arm  carries   a  basket,  be- 
neath my  cloak  shall  be  hidden  the  bit 
sword  which  my  guidman  wore  in  the  wars 


against  King  Harry  ;  and  as  I  reach  the 
last  sentinel — '  Now,  lads  !  now  for  Scot- 
land and  our  Queen  !'  I  shall  cry  ;  and 
wha  dare  follow  my  example  .'" 

"  I  dare  !  I  will !'  said  Florence  Wil- 
son, "  and  be  at  yer  side  to  strike  doun 
the  sentinel ;  and  sure  am  I  that  there  isna 
a  man  here  that  winna  do  or  die,  and  drive 
owre  enemies  frae  the  Castle,  or  leave  his 
body  within  its  wa's  for  them  to  cast  into 
the  sea.  Every  man  o'  us,  the  morn,  will 
enter  the  Castle  wi'  arms  concealed  aboot 
him,  and  hae  them  ready  to  draw  and 
strike  at  a  moment's  warning.  Ye  canna 
say  freends,  but  what  this  is  a  feasible 
plan,  and  ye  winna  be  outdone  in  bravery 
by  a  woman.     Do  ye  agree  to  it  .^" 

There  were  cries  of — "  Yes,  Florence, 
yes  ! — every  man  o'  us  !'' — and  "  It  is  an 
excellent  plan — it  is  only  a  pity  that  it 
hadna  been  thocht  o'  suner,"  resounded 
on  all  sides ;  but  "  Better  late  than  never," 
said  others. 

"  Come  round  me,  then,"  said  Madge ; 
and  they  formed  a  circle  around  her. 
"  Ye  swear  now,"  she  continued,  "  in  the 
presence  o'  Him  who  see'th  through  the 
darkness  o'  night  and  searcheth  the  heart, 
that  nane  o'  ye  will  betray  to  oor  enemies 
what  we  hae  this  nicht  determined  on ; 
but  that  every  man  o'  ye  will,  the  morn, 
though  at  the  price  o'  his  life,  do  yer  ut- 
most to  deliver  owre  groaning  country  frae 
the  yoke  o'  its  invaders  and  opj)ressors  ! 
This  ye  swear  .?" 

And  they  bowed  their  heads  around 
her. 

'^  Awa,  then,"  added  she,  ''  ilka  man  to 
his  ain  hoose,  and  got  his  weapons  in  rea- 
diness." And,  leaving  the  copse,  they 
proceeded  in  various  directions  across  the 
desolate  moor.  But  Florence  Wilson  ac- 
companied Madge  to  her  dwelling ;  and, 
as  they  went,  she  said — 

"  Florence,  if  ye  act  as  weel  the  morn 
as  yc  hae  spoken  this  nicht,  the  morn  shall 
my  dochter,  Janet,  be  yer  wife,  wi'  a  fu' 
purse  for  her  portion  that  neither  o'  ye 
kens  aboot." 


THE  GUIDWIFE   OF  COLDINGHAM. 


103 


He  pressed  her  hand  in  the  fulness  of 
his  heart ;  but  she  added — 

"  Na,  na,  Florence,  I'm  no  a  person 
that  cares  aboot  a  fuss  being  made  for  the 
sake  o'  gratitude — thank  me  "wi'  deeds. 
Remember  I  have  said — a'  depends  on  yer 
conduct  the  morn.'' 

When  they  entered  the  house,  poor 
Janet  was  weeping,  because  of  her  mo- 
ther's absence,  for  she  had  expected  her 
for  two  days  ;  and  her  apprehensions  were 
not  removed  when  she  saw  her  in  the 
company  of  Florence,  who.  although  her 
destined  husband,  and  who,  though  he  had 
long  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  her  daily, 
had  called  but  once  during  her  mother's 
absence,  and  then  he  was  sad  and  spoke 
little.  She  saw  that  her  parent  had  pre- 
vailed on  him  to  undertake  some  desperate 
project,  an,d  she  wept  for  his  sake. 

When  he  arose  to  depart,  she  rose  also 
and  accompanied  him  to  the  door. 

"  Florence,"  said  she,  tenderly,  "  you 
and  my  mother  hae  some  secret  between 
ye,  which  ye  wiuna  communicate  to  me." 

"  A'  that  is  a  secret  between  us,^'  said 
he,  "  is,  that  she  consents  that  the  morn 
ye  shall  be  my  winsome  bride,  if  ye  be 
willing,  as  I'm  sure  ye  are  ;  and  that  is 
nae  secret  that  I  wad  keep  frae  ye  ;  but  I 
didna  wish  to  put  ye  aboot  by  mentionino- 
it  before  her." 

Janet  blushed,  and  again  added — 

"  But  there  is  somethino;  mair  between 
ye  than  that  Florence,  and  why  should  ye 
hide  it  frae  me  .^" 

"  Dear  me,  hinny  !"  said  he,  "  I  won- 
der that  ye  should  be  sae  apprehensive. 
There  is  nae  secret  between  yer  mother 
an'  me  that  isna  weel  kenned  to  every  ane 
in  the  country-side.  But  just  ye  hae  pa- 
tience— bide  a  wee^— wait  only  till  the 
morn  ;  and,  when  I  come  to  lead  ye  afore 
the  minister,  I'll  tell  ye  a'thiug  then." 

"  An'  wherefore  no  tell  me  the  noo, 
Florence  .'"  said  she.  "I  am  sure  that 
there  is  something  brewing,  an'  a  danger- 
ous something  too.  Daur  ye  no  trust  me  t 
Ye  may  think  me  a  weak  an'  silly  crea- 


ture ;  but  if  I  am  not  just  so  rash  and 
outspoken  as  my  mother,  try  me  if  I  haena 
as  stout  a  heart  when  there  is  necessity 
for  showing  it." 

"  Weel,  Janet,  dear,"  said  Florence, 
"  I  winna  conceal  frae  ye  that  there  is 
something  brewing — but  what  that  some- 
thing is  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell.  I  am 
bound  by  an  oath  not  to  speak  o't,  and  so 
are  a  hunder  others,  as  weel  as  me.  But 
the  morn  it  will  be  in  my  power  to  tell  ye 
a'.  Noo,  just  be  ye  contented,  and  get 
ready  for  our  wedding." 

"And  my  mother  kens,"  Janet  was 
proceeding  to  say,  when  her  mother's 
voice  was  heard  crying  from  the  house — 

"  Come  in,  Janet — what  are  ye  doing 
oot  there  in  the  cauld  ? — ye  hae  been  lang 
enough  wi'  Florence  the  nicht — but  the 
morn's  nicht  ye  may  speak  to  him  as  lang 
as  ye  like.     Sae  come  in,  lassie." 

As  the  reader  may  suppose,  Madge  was 
not  one  whose  commands  required  to  be 
uttered  twice  ;  and,  with  a  troubled  heart, 
Janet  bade  Florence  "  Good  nio-ht ,"  and 
returned  to  the  cottasre. 

It  was  a  little  after  sunrise  on  the  fol- 
lowing day,  when  a  body  of  more  than  a 
hundred  peasantry,  agreeably  to  the  com- 
mand of  the  governor,  appeared  before  the 
Castle,  laden  with  provisions.  Some  of 
them  had  the  stores  which  they  had  brought 
upon  the  backs  of  horses,  but  which  they 
placed  upon  their  own  shoulders  as  they 
approached  th'e  bridge.  Amongst  them 
were  fishermen  from  Eyemouth  and  Cold- 
ingham,  shepherds  from  the  hills  with 
slaughtered  sheep,  millers,  and  the  culti- 
vators of  the  patches  of  arable  ground  be- 
yond the  moor.  With  them,  also,  were 
a  few  women  carrying  eggs,  butter,  cheese, 
and  poultry ;  and  at  the  head  of  the  pro- 
cession (for  the  narrowness  of  the  draw- 
bridge over  the  frightful  chasm,  beyond 
which  the  Castle  stood,  caused  the  com- 
pany to  assume  the  form  of  a  procession 
as  they  entered  the  walls)  was  Madge 
Gordon,  and  her  intended  son-in-law, 
Florence  Wilson. 


104 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down  to 
them  ;  the  last  of  the  burden-bearers  had 
crossed  it ;  and  Madge  had  reached  the 
farthest  sentinel,  when  suddenly  dropping 
her  basket,  out  from  beneath  her  grey 
cloak  gleamed  the  sword  of  her  dead 
husband  ! 

"  Now,  lads  ! — now  for  Scotland  and 
our  Queen  !"  she  exclaimed,  and  as  she 
spoke,  the  sword  in  her  hand  pierced  the 
body  of  the  sentinel.  At  the  same  instant 
every  man  cast  his  burden  to  the  ground, 
a  hundred  hidden  swords  were  revealed, 
and  every  sentinel  was  overpowered. 

"  Forward,  lads  !  forward  !"  shouted 
Madge. 

"  Forward  !"  cried  Florence  Wilson, 
with  his  sword  in  his  hand,  leading  the 
way.  They  rushed  into  the  interior  of 
the  Castle ;  they  divided  into  bands. 
Some  placed  themselves  before  the  arsenal 
where  arms  were  kept,  while  others  rushed 
from  room  to  room,  making  prisoners  of 
those  of  the  garrison  who  yielded  willingly, 
and  showing  no  quarter  to  those  who  re- 
sisted. Many  sought  safety  in  flight,  some 
flying  half-naked,  aroused  from  morning 
dreams  after  a  night's  carouse,  and  almost 
all  fled  without  weapons  of  defence.  The 
effect  upon  the  garrison  was  as  if  a  thun- 
derbolt had  burst  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Within  half  an  hour.  Fast  Castle  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  peasantry,  and  the  entire 
soldiery  who  had  defended  it  had  either 
fled,  were  slain,  or  made  prisoners. 

Besides  striking  the  flrst  blow,  Madge 
had  not  permitted  the  sword  of  her  late 
husband  to  remain  idle  in  her  hands  dur- 
ing the  conflict.  And,  as  the  conquerors 
gathered  round  Florence  Wilson,  to  ac- 
knowledge to  him  that  to  his  counsel, 
presence  of  mind,  and  courage,  as  their 
leader,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  that 
prevailed,  they  owed  their  victory,  and 
the  deliverance  of  the  east  of  Berwickshire 
from  its  invaders,  Madge  pressed  forward, 
and,  presenting  him  her  husband's  sword, 
said — 

"  Tak  this,  my  son,  and  keep  it — it  was 


the  sword  o'  a  brave  man,  and  to  a  brave 
man  I  gie  it — and  this  night  shall  ye  be 
my  son  indeed." 

"  Thank  ye,  mother mother  !"  said 

Florence.  And  as  he  spoke  a  faint  smile 
crossed  his  features. 

But  scarce  had  he  taken  the  sword  in 
his  hand,  ere  a  voice  was  heard,  crying — 

"  Where  is  he } — where  shall  I  find 
him  ? — does  he  live  t — where  is  my  mo- 
ther .?" 

"  Here,  love  ! — here  !  It  is  my  Janet !" 
cried  Florence  ;  but  his  voice  seemed  to 
fail  him  as  he  spoke. 

^'  Come  here,  my  bairn,"  cried  her 
mother,  "  and  in  the  presence  o'  these 
witnesses  receive  a  hand  that  ye  may  be 
proud  o'." 

As  part  of  the  garrison  fled  through 
Coldingham,  Janet  had  heard  of  the  sur- 
prise by  which  the  Castle  had  been  taken, 
and  ran  towards  it  to  gather  tidings  of  her 
mother  and  affianced  husband  ;  for  she 
now  knew  the  secret  which  they  would  not 
reveal  to  her. 

As  she  rushed  forward,  the  crowd  that 
surrounded  Florence  gave  way,  and,  as 
he  moved  forward  to  meet  her,  it  was  ob- 
served that  he  shook  or  staggered  as  he 
went ;  but  it  was  thought  no  more  of ;  and 
when  she  fell  upon  his  bosom,  and  her 
mother  took  their  hands  and  pressed  them 
together,  the  multitude  burst  into  a  shout 
and  blessed  them.  He  strove  to  speak — 
he  muttered  the  word  "Janet !"  but  his 
arms  fell  from  her  neck,  and  he  sank  as 
lifeless  on  the  ground. 

"  Florence  !  my  Florence  ! — he  is 
wounded — murdered  !"  cried  the  maiden, 
and  she  flung  herself  beside  him  on  the 
ground. 

Madge  and  the  spectators  endeavored 
to  raise  him  ;  but  his  eyes  were  closed ; 
and,  as  he  gasped,  they  with  difficulty 
could  understand  the  words  he  strove  to 
utter — "  Water — water  !" 

He  had,  indeed,  been  wounded — mor- 
tally wounded — but  he  spoke  not  of  it. 
They  raised  him  in  their  arms  and  carried 


THE  RECLUSE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES. 


105 


him  to  an  apartment  in  the  Castle  ;  hut, 
ere  they  reached  it,  the  spirit  of  Florence 
Wilson  had  jQed. 

Poor  Janet  clung  to  his  lifeless  body. 
She  now  cried — "  Florence  ! — Florence  ! 
— we  shall  be  married  to-night ! — yes  ! — 
yes  ! — I  have  everything  ready  !''  And 
again  she  spoke  bitter  words  to  her  mother, 
and  said  that  she  had  murdered  her  Flo- 
rence. The  spectators  lifted  her  from  his 
body,  and  Madge  stood  as  one  on  whom 
affliction,  in  the  midst  of  her  triumph,  had 
fallen  as  a  palsy,  depriving  her  of  speech 
and  action. 

"  My  poor  bereaved  bairn !"  she  at 
length  exclaimed  ;  and  she  took  her  daugh- 
ter in  her  arms  and  kissed  her — "  ye  hae 
indeed  cause  to  mourn,  for  Florence  was  a 
noble  lad  ! — but,  oh,  dinna  say  it  was  my 


doing,  hinny  ! — dinna  wyte  yer  mother ! 
— will  ye  no,  Janet  ?  It  is  a  great  com- 
fort that  Florence  has  died  like  a  hero." 

But  Janet  never  was  herself  again.  She 
became,  as  their  neighbors  said,  a  poor, 
melancholy,  maundering  creature,  going 
about  talking  of  her  Florence  and  the 
surprise  of  Fast  Castle,  and  ever  ending 
her  story — "  But  I  maun  awa  hame  and 
get  ready,  for  Florence  and  I  are  to  be 
married  the  nicht." 

Madge  followed  her,  mourning,  where- 
soever she  went,  bearing  with  and  soothing 
all  her  humors.  But  she  had  not  long  to 
bear  them  ;  for,  within  two  years,  Janet 
was  laid  by  the  side  of  Florence  Wilson, 
in  Coldingham  kirkyard  ;  and,  before  ano- 
ther winter  howled  over  their  peaceful 
graves,  Madge  lay  at  rest  beside  them. 


THE  RECLUSE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES. 


"  Still  caring-,  despairing, 
Must  be  my  bitter  doom ; 
My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er 

But  with  the  closing  tomh.''— Burns. 


I  RESIDED,  some  years  ago,  in  the  island 
of  Tyree,  which  is  one  of  the  most  western 
of  the  Hebrides  ;  and,  in  the  course  of  my 
business,  had  often  occasion  to  cross  by 
the  base  of  Ben  Chinevarah,  whose  rugged 
and  sterile  appearance  impresses  the 
mind  with  a  sickening  sadness.  The  nar- 
row footpath  sometimes  dives  into  the 
deep  and  sullen  gloom  of  the  mountain 
glen,  whose  silence  is  unbroken,  save  by 
the  torrent's  red  rush,  and  again  winds 
along  the  edge  of  the  steep  precipice, 
among  the  loose  rocks  that  have  been  hurl- 
ed from  their  beds  aloft  by  the  giant  ef- 
forts of  time,  where  the  least  false  step 
would  precipitate  the  unwary  traveller  in- 
to the  abyss  below.  There  no  cheering 
sound  of  mirth  was  ever  heard,  the  blythe 


whistle  of  the  ploughman  never  swelled 
upon  its  echoes,  nor  often  did  the  reapers' 
song  disturb  its  gloomy  silence.  The  ear 
is  assailed,  on  the  one  hand,  by  the  dis- 
cordant and  dismal  notes  of  the  screech- 
owl  ;  and,  on  the  other,  by  the  angi-y  roar 
of  the  waves  that  beat,  with  ceaseless  lash, 
the  broken  shore.  A  small  hut  now  and 
then  bursts  upon  the  view,  raising  its  low- 
ly roof  beneath  the  shelter  of  the  mountain 
rock,  and  adds  to  the  cheerlessness  of  the 
scene.  One  of  those  small  cottages  often 
attracted  my  notice,  by  its  external  neat- 
ness, and  the  laborious  industry  by  which 
a  small  garden  had  been  formed  around 
the  dwelling  ;  and,  by  degrees,  I  ingrati- 
ated myself  into  the  good  gjraces  of  its 
owner,  who,   I  found,  by  his  knowledge 


106 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


and  conversation,  was  of  a  different  cast 
from  the  dwellers  around  him.  I  knew, 
hy  his  accent,  that  he  was  a  foreigner  ; 
and,  feeling  an  interest  in  him,  I  often 
endeavored  to  gain  some  account  from 
him  of  the  early  part  of  his  life  ;  but  when 
the  subject  was  hinted  at,  he  at  once 
changed  the  conversation. 

Having  occasion,  last  summer,  to  spend 
some  days  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in  Ar- 
gyleshire,  I  availed  myself  of  this  oppor- 
tunity to  visit  my  old  acquaintance  at 
Tyree.  I  found  him  stretched  on  the  bed 
of  sickness,  and  fast  verging  towards  his 
end.  When  last  I  had  seen  him,  his  ap- 
pearance, though  infirm,  evinced  but  few 
signs  of  physical  decay  ;  and,  though  the 
Storms  of  fourscore  winters  had  blown  over 
him,  still  his  eye  sparkled  with  animation, 
and  his  raven  locks  retained  the  fresh  and 
jetty  color  of  the  native  of  "  Italia's  sun- 
ny clime."  But  now,  how  changed  the 
appearance.  His  eyeballs  were  dim,  deep 
sunken  in  their  sockets  ;  a  few  scattered 
gray  hairs  waved  carelessly  over  his  finely 
arched  eyebrows  ;  and  his  forehead  and 
cheeks  were  deeply  furrowed  with  the 
traces  of  sickness  and  secret  wo.  When 
I  entered  the  lowly  dwelling,  he  raised  his 
lack  lustre  eyes,  and  stretched  forth  his 
hand  to  meet  my  grasp. 

"  And  is  heaven  yet  so  kind,"  said  he, 
raising  his  wasted  hand  in  thanks  to  the 
Disposer  of  all  Good,  "  as  to  send  one 
pitying  friend  to  soothe  my  dreary  and  de- 
parting moments.  Ah  !  sir,  the  hand  of 
the  grim  tyrant  is  laid  heavily  upon  me, 
and  I  must  soon  appear  in  the  presence  of 
an  unoffended  Deity.  If  you  knew  how 
awful  are  the  feelings  of  a  mind  loaded 
with  iniquity,  of  a  soul  immersed  in  guilt, 
when  the  last  moment  is  approaching  that 
separates  us  from  mortality,  and  the  mis- 
deeds of  a  wickedlife  stand  in  ghastly  array, 
adding  stings  to  an  already  seared  con- 
science, you  would  shrink  at  what  you  now 
deem  the  gay  dreams  of  youthful  frailty, 
and  shun  the  delusive  and  seducing  snares 
of  a  wretched  world." 


Pointino;  to  a  block  of  wood  alongside 
his  pallet  bed,  he  desired  me  to  be  seated, 
and,  after  drying  the  tear  of  sorrow  from 
his  swollen  eye,  he   thus   proceeded  : — 
"  Often,  in  those  moments  when  the  sweet 
beams  of  health  were  mine,  have  you  de- 
sired a  recital  of  the  events  of  my  past 
life ;  but  a  feeling  of  shame  withheld  me 
from  the  task.  Now,  when  I  have  nothing 
to  fear  but  death  and  the  dread  hereafter, 
if  you  will  have  the  patience  to  hear  me, 
I  will   briefly  unfold  to  you  the    causes 
which  reduced  me  from  a  state  of  affluence 
to  become  a  fugitive  amid  the  rugged  rocks 
and  the  inclement  skies  of  a  foreign  land." 
I  assented,  and  he  went  on  with  his  story. 
"  My  name,"  said  he,  ''in  the  more 
fortunate  years  of  my  life,  was  Alphonsus ; 
and  the  city  of  Venice  gave  me  birth.     I 
was  the  only  child  of  an  opulent  citizen ; 
and  need   scarcely    inform   you  that  no 
restraint  was  laid  upon  my  inclinations 
when  a  child ;  and  the  dawn  of  manhood 
beheld  me  plunged  amid  every  intempe- 
rance which  that  luxuiious  city  then  afford- 
ed.    Money  was  plentifully  supplied  me 
by  my  parents  to  support  my  extravagan- 
ces ;  and  I  sought  after  happiness  among 
the  romids  of  pleasure  and  the  gay  circles 
of  society  ;  but  I  only  met  with  desires 
ungratified,  hopes   often  frustrated,    and 
wishes  never  satisfied,      I  had  a  friend. 
He  was  called  Theodore.     I  loved  him  as 
dearly  as  a  selfish  being  like  myself  could 
love    any   one.      He    shared   in   all   my 
pleasures. 

"  An  amorous,  jealous,  and  revengeful 
disposition  is  commonly  laid  to  the  share 
of  the  Italians  ;  and,  with  sorrow  I  con- 
fess, those  formed  the  principal  ingredients 
of  my  character.  I  had  reached  my  twen- 
tieth year  of  thoughtlessness  and  folly, 
when  one  night  at  the  opera,  a  young  lady, 
in  an  opposite  box,  attracted  my  attention  ; 
and  my  eyes  were  insensibly  riveted  upon 
the  beauteous  figure.  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  she  was  beautiful — she  was  loveliness 
itself.  I  will  not  trespass  on  your  time 
in  describing  the  new  and  pleasing  sensa- 


THE  RECLtrSE  OF  THE  HEBRIDES. 


107 


tioas  that  arose  in  my  bosom  ;  you  Iiave 
trod  the  magic  paths  of  pleasure,  and 
bowed  to  the  charms  of  beauty  ;  they  are 
not  unknown  to  you. 

''  1  felt  tliat  all  my  libertine  pursuits 
had  only  been  the  shadows  of  pleasure  ; 
and  from  that  moment  1  determined  to 
abandon  them,  and  fix  my  love  on  her 
alone.  We  became  acquainted,  and  1 
found  that  she  was  as  worthy  of  the  purest 
love  as  my  fond  wishes  desired.  She  was 
the  only  child  of  Count  Rudolpho.  And, 
for  the  space  of  three  months,  I  was  a  con- 
stant visitor  at  her  father's  palazzo.  In 
due  time  I  pleaded  the  force  of  my  love. 
But,  gods  !  what  were  the  sensations  of 
my  soul,  when  the  tear  started  from  her 
eye  of  beauty,  and  the  dreadful  sentence 
burst  upon  my  ear — '  I  am  the  bride  of 
Theodore  !' 

*'  I  burst  from  her  presence  with  a  pal- 
pitating heart,  and  returned  homewards 
agitated  by  the  conflicting  passions  of 
despair  and  revenge.  I  drew  my  sword 
from  its  sheath,  and  promised  the  blood  of 
Theodore,  of  the  friend  of  my  bosom  to 
its  point.  The  steel  trembled  in  my 
grasp  as  the  vow  fell  from  my  lips,  and  my 
heart  -recoiled  at  the  idea  of  shedding 
blood  ;  but  the  still  small  voice  was  an  un- 
equal match  with  the  baneful  principles  of 
a  corrupted  soul." 

The  Recluse  stopped,  and  the  loud  sobs 
of  sorrow  and  repentance  alone  burst  upon 
the  gloomy  silence  of  the  scene.  The 
hectic  flush  of  fever  played  and  wantoned 
across  his  pallid  features,  as  if  it  seemed 
to  exult  in  the  weakness  of  mortality,  and 
delio'ht  in  the  loveliness  of  its  own  soul- 
loathed  ravages.  The  tears  dropped  large 
and  plentiful  from  his  eyes,  and  his  spirit 
seemed  bended  and  broken  with  the  rack- 
ins;  remembrance.  I  bent  over  the  wast- 
ed  form  of  the  wretched  penitent,  and, 
while  I  poured  the  voice  of  comfort  in  his 
ear,  and  wiped  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  his 
soul  resumed  its  wonted  firmness,  and  even 
a  smile  beamed  upon  his  blanched  lips,  as 
he  grasped  my  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 


bosom    in    silence    and    with    thankful- 
ness. 

"Behold!"  said  he,  drawing  an  old 
sword  from  beneath  the  side  of  his  misera- 
ble straw  pallet ;  "  behold  this  steel,  red- 
rusted  with  the  blood  of  Theodore,  from 
which  the  bitter  tears  of  sixty  long  winters 
have  been  unable  to  efface  the  stain.  Par- 
don the  feelings  of  an  infirm  old  man.  My 
soul  weeps  blood  at  the  remembrance. 

"  I  pitched  upon  the  bridal  eve  of  Theo- 
dore for  that  of  his  death,  and  the  seizure 
of  his  bride  ;  and  hired  the  leader  of  a 
band  of  ruffians  to  assist  me  in  the  scheme. 
The  fatal  night,  so  big  with  horror,  at 
last  arrived.  The  sun  sank  sullenly  into 
the  shades  of  the  west,  and  his  departing 
gleams  glanced  redly  and  angrily  upon 
me.  The  raven  wings  of  early  night  fell 
upon  Venice ;  and  I  stepped  into  my  gon- 
dola, with  my  hired  followers.  We  set 
forward  upon  our  errand.  The  palazzo 
of  Count  Albert  was  soon  gained.  Busy 
nature  waxed  calm  and  hushed  ;  the  arti- 
zan  had  retired  to  the  sweets  of  his  lowly 
but  happy  cottage  ;  the  convent  bell  had 
tolled,  solemn  and  slow,  the  vesper  knell ; 
and  then 

"  uprose  the  yellow  moon," 
silvering  the  rippling  waters  of  the  canals, 
and  glancing  its  beams  upon  the  glittering 
palaces  of  Venice.  It  was  a  lovely  night ; 
but  my  soul  ill  brooked  the  calm  grandeur 
of  the  scene. 

"  By  the  treachery  of  a  servant,  my 
comrades  were  admitted  into  Count  Ru- 
dolpho's  grounds,  whilst  I  attended  the 
nuptial  rites  with  the  well-dissembled  face 
of  friendship.  Joy  was  dancing  in  every 
eye  but  mine.  My  hand  trembled  at  times 
on  the  hilt  of  my  poniard,  and  I  awaited 
the  favorable  moment  with  a  degree  of 

a 

impatience  bordering  on  frenzy.  Many  a 
fair  maid  was  there  tripping  amid  the  joy- 
ous throng,  whose  beauty  might  have 
warmed  the  frigid  heart  of  an  anchorite  ; 
but  my  eyes  and  mind  were  upon  the  dear, 
dear  Violetta  :  she  was  lovelier  than  ever^ 
but — she  was  the  spouse  of  Theodore. 


108 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


^'  The  garden  of  the  Count  was  remark- 
ably  beautiful,   and  the  trees   in    it  had 
been  grandly  festooned   with    variegated 
lamps  on  the  present  occasion.   The  night 
was  pleasant  and   calm,  and  the  youthful 
couple  retired  from  the  crowded  saloon  to 
the  garden  for  a  few  minutes  to  enjoy  the 
freshness  of  nature.     I  silently  followed, 
tinperceived,  till  they  seated  themselves 
in  an  arbor,  whose  beauty  was  unworthy 
of  a  villain's  tread.     Then  suddenly  I  pre- 
sented myself  at  the  entrance  ;  and  the 
unsuspicious  Theodore  rose  to   embrace 
me.     How  shall  I  give  utterance   to  the 
rest  ?     My  friend  rose  to   embrace  me  ; 
and  I  drew  my  poniard,  and  was  about  to 
plunge  it  into  his  bosom,  when  Violetta, 
whose  attention  this  action  had  not  es- 
caped rushed  between  us  to  stay  my  hand. 
Horror  !  her  heart  received  the  blow  I  had 
intended  for  her  husband.      She  uttered  a 
piercing  cry,  and  fell,  a  bleeding  corpse, 
•at  my  feet. 

"  The  sound  attracted  the  attention  of 
my  ruffianly  associates,  who  were  ready  at 
hand  to  carry  off  the  bride,  and  the}'-  hur- 
ried to  the  spot.  Theodore  at  first  sur- 
prised and  terror-stricken,  now  roused 
himself  to  energy.  With  the  fury  of  a  | 
maniac,  he  rushed  upon  me  and  felled  me 
senseless  to  the  earth.  How  long  I  lay  in 
this  situation,  I  know  not ;  but  when  my 
senses  returned,  the  palazzo  was  in  flames, 
and  the  clashing  of  swords  and  the  groans 
of  the  wounded  sounded  horribly  in  my 
ears.  And  this  was  my  doing.  I  had 
been  the  means  of  introducing  into  Count 
Rudolpho's  grounds  a  band  of  despera- 
does, to  whom  bloodshed  was  familiar ; 
and  I  doubted  not  that  they  were  at  their 
work  of  blood  and  rapine.  I  repented  of 
the  deed,  but  it  was  too  late. 

"  The  murdered  Violetta  lay  on  the 
ground  at  a  short  distance  from  me  ;  the 
moonbeams  played  full  upon  her  ghastly 
and  distorted  features  ;  and  her  robes, 
her  bridal  robes,  were  deeply  stained  with 
blood.  Her  pulse  had  long  since  ceased 
to  beat,  and  she  felt  cold  to  the  touch. 


'  Resolved  that  no  profane  hand  should 
consign  to  the  earth  her  blessed  remains, 
I  threw  the  body  across  my  shoulder,  and 
fled  with  it  from  the  garden.  I  felt  not 
the  weight  of  the  burden,  for  excitement 
made  me  *  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's 
nerve.'  I  soon  reached  the  canal,  leapt 
into  my  gondola  with  my  precious  bur- 
ben,  and  shortly  afterwards,  gained  my 
father's  palace.  Ere  the  moon  set,  I  had 
dug  a  deep  grave  in  his  garden,  in  which 
I  buried  her  on  whom  1  had  doated,  be- 
dewing the  earth  with  my  tears  as  I  pro- 
ceeded in  my  work. 

"It  was  at  length  completed  ;  and,  with 
the  morning's  dawn,  I  fled  from  Venice. 
Despair  added  wings  to  my  flight,  and 
the  land  of  France  received  me  in  her  fos- 
tering arms.  I  have,  since  that  time, 
wandered  in  many  a  clime  to  wear  away 
my  grief,  but  in  vain.  I  have  fought  un- 
der the  banner  of  your  king ;  and,  though 
my  arm  was  never  palsied  in  the  day  of 
battle,  death  has  been  denied  me.  I  now 
lie  here,  aged  and  forlorn.  The  hand  of 
death  is  heavy  on  me,  and  chilly  tremors 
are  creeping  over  my  exhausted  frame. 
The  just  decrees  of  God  have  denied  me 
even  a  friend  to  close  my  weary  eyes  ;  and 
my  dust  must  mingle  with  the  dust  of 
strangers,  far,  far  from  the  sepulchre  of 
my  fathers,  and  the  home  of  my  child- 
hood." 

After  a  short  pause,  the  Recluse  con- 
tinued : — 

"  Here,  sir,"  said  he,  "  take  this  sword 
— it  has  been  the  constant  companion  of 
my  travels — its  blade  is  unsullied  by  ig- 
noble blood  ;  and  when  you  look  upon  it, 
after  the  o-rave  receives  the  wretched  Al- 
phonsus,  it  may  convey  a  lesson  that 
volumes  could  not  inculcate." 

I  received  the  sword  from  his  hand, 
which  was  trembling  and  cold.  He  turn- 
ed his  face  from  me ;  and  before  I  had 
time  to  speak,  a  deep  groan  announced 
his  departure  to  the  mansions  of  another 
world.  I  called  the  inmates  of  the  ad- 
joining cottage,  who  took  charge  of  the 


THE  MINISTER'S   DAUGHTER, 


109 


body  ;  and  I  left  the  spot  with  a  feeling 
which  words  cannot  express,  but  which 
will  be  understood  by  those  who  look  with 


the  eye  of  pity  upon  the  errors  of  a  fel- 
low-mortal. 


THE    MINISTER'S    DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Lives  there  a  man  who  calls  his  heart  his  own, 
Can  look  on  ripening  beauty's  breathing  eye — 

The  breast  of  snow — love's  altar  and  its  throne — 
The  lips  round  which  sweet  smiles  and  graces  fly — 

The  more  than  sculptured  elegance — the  tone 
Of  loveliness  and  health,  whose  vermil  dye 

Is  with  the  early  lily  blent,  on  cheeks 

Whose  very  blush  of  love  and  conquest  speaks. 

Say,  is  there  one  on  these  can  fondly  gaze, 

Nor  feel  his  heart  turn  rebel  to  his  will  ; 
Till  all  that  charmed  is  changed — the  voice  of  praise — 

The  smile  of  friends — his  haunts,  hy  wood  or  hill — 
The  sports,  the  joys,  the  all  of  early  days — 

Have  lost  their  music,  and  he  gazeth  still 
Upon  the  fair  enchantress — changer — all  I 

Till  she,  too,  changed,  shall  on  his  bosom  fall. 

BuRNPATH  was  a  small  fishing  village  in 
the  South  of  Scotland,  of  which,  many 
years  ago,  a  Mr.  Robertson  was  minister. 
He  had  a  daughter  of  great  beauty,  whose 
name  was  Mary.  It  was  October,  and 
there  had  been  a  wreck  upon  the  coast 
during  the  night.  By  daybreak,  old  and 
young  were  upon  the  beach.  Amongst 
them  was  Mary  Robertson.  She  came 
upon  the  seeming  lifeless  body  of  a  youth, 
who,  by  his  dress,  appeared  to  be  an 
officer.  She  bent  over  him.  She  fancied 
there  was  still  warmth  at  his  heart.  She 
called  for  help,  and  bearing  him  to  her 
father's  house,  within  an  hour  animation 
was  restored. 

On  the  following  morning,  Mr.  Robert- 
son led  into  the  breakfast  parlor,  a  noble- 
looking  young  midshipman.  Youthful 
enthusiasm,  sadness,  and  gratitude,  ap- 
peared blended  on  his  features.  His  eyes 
were  of  a  deep  and  piercing  black  ;  at  first 
sight,  almost  unpleasantly  so,  seeming  to 
search   the   very   thoughts   of    those   on 


whom  he  looked.  But  his  countenance 
was  animated  and  expressive ;  and  his 
bright  brown  hair  fell  carelessly,  in  thick 
natural  curls,  over  a  broad  and  open  brow. 
His  stature  somewhat  exceeded  the  middle 
size  ;  and  his  person,  though  not  inelegant, 
was  rather  robust  than  handsome ;  while 
his  age  could  not  exceed  five  and  twenty. 
Mutual  concrratulations  were  exchano;ed  : 
and  he  had  been  seated  but  a  few  minutes, 
when  Mary  placed  a  small  pocket  Bible  in 
his  hands.  He  glanced  at  her  for  a  mo- 
ment, almost  unmeaningly  ;  and  opened 
it  with  a  look  of  perplexed  curiosity. 
When  the  Psalm  commenced,  he  seemed 
surprised  and  startled  at  the  affinity  it  and 
the  chapter  which  was  read  by  Mary  bore 
to  his  own  situation.  He  appeared  puz- 
zled, confounded,  interested  ;  and,  when 
they  knelt  in  prayer,  he  looked  round  in 
embarrassment,  as  one  who  wist  not  what 
to  do.  He  was  evidently  a  stranger  ta 
such  things.  Of  the  prayer,  he  knew  not 
what  to  think.  He  was  at  once  pleased, 
overpowered,  and  offended. 

"  It  may  be  all  very  good,"  said  he  to 
himself;  "but  it  is  scarce  civil  to  call  a 
gentleman  a  sinner  to  his  face  !  He  is 
very  anxious  about  my  spiritual  state  to- 
day, but  my  body  might  have  perished  for 
him  yesterday,  had  not  that  glorious  crea- 
ture exerted  herself." 

While  he  thus  thought,  he  gazed  ob- 
liquely on  her  kneeling  form,  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand,  with  his  face  turned 
toward  the  chair  where  she  knelt,  till  his 
gaze   became   riveted — his   thoughts  ab- 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


sorbecl ;  and,  as  she,  with  her  father,  rose, 
he  started  to  his  feet,  and,  almost  uncon- 
scious of  what  had  passed,  looked  round 
in  ill-disguised  bewilderment. 

Leaving  him,  however,  to  overcome  his 
confusion,  we  shall  introduce  our  readers 
to  what  we  know  of  his  family. 

Henry  Walton — for  so,  in  future,  we 
shall  designate  him — was  the  only  son  of 
Sir  Robert  Walton,  in  the  county  of 
Devon.  Sir  Robert  was  proud  of  his  son, 
and  loved  him  second  only  to  his  bottle, 
his  chestnut  hunter,  and  his  hounds  ;  or, 
rather,  he  loved  them  less,  but  thought  of 
them  more. 

"  Bravo  !  Hal  is  father's  better,"  said 
he;  "  there  goes  a  chip  of  the  old  block  !" 
as  Henry  cleared  a  five-barred  gate,  or 
brought  down  a  pigeon  on  the  wing  with  a 
bullet.  Not  that  he  would  have  risen  a 
shade  in  the  esteem  of  the  Baronet,  had 
he  carried  in  his  head  the  wisdom  of 
Greece  and  the  eloquence  of  Rome.  All 
oratory  was  alike  to  him  save  the  "  sound 
of  the  bugle-horn."  Henry,  however,  had 
other  qualifications,  which  were  a  theme 
of  continued  praise  with  his  father.  He 
was  a  keen  sportsman — a  dead  shot ;  and 
when  but  nineteen,  disguised  as  a  coun- 
tryman, he  had  attended  the  annual  "  re- 
vel" at  Ashburton,  where  his  father  pre- 
sided as  umpire,  and  was  to  bestow  five 
guineas,  from  his  own  purse,  on  the  victor 
wrestler.  Having  inserted  a  fictitious 
name  upon  the  lists,  he  entered  the  ring, 
and  alternately  threw  his  three  brawny 
opponents  two  fair  back-falls  each,  amidst 
the  deafening  shouts  of  all  the  strong  men 
in  Devonshire.  He  now  approached, 
hanging  his  head,  toward  his  father,  to 
receive  the  extended  reward. 

"Swinge  !  look  up,  man!"  vociferated 
Sir  Robert  in  the  excess  of  his  admiration, 
accompanying  the  request  with  a  hearty 
slap  on  the  shoulder  •,  "  Swinge !  I  say, 
look  up,  man,  for  thou'st  a  good  mi !" 

Henry  bowed,  and,  without  speaking, 
retired  with  the  purse  ;  and,  to  increase 
the  astonishment  of  the  spectators,  divided 


its  contents  among  the  three  chopfallen 
and,  in  truth,  not  over-pleasant-looking 
antagonists  he  had  vanquished.  At  this 
act  of  generosity,  the  Devonians  shouted 
and  bellowed  forth  their  lusty  and  reiter- 
ated applause,  as  if  determined  to  shake 
down  the  sun  from  the  heavens,  to  crown 
the  brows  of  the  conqueror.  Sir  Robert 
shouted  louder  than  the  loudest — rushed 
into  the  ring — grasped  the  hand  of  the 
victor,  and  shook  it  with  an  honest  en- 
thusiasm that  would  have  relieved  a  more 
delicate  hand  from  the  future  trouble  of 
wearing  fingers. 

"  Faith,  and  dang  it !"  said  he,  "  and 
thou  art  a  good  un.  Now,  for  that  same, 
instead  of  five  guineas,  here  are  ten  for 
thee.  But  why,  man,  look  up,  and  let  us 
see  thy  face,  and  pull  off  thy  night-cap." 

So  saying,  he  without  ceremony  unfast- 
ened a  napkin  Henry  had  bound  around 
his  head,  to  aid  his  concealment. 

"  Swinge  !  what  I"  shouted  Sir  Robert 
— "  my  own  son — my  own  Hal !  father's 
better  !— 0  Lord  !  O  Lord  !" 

He  danced  in  the  extreme  of  ecstacy, 
and  hugged  him  furiously  to  his  heart,  till 
he  who  had  overthrown  three,  fell  beneath 
the  muscular  embrace  of  his  father. 

Henry's  grandfather,  after  living  forty 
years  in  the  unnatural  and  unsocial  state 
by  some  called  single  blessedness,  and  re- 
maining proof  against  the  shafts  of  blind 
gods  and  bright-eyed  divinities,  found  his 
philosophy  disturbed  by  the  laughing  face, 
the  exquisite  neck,  and  the  well-rounded 
arm  of  a  pretty  haymaker,  who  was  a  par- 
ish apprentice  to  one  of  his  own  tenants. 
Blue  eyes,  auburn  locks,  and  a  waist  sym- 
metry itself  (for  it,  too,  had  arrested  the 
admiration  of  the  bachelor),  are  not  to  be 
trifled  with  in  a  hay-field,  in  a  glowing  day 
in  June,  when  the  melting  fragrance 
smells  to  heaven,  the  lark  pours  down  the 
full  tide  of  melody  and  affection  over  the 
nest  of  his  delicfhted  and  listenins:  mate, 
and  the  very  butterflies  pursue  each  other, 
flutter,  shake  their  downy  wings,  and  wan- 
ton love  in  the  dreamy  air  !     If  a  bachelor 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Ill 


will  go  abroad  on  sucli  a  day,  lie  should 
lock  up  his  heart  in  his  writing-desk.  But 
our  old  baronet,  never  having  made  the 
discovery  that  he  was  in  possession  of  one, 
overlooked  this  precaution — 

"  Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  ;" 

till  the  whole  group  of  curtsying  hay- 
makers burst  into  a  titter  at  the  confusion 
of  his  Honor.  He  shortly  found  means 
to  declare  his  passion,  though  it  is  true  he 
never  dreamed  of  marriage :  but  the  fair 
maiden  dreamed  of  nothing  else  ;  and,  to 
the  astonishment  of  her  wealthy  lover, 
would  hear  of  nothing  else.  Therefore, 
Susan  Prescott  became  Lady  Walton,  and, 
in  due  time,  the  mother  of  Sir  Robert. 

Within  two  years  after  their  marriage, 
the  Baronet  dropped  from  his  chair,  while 
drawing  the  cork  of  his  third  bottle,  in  a 
fit — which  Lady  Walton  could  not  re- 
member the  name  of !  She  wept,  like  a 
dutiful  widow,  over  her  husband ;  who, 
having  a  constitutional  terror  of  the 
thought  of  death  (though  by  no  means  a 
coward),  had  ever  banished  everything 
that  tended  to  remind  him  of  mortality  ; 
and  thereby  dying  without  a  will,  left  the 
future  guardianship  and  education  of  Sir 
Robert  to  his  mother.  She  had,  indeed. 
Lad  fifty  tutors,  as  she  said,  superintend- 
ing the  studies  of  the  young  heir  of  the 
Priory  ;  for  none  staid  beyond  a  month, 
and  she  assured  them — "  She  would  allow 
no  such  hungry  nothings  to  contradict  her 
Bobby,  who  was  a  good  scholar,  and  mo- 
ther's darling." 

For  the  little,  therefore,  that  Sir  Robert 
did  know,  he  was  more  indebted  to  natu- 
ral quickness,  and  the  occasional  lessons 
of  the  vicar,  who  forced  them  upon  him  in 
defiance  of  his  mother's  displeasure,  than 
to  his  fifty  tutors. 

On  the  year  after  his  coming  of  age,  in 
despite  of  the  tears  and  upbraidings  of 
Lady  Walton,  Sir  Robert  ordered  his  tra- 
velling carriage,  his  double-barreled  fowl- 


ing-piece, and  all  the  et  ceteras  of  a 
sporting  campaign  ;  and  left  the  "  garden 
and  watering-place  of  England"  (as  its 
inhabitants  call  it,  and  with  some  cause), 
for  a  shooting  excursion  on  the  moors  of 
Scotland.  Against  this  journey  his  mother 
wept,  prayed,  and  protested ;  but  her 
tears,  her  entreaties,  and  protestations, 
were  lost  upon  her  son  ;  who,  after  seeing 
his  pack  properly  packed  up,  sprang  into 
his  carriage,  whistling 

"  Over  the  hills  and  far  awa," 

with  a  suddenness  and  a  weight  that  made 
the  wheels  creak  and  the  horses  stagger  ; 
while  her  Ladyship  kept  thrusting  beneath 
his  feet  bundles  of  stockings,  flannels,  and 
dreadnoughts,  sufficient  for  a  Greenland 
voyage,  or  a  North  West  passage — "  Quite 
certain,"  as  she  said,  poor  soul,  and  sob- 
bing as  she  said  it,  while  she  scrambled  up 
to  the  carriage  for  another  parting  kiss, 
that  her  dear  Bobby  would  be  frozen  to 
death,  that  he  would,  in  that  cold,  out- 
landish country  !  But  they  could  expect 
no  better,  who  would  not  take  a  mother's 
advice." 

''  Good-by,  mother  !"  cried  Sir  Robert. 
Crack  went  the  whip-^whir  went  the 
wheels — the  horses  tossed  their  heads — 
the  hounds  raised  a  farewell  note — and 
away  went  the  baronet,  with  a  sound  heart 
and  light,  to  the  hills  of  "bonny  Scot- 
land." 

The  shooting  season  had  but  commenc- 
ed. Sir  Robert  had  been  but  a  few  days 
in  the  Highlands,  when  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  a  brother  sportsman.  Major 
Cameron  was  a  hardy,  weather-beaten 
veteran,  who  had  only  his  half -pay  to  live 
upon,  with  his  honest  scars,  and  the  blood 
of  Lochiels  in  his  veins,  to  boast  of.  He 
had  been  distinguished  as  a  fearless  and 
able  officer,  was  possessed  of  considerable 
shrewdness,  and  his  knowledge,  if  not  deep, 
was  general.  He  had  had  a  dream  of 
ambition  in  his  youth  ;  but  a  Majority, 
with  permission  to  retire  upon  half-pay 
— and,  more  than  these,  the  death  of  a 


112 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


beloved  wife,  with  the  education  and  care 
of  an  only  daughter — dispelled  the  en- 
chantment. He  now  rented  a  beautiful 
cottage,  and  a  few  surrounding  acres,  in 
the  neififhborhood  of  Inverness. 

Shortly  after  their  acquaintance,  the 
Major — though  certainly  not  strucii  with 
the  attainments  of  the  young  baronet,  yet 
pleased  with  his  constant  good  humor,  his 
love  of  sport,  and,  perhaps  (but  we  can't 
tell) ,  not  overlooking  his  fortune  and  his 
own  daughter — invited  him  to  his  house. 
The  simple  elegance  of  Miss  Cameron's 
household  startled  Sir  Robert.  She,  too, 
stood  before  him  in  all  the  glory  of  young 
womanhood.  To  say  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful, is  to  say  the  least  that  we  could  say. 
Her  person  was  tall,  graceful,  and  com- 
manding ;  and  her  mind  adorned,  not  mere- 
ly with  ornamental,  but  domestic  accom- 
plishments. It  is  true  her  father,  though 
a  good  soldier,  a  good  citizen,  and  an 
indulgent  parent,  had  no  fixed  or  guiding 
principle  of  religion.  He  believed  himself 
a  Christian  ;  but  he  was  one  of  those  who 
do  not  make  their  religion  the  rule  of  their 
life  ;  and  under  such  a  teacher,  while  she 
received  a  high  sense  of  honor  and  a  pure 
morality,  her  religion,  like  that  of  many 
others,  consisted  in  attending  the  church, 
and  finished  with  the  service. 

To  think  of  a  warm-hearted,  unsophisti- 
cated young  fellow,  like  Sir  Robert,  hold- 
ing out  against  the  artillery  of  her  eyes  for 
a  week,  were  as  impossible  as  to  suspend 
the  earth  from  a  packthread  !  He  looked 
— that  is  to  say,  he  looked  as  stupid — as 
people  generally  do  when  the  eyes  have  to 
perform  the  ofl&ce  of  the  tongue.  Within 
a  fortnight,  the  young  sportsman  bade 
good-bye  to  the  moors.  His  game  lay  in 
the  Major's  cottage.  His  blood  rose  to  a 
fever  heat  without  Lady  Walton's  flannels. 
Twenty  times  in  the  twenty-four  hours  he 
sighed,  looked  in  her  face,  and  said,  "  Miss 
Cameron!"  looked  to  the  ground  again, 
and  said  no  more.  And  when,  at  length, 
the  Major  rallied  him  on  letting  the  shoot- 
ing season  slip — "  Why,  dang  it,  d'ye  see, 


Major,"  said  he,  ''  I  came  here  to  shoot, 
and  I've  got  shot  myself  !  So,  if  thou  art 
my  friend,  now  or  never  ask  Miss  Came- 
ron." 

The  Major  had  already  reasoned  that  he 
must  die  and  leave  his  daughter  unprovided 
for,  and  an  orphan.  The  thought  cut  him 
to  the  heart.  It  had  often  cost  him  tears. 
The  baronet  was  rather  ignorant,  but  he 
was  good-natured.  It  was  evident  he 
loved  his  daughter — she  might  instruct 
him.  He  was  rich  ;  he  had  influence — 
the  Major  might  yet  obtain  a  regiment ! 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  veteran  to  him- 
self, "  she  must — Jess  shall  marry  the 
Englishman." 

Miss  Jess  Cameron  was  sufficiently 
aware  of  the  state  of  her  lover's  heart,  not 
to  be  surprised  by  her  father's  announce- 
ment of  his  wishes ;  and,  having  weighed 
the  matter  much  in  the  same  manner,  with 
the  additional  reflection  that  Sir  Robert 
was  a  handsome  fellow — though  rather 
huge  withal — she  blushed  a  soft  consent ; 
and  the  marriage  articles  being  agreed  to, 
signed,  and  sealed,  before  brown  October 
had  run  its  course,  the  travelling  carriage 
containing  Sir  Robert,  his  lady,  and 
father-in-law,  was  again  on  its  way  to 
Buckham  Priory. 

On  their  arrival,  the  then  dowager  Lady 
Walton  grew  pale — then  all  the  hues  of 
the  rainbow — and  finally  settled  into  a 
bursting  red. 

^'Lady  Walton! — Lady  Walton,  in- 
deed I"  she  repeated,  and  wrung  her 
hands  ;  till  "  liady  Walton  !"  was  heard 
in  every  room  of  the  Priory. 

"  Two  Lady  Waltons  in  one  house  !" 
she  again  cried,  and  flew  to  her  bottle  for 
consolation.  Cider  had  been  her  favorite 
beverage  ;  but,  continuing  to  mix  it  too 
strongly  with  brandy,  in  a  few  years  after 
this  proof  of  her  son's  disobedience,  the 
good  lady  went  out  of  this  world  with 
nearly  as  little  ceremony  as  her  dear 
deceased  husband. 

Previous  to  his  being  sent  to  the  univer- 
sity,  Henry's  studies  were  anxiously  di- 


THE    MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


113 


rectcd  by  his  excellent  mother  and  grand- 
father ;  while  his  father  took  upon  him  the 
guidance  of  his  bodily  exercises.  He  had 
now  been  about  four  years  in  tlic  navy. 
Sir  Robert  swore,  "  Hal  was  not  father's 
son,  in  making  choice  of  such  a  profes- 
sion." His  mother  would  rather  he  had 
chosen  the  arni}^,  while  his  grandfather 
sighed  and  wondered  at  his  taste.  Such, 
at  this  period  of  our  story,  were  the  in^ 
habitants  of  the  Priory  ;  whom  having  in- 
troduced to  our  readers,  we  proceed  with 
our  narrative. 

Return  we  now  to  the  Manse.  Burn- 
path  was  a  beautiful,  though  irregular  lit- 
tle village,  lying,  perhaps,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  (we  cannot  speak  to  a  measured  cer- 
tainty) from  the  sea.  The  long,  bleak, 
dark  ridge  of  Lammermuir  smiled  into 
fertility,  as  its  eastern  boundary  descended 
towards  the  kirk.  A  young  forest  of  pines 
spread  proudly  over  the  surrounding  hills. 
A  wimpling  burn,  which,  at  times,  assumed 
the  airs  of  a  cataract,  ran  in  manifold  and 
antic  windings  through  a  steep  ravine,  or 
rather  chasm,  in  the  mountains  that 
stretched  back  into  the  desert.  The 
brook  imitated,  as  it  neared  the  sea,  the 
importance  of  a  river,  and  separated  the 
Manse  from  the  village.  A  wooden  deal, 
resting  on  the  opposite  banks,  served  as  a 
bridge  during  the  flood  ;  and,  in  summer, 
four  large  stones,  about  three  feet  apart, 
answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  ferry. 

We  have  already  said  the  Manse  looked 
to  the  sea.  It  was  a  dark,  dingy-looking 
house — old,  black,  and  solid  ;  with  deep, 
narrow,  castellated  windows ;  and  huge, 
massy  chimneys,  rising,  like  staircases, 
from  its  foundations,  on  the  outside  of  each 
gable.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  clump  of 
oaks,  and  thin,  dry,  aged  firs,  the  extremi- 
ties of  which  had  forgotten  the  seasons. 
Several  wer^  broken  and  branchless,  and 
two  uprooted  by  the  late  storm.  The 
tombs  joined  with  a  corner  of  the  build- 
ing. The  owl  already  shrieked  on  the 
eaves  for  its  midnight  meal ;  and  the  daw 
perched  on   the  roof  of  the    anticipated 

VOL.    II-  8 


ruin.  The  bat  wheeled  around  it  undis- 
turbed ;  and  the  villagers,  though  accus- 
tomed to  its  gloom,  felt  loneliness  creep 
through  their  flesh  as  they  approached  it 
after  twilight.  The  house  had  no  evil 
name ;  but  situation  is  everything  (as 
landlords  say)  and  the  Manse  had  an  evil 
situation. 

The  picture,  however,  had  two  lights. 
Before  it,  lay  a  sloping  garden,  disposed 
and  pruned  by  the  band  of  taste  ;  and 
from  its  highest  elevation,  its  shadow  was 
seen  sleeping  in  the  depths  of  the  quiet 
sea.  Around  it  spread  the  purple  hills  ; 
and,  with  the  breeze  that  swept  down 
their  heathery  sides,  bearing  health  upon 
its  bosom,  mingled  the  notes  of  the  shep- 
herd's flute  and  the  bleating  of  his  flocks. 
There,  too,  amidst  the  young  pines,  the 
wild  dove  welcomed  the  spring,  the  lark 
filled  the  air  with  music,  and  the  linnet 
trilled  its  artless  note  from  the  yellow 
whins.  Within,  the  fire  of  comfort 
blazed,  and  the  eye  of  afi'ection  beamed. 
Such  was  the  village  of  Burnpath,  and  its 
Manse. 

Mr.  Robertson  felt  for  Henry,  a  feeling 
of  admiration  and  pity.  He  admired  his 
ardent  and  enthusiastic  spirit — he  pitied 
its  recklessness.  He  admired  the  fervid 
brilliancy  of  his  imagination — he  lamented 
its  objects.  He  admired  the  warmth  and 
intensity  of  his  feelings,  the  extent  of  his 
knowleds^e,  and  the  clearness  of  his  under- 
standing — while,  to  use  his  own  words,  he 
pitied  his  ignorance  of  the  knowledge 
which  alone  maketh  rich  unto  salvation. 
These  sentiments,  with  a  pious  and  an 
anxious  wish  that  he  might  be  instrumen- 
tal in  awakening  within  him  a  concern  for 
his  future  welfare,  induced  him  to  solicit 
Henry  to  remain  for  several  weeks  beneath 
his  hospitable  roof.  The  invitation  was 
accepted,  with  a  rapture  that  might  have 
betrayed  other  feelings  than  gratitude  ; 
but  this  Mr.  Robertson  attributed  to  the 
warmth  of  his  young  friend's  disposi- 
tion. 

Mary,    too,   heard  the  proposal  made 


114 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


and  accepted,  with  a  delight  which  she 
strove  not  to  disguise.  Melancholy  passed 
from  her  brow,  a  smile  played  upon  her 
cheeks,  and  a  tear — no,  it  could  not  be 
called  a  tear — it  was  a  drop  of  joy — of — 
but  no  matter.  Henry  was  by  her  side — 
he  had  taken  her  hand — she  offered  not  to 
withdraw  it.  He  said  nothing — there  was 
no  need  to  say  anything.  It  was  mere 
congratulation  at  the  prospect  of  his  re- 
maining a  few  weeks  longer.  Mary 
thought  that  was  her  meaning ;  it  was,, 
doubtless,  Henry's  also  ;  and  her  father 
thought  so  too. 

About  twelve  weeks  had  passed.  Hen- 
ry felt  exquisitely  happy.  Mr.  Robert- 
son's prayers  had  become  quite  delight- 
ful ;  for  then  he  could  take  long  deep 
draughts  of — he  scarce  knew  what — on 
the  lovely  form  that  knelt  by  his  side  ; 
save  when  she,  too,  stole  a  sidelong  glance, 
and  their  eyes  met — were  withdrawn — and 
both  blushed — blushed,  it  may  be,  at  their 
want  of  devotion.  Nevertheless,  Henry 
was  happy  ;  Mary  was  happy,  too.  Hap- 
piness is  contagious :  her  father  grew 
cheerful  and  jocular.  He  was  convinced 
Henry  was  becoming  religious. 


CHAPTER    II. 

The  morning  stars  were  twinkling  still. 

The  cock  but  thrice  did  craw, 
When  our  guid  laird  rode  owre  the  hill, 

In  weddin  suit  sae  braw. 

And  aye  he  clapped  his  ain  brown  mare 
That  she  her  feet  micht  ply  ; 

And  aye  he  crooned  a  canty  air — 
"A  happy  man  am  I." 

'•  Oh  I  a  happy  man  am  ?,'•  quo'  he, 
"  As  e'er  was  blest  or  born  I" 

And  owre  the  hill  he  rode  in  glee, 
Upon  his  weddin  morn. 

Now  ane  by  ane  the  stars  gaed  out, 

And  birds  began  to  sing  ; 
And  a'  the  air  became  a  shout 

Of  music  on  the  wing. 

His  cheek  was  flushed  but  it  grew  pale 

Before  the  stars  returned, 
And  music  was  a  maniac's  wail 

Where  desolation  mourned 


For  vainly  whimpered  he  a  catch, 

And  vainly  did  he  ride — 
'Twas  but  to  see  another  snatch 

Away  his  bonny  bride  I 

It  had  been  long  understood  that  the 
lovely  Mary  Robertson  was  to  become  the 
wife  of  a  rich  bachelor,  of  ripe  middle  age, 
named  Mr.  Cuthbertson.  Their  wedding- 
day,  indeed,  had  been  long  fixed  by  her 
father  and  wooer,  and  its  eve  had  arrived. 
But,  on  that  day,  she  secretly  gave  her 
hand  to  Henry  Walton. 

On  the  evening  preceding  the  day  ap- 
pointed for  his  marriage,  Mr.  Cuthbertson 
came  smiling  through  Burnpath,  patting 
the  shaggy  neck  of  his  companion.  He 
appeared  to  sit  lighter  on  his  saddle  than 
usual;  and  the  glad  creature,  either  par- 
ticipating in  his  joy,  or  grateful  for  the 
termination  of  its  journey,  ambled  and 
affected  all  the  importance  of  a 

"  Courser  of  the  Ukraine  breed." 

The  rider  had  laid  aside  his  fashionable 
blacks.  Stopping  in  the  passage,  and 
castinoj  off  what  was  rather  a  warm  than 
a  fashionable  roquelaure,  he  displayed  a 
coat  of  superfine  Saxony  blue  ;  which,  up- 
on a  body  of  better  proportions,  would,  in 
those  days,  have  purchased  immortality 
for  'he  most  fashionable  Schneider  in  Bond 
Stre-.  Beneath,  appeared  a  waistcoat 
white  as  the  driven  snow,  adorned  with 
ornamentcil  mother-of-pearls,  and  unbut- 
toning his  overalls,  a  pair  of 

"  Lean  and  slippered  pantaloons." 

were  discovered,  of  the  same  consistency 
and  hue  as  his  coat.  Thus  prepared,  af- 
ter smoothing  back  his  hair  from  his  fore- 
head, and  adjusting  his  cravat,  the  joyous 
bridegroom  made  one  stride  to  the  parlor 
door. 

We  know  not  how  our  unfortunate  pro- 
genitor looked  in  Paradise,  when  ques- 
tioned— "  Adam,  what  hast  thou  done  .^" 
but,  certainly,  not  less  horror-stricken 
was  our  well-dressed  lover,  when  his  next 
step  brought  him  in  front  of  his  lovely 
bride  ;  with  her  arms  thrown  around  the 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


115 


neck,  and  lier  face,  bathed  in  tears,  buried 
in  the  bosom  of  Henry  Walton.  His 
mouth  opened  to  its  utmost  width.  His 
large  eyes  became  still  larger ;  they 
strained  forward  n-om  their  sockets,  ready 
to  leap  on  the  devoted  pair.  His  clenched 
hands  were  raised,  and  in  contact  with  the 
roof.  The  shakino;  beo!:an  in  his  heart, 
and  his  knees  caught  the  contagion.  Eve- 
ry joint  appeared  under  the  power  of 
electricity,  and  communicated  its  influence 
to  the  furniture  in  the  room.  The  quiver- 
ing vibrations  of  his  whole  person  resem- 
bled a  wire  suspended  from  the  ceiling, 
and  struck  by  an  instrument,  which  gave 
forth  one  sepulchral  sound  ;  and  with  a 
loud,  deep  groan,  his  tall  figure  fell  insen- 
sible on  the  floor. 

Mary  groaned  also,  and  endeavored  to 
raise  him,  but  could  not,  Henry  sprang 
to  his  assistance,  and  lifting  him  from  the 
ground,  placed  him  upon  the  sofa.  For 
a  time,  his  bones  seemed  melted,  and  his 
joints  out  of  their  place.  At  length  his 
eyes  began  to  roll — his  teeth  grated  to- 
gether— he  threw  out  his  tvv^o  clenched 
hands  furiously — tore  open  his  spotless 
vest,  and  rending  it  in  frenzy,  the  unfor- 
tunate mother-of-2:)earis  followed  the  frag- 
ment, and  were  driven  across  the  room. 
The  destruction  of  his  costlj  Marseilles 
recalled  a  portion  of  his  scattered  senses  ; 
he  gave  a  piteous  glance  at  his  breast,  to 
see  the  rend  "  his  envious  finsrers  made  ;" 
then  turning  his  eyes  upon  Henry,  who 
still  bent  over  him,  he  uttered  a  loud  yell ; 
thrust  his  fingers  in  the  throat  of  his  rival, 
as  a  tiger  springs  upon  its  prey  ;  and,  in  a 
moment,  darted  to  his  feet.  Cuthbertson 
was,  at  no  time,  deficient  in  physical 
strength  ;  and  now,  aided  by  frenzy,  his 
grasp  was  the  dying  gripe  of  a  giant. 
Henry,  who  was  unprepared  for  the  attack, 
became  black  in  the  strangling  hold  of  his 
antagonist.  Mary,  recalled  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  her  situation  by  the  conflict, 
,  screamed  for  assistance,  supplicated  and 
threatened,  but  in  vain.  At  that  moment 
he"  father  returned  from  Edinburgh.     So 


soon  as  his  astonishment  admitted  of  words, 
he  mingled  his  inquiries,  entreaties,  and 
threats,  with  his  daughter's.  Cuthbert- 
son's  eyes  gloated  with  indignation  ;  his 
teeth  gnashed ;  he  uttered  short,  thick 
screams,  and  his  fingers  yet  clung  to  the 
throat  of  his  opponent.  Henry,  however, 
who,  though  less  in  stature,  inherited  the 
gigantic  strength  of  his  father,  and  the 
skill  of  a  wrestler,  threw  his  arms  around 
his  man,  fixed  his  knuckles  into  the  most 
susceptible  part  of  his  back,  and  raising 
his  foot  to  his  knee,  hurled  him  to  the 
earth,  with  a  violence  that  seemed  to  shake 
the  very  walls  of  the  Manse. 

In  a  moment  Cuthbertson  was  again 
upon  his  feet,  "  weeping,  wailing,  and 
gnashing  his  teeth."  Henry  stood  by 
Mary's  side. 

"  Mary,"  said  her  father,  "  tell  me  the 
cause  of  this  unseemly  scene — that,  on 
my  return,  instead  of  the  sounds  of  joy 
and  rejoicing,  I  hear  wrath  and  profane 
language  ;  and,  behold,  my  best  friends 
tear  each  other  as  wild  beasts  !" 

Mary  was  silent ;  she  glanced  at  Henry, 
and  clung  to  his  side  for  protection. 

"O  sir!  sir!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertson— "  we  are  ruined — lost — undone  ! 
The  villain  ! — the  monster  ! — the  seducer  ! 
— has  torn  from  me  the  pride  o'  my  heart, 
and  the  delight  o'  my  een  !  He  has 
turned  the  house  o'  joy  into  shame,  and 
the  bridal  sang  to  lamentation  !  O  Mr. 
Robertson  !  what's  to  be  dune  noo  .-'  Ma- 
ry, Mary,  woman,  wha  wad  hae  thocht  this 
o'  you .''" 

Mr.  Robertson's  blood  chilled  in  his 
veins  ;  his  flesh  grew  cold  upon  his  bones  ; 
an  icy  sweat  burst  from  his  forehead  ;  an- 
s'er  and  sorrow  kindled  in  his  face.  He 
looked  upon  his  daughter  with  a  blighting 
frown.  It  was  the  first  she  had  ever  seen 
upon  his  mild  features.  His  tongue  fal- 
tered ;  he  said,  "  Mary!"  as  if  an  accus- 
ino-  spirit  from  the  grave  had  spoken  it ; 
and  the  frown  blackened  on  his  counte- 
nance. She  heard  her  name  as  she  had 
never  before  heard  it  from  a  parent's  lips. 


116 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


She  beheld  his  look  of  anguish  and  of 
scorn — the  tear  and  the  curse  meeting  in 
a  father's  heart  for  his  own  child  !  She 
uttered  a  self-accusing  groan,  and  fell 
lifeless  at  his  feet. 

Janet  Gray,  the  aged  housekeeper,  and 
who  had  been  Mary's  nurse,  entered  with 
the  maid-servant,  and  carried  her  to  her 
room.  Her  father  turned  with  an  up- 
braiding look  toward  Henry,  and  said — 

"  Mr.  Walton,  as  an  injured  man  and  a 
mourning  parent,  I  demand  from  you  the 
explanation  of  circumstances  which,  1 
fear,  have  brought  dishonor  upon  my 
house,  and  shame  upon  my  grey  hairs ! 
Tell  me  ! — tell  an  agonized  father — was 
your  heart  so  void  of  mercy  and  of  grati- 
tude, as  to  ruin  the  bosom  that  saved  you 
from  destruction  ?  Answer  me,  Henry 
Walton  ! — I  conjure  you  as  in  the  pre- 
sence of  your  Maker — remove  my  fears, 
or  seal  my  misery  !" 

"It  is  your  own  deed!"  exclaimed 
Henry  bitterly.  "  I  loved  your  daughter. 
I  would  have  fled  from  your  house  for 
ever.  You — you  withheld  me  !  and  my 
soul  grew  mad  with  love.  I  would  still 
have  fled,  have  buried  me  in  the  deep 
from  which  she  snatched  me  ;  but  I  could 
not  rule  destiny.  She  loved  me — only 
me.  She  is  mine  !  Your  daughter  can- 
not wed  that  man." 

Mr.  Robertson  seemed  smitten  by  a 
voice  from  heaven  ;  he  wrung  his  hands — 
threw  himself  back  in  despair,  and  wept. 
"  Canna  marry  me  !"  cried  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertson — "  she  shall  marry  me  !  And  on 
you,  ye  sacrilegious  dyvour,  I'll  have 
satisfaction,  if  satisfaction  can  be  had  in 
the  three  kingdoms  ;  for  baith  heaven  and 
earth  will  rise  up  and  battle  upon  my 
side  !" 

''  Sir,"  said  Henry,  in  sympathy  for 
your  feelings,  I  forgive  those  epithets.  If 
I  have  robbed  you  of  her  hand,  I  have  not 
of  her  aflfections — they  were  never  yours. 
But  I  will  not  withhold  from  you  the  satis- 
faction you  demand  ;  and,  to-morrow,  or 


this  hour,  I  shall  be  ready  to  ofier  you 
such  reparation  as  a  gentleman  may." 

"  Then,"  cried  Mr.  Cuthbertson,  who 
understood  him  literally,  "renounce  my 
bride  for  ever  ;  and  restore  her  to  my 
heart — if  a  gentleman  can  do  that — re- 
store her  spotless  as  a  lily  opening  to 
the  spring." 

"  Henry  Walton,"  said  Mr,  Robertson, 
rising  with  apparent  composure,  "  you 
have  rendered  this  a  house  of  shame,  but 
it  shall  not  be  a  house  of  blood.  Such 
language  may  be  fitting  for  the  world,  but 
not  for  the  presence  of  a  minister  of  peace. 
This  moment  leave  my  roof;  and  may 
Heaven  change  your  heart,  and  forgive 
your  ingratitude !" 

Thus  saying,  he  took  his  hand,  and  led 
him  to  the  door.  Henry  ofiered  not  to 
resist  or  expostulate,  and  bending  a  proud 
farewell,  the  doors  of  Burnpath  ]\Ianse 
closed  on  him  for  ever. 

Mr.  Cuthbertson,  now  relieved  of  his 
rival's  presence,  took  out  his  tobacco-box, 
pulled  a  chair  to  the  fire,  ordered  a  pipe, 
threw  his  legs  across  each  other,  and  com- 
menced smoking  with  the  utmost  satisfac- 
tion and  indifierence  ;  save  that  he  occa- 
sionally bent  an  anxious  gaze  on  the  torn 
vest ;    and   looking   carefully    round   the 
room  for  the  unlucky   fragment,   and   its 
mother-of-pearl  buttons,  his  eyes  fell  up- 
on it,  and   lifting  it   from   the   floor,   he 
commenced  fitting  it  to  the  parent  cloth, 
and,   with   perfect   complacency,    said — 
"  Hoot,  it  will  mend  again.     The  seam, 
when  the  coat  is  buttoned,  will  never  be 
noticed.     Here,  lassie,"  he  cried  to  the 
servant  who  entered  the  room,  "  was  ye 
ever  at  the  sewing  school  ?" 
"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  girl. 
"  Weel,  do  ye  think,  ye  could  mak  a 
job  o'  my  waistcoat .?"  returned  he.     "  If 
ye  do  it  neatly,  ye  shall  have  half-a-crown 
to  yersel,  besides  the   ribbons  the  morn. 
But  hand  awa,  and  see  hoo  your  mistress 
is  in  the  first  place,  and  come  and  tell 
me." 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


117 


On  Henry's  departure,  Mr.  Robertson 
'entered  his  daughter's  room.  She  was 
lying  delirious,  calling  for  "  her  Henry, 
her  husband,  to  save  her !"  Janet  Gray 
Bat  by  her  side. 

"Can  it  be  thus,  Janet.?"  said  he. 
**  Does  she  call  him  hushandV* 

Janet  pointed  to  the  ring  upon  Mary's 
finger,  and  wars  silent.  Mr.  Robertson 
reeled  back,  and  leaned  his  head  against 
the  window.  The  wind  howled  without, 
■and  the  rain  dashed  upon  the  casements. 
He  hastened  down  stairs,  and  entered  the 
parlor  as  Mr.  Cuthbertson  gave  his  last 
injunction  to  the  maid. 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  have  acted 
rashly  in  turning  this  young  man  from  the 
house.  I  fear  my  daughter  is,  indeed — 
his — his  wife  !" 

^^  His  wife!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Cuthbert- 
son— "  his  wife  I" — The  pipe  fell  from  his 
mouth — the  fragment  of  the  waistcoat  was 
east  in  the  fire.  "  His  wife  !"  he  exclaimed 
a  third  time,  and  stamped  his  foot  upon 
the  floor. 

"  Go,"  said  Mr.  Robertson  to  the  girl, 
*''  see  if  Mr.  Walton  be  yet  in  the  village  ; 
and  tell  him  that  I  beg  he  will  instantly 
return.  It  is  a  dreadful  night,"  continued 
he,  addressing  his  forlorn  friend,  "and  in 
putting  him  from  my  house,  I  have  neither 
acted  as  a  father,  a  man,  nor  a  Christian.'"' 

'"  Oh  !  may  darkness  gather  round  his 
soul,  and  despair  be  the  light  of  his  heart !" 
cried  Cuthbertson  ;  "  for  he  has  made  me 
miser  able." 

The  maid  returned,  and  stated  that  Mr. 
Walton  had  not  been  seen. 

"  He  will  have  taken  to  the  moors," 
said  Mr.  Robertson  ;  "  and,  ignorant  of 
the  dangerous  way,  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  his  blood  may  be  upon  my  head." 

"  Are  ye  mad  ?  are  ye  daft ."'  said  Mr, 
Cuthbertson  wildly;  "Mr.  Robertson! 
would  you  insult  me  in  the  midst  of  my 
bereavement  ?  Would  ye  leave  me — me, 
that  ye've  kenned  for  thirty  years — to  sor- 
row as  one  that  has  no  hope  ?" 

"  Have  not  I  also  my  sorrows  .?"  replied 


Mr.  Robertson — "  the  sorrows  of  a  father 
whose  last  spring  of  comfort  is  dried  up  .? 
But  let  me  not  add  sin  to  sorrow."  And 
he  hurried  from  the  house. 

"  His  wife  !  his  wife  !"  muttered  Mr. 
Cuthbertson  to  himself.  "  Am  I  in  my 
right  senses  }  Am  I  mysel } — or  is  this  a 
dream  }  Me  that  was  to  be  married  the 
morn?  His  wife  ! — Oh,  mercy !  mercy  ! — 
hoG  lang  am  I  to  be  the  warld's  laugh,  and 
the  warld's  jeer!"  And  he  crushed  the 
broken  pipe  beneath  his  heel.  "  His 
wife  !"  he  exclaimed,  and  rushing  across 
the  room,  adding — 

"  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman !'' 


CHAPTER   III. 

the  sea  is  silent  and  the  winds  of  God 
Stir  not  its  waters  ;  on  its  voiceless  waves 

Thick  darkness  presses  as  a  mighty  load,         [graves 
Weigliing  their  strength  to  slumber.     O-er  earth's 

The  lonely  stars  are  dreaming  ;  and  the  v.'ind, 
Benighted  on  the  desert,  howls  to  find 

Its  trackless  path,  as  would  a  dying  hound. 

The  thick  clouds,  wearied  with  their  course  all  day, 

Repose,  like  shrouded  ghosts,  on  the  black  air  ; 
Or  im  the  darkness,  having  lost  their  way. 

Await  the  dawn  !     'Tis  midnight  reigns  around- 
Midnight,  when  crime  and  murder  quit  their  lair  ; 

TheJr  footsteps,  like  their  conscience— void  of  sound  ; 
Their  mission,  blood— their  recompense  despair ! 

Hour  succeeded  hour — midnight  was 
past;  Mr.  Cuthbertson  still  roamed  dis- 
consolate through  the  parlor,  at  times  ut- 
tering a  low,  bitter  sort  of  howl ;  and  the 
wind  howled  still  more  disconsolately 
through  the  old  firs :  but  Mr.  Robertson 
returned  not.  Mary  had  sunk  into  a  slum- 
ber, and  Janet  crept  softly  down  stairs  to 
inform  her  master. 

"Is  Mr.  Robertson  not  here,  sir.?" 
inquired  she,  addressing  Mr.  Cuthbertson. 

He  looked  at  his  wat<3h.  His  own  feel- 
ings were  instantly  swallowed  up  in  anxiety 
for  his  friend. 

"Preserve  us!"  he  exclaimed — "it  is 
one  o'clock !  and  six  hours  since  he  gaed 
to  the  moors,  after  the  author  o'  a'  our 
sorrows  !  What  can  hae  come  owre  him  } 
Janet,  haste  ye,  cry  up  the  callant ;  fetch 
me  my  cloak ;  and  we'll  awa  seek  for  him." 


118 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Janet  hurried  to  execute  his  orders  j 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Cuthbertson  and 
the  minister's  boy  left  the  house.  For 
three  hours  they  continued  their  fruitless 
search  upon  the  moor.  They  were  now 
near  the  cottage  of  an  aged  widow,  whom 
Henry  and  Mary  were  wont  to  visit.  A 
light  glimmered  through  the  solitary  pane  ; 
and,  as  they  approached  it,  a  murmui-ing 
sound  fell  upon  their  ears. 

"  Wheesht  ?  dinna  mak  a  noise,"  whis- 
pered Mr.  Cuthbertson,  shaking  as  he 
spoke. 

Glancins;  throug-h  the  little  window, 
they  perceived  Henry  Walton  bending 
over  the  fire.  His  face  was  pale  and  agi- 
tated. There  was  blood  upon  his  brow ; 
and,  as  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  stir 
the  decaying  embers,  it  appeared  red  and 
trembling.  Mr.  Cuthbertson's  hair  stood 
erect.  He  placed  his  finger  upon  the 
boy's  lips,  and  stole  cautiously  from  the 
cottage.  When  at  the  distance  of  a  hun- 
dred yards,  he  looked  cautiously  behind 
and  around  him ;  then  said,  in  a  deep 
whisper,  while  every  joint  shook — "  Did 
you  see  the  blood !  He  has  murdered 
him  !" 

They  reached  the  Manse,  and  commu- 
nicating their  fearful  discovery  to  Janet, 
spoke  of  obtaining  a  warrant  for  Henry's 
apprehension. 

The  5th  of  January  dawned ;  but  for  a 
bridal  it  brought  blood.  Mary's  senses 
were  returned,  but  she  knew  not  of  Hen- 
ry's departure,  nor  the  absence  of  her 
father. 

"  Janet,"  said  she,  ''  send  my  Henry  to 
me.  If  we  have  sinned  against  my  father, 
we  will  now  kneel  together  at  his  feet  for 
his  forgiveness  !  I  will  water  them  with 
my  tears !  He  could  never  behold  me 
weep  ;  and  he  will  not  now  spurn  his  poor 
child  from  his  presence.  Go,  Janet,  go  !  I 
cannot  live  unless  we  obtain  his  blessinsr." 

Janet  turned  away  and  wept.  She  sigh- 
ed, "  My  poor  ruined  bairn  !"  and  hid  her 
face  against  the  wall. 

"  O  Janet !"  said  Mary,  ^'  wiU  you  too 


hide  your  face  from  me  !  Forgive  me, 
Janet — forgive  your  poor  Mary !  If  I  have 
given  ofi"ence  to  my  father,  I  should  have 
sinned  against  heaven  in  marryino-  Mr. 
Cuthbertson  ;  for  would  it  not  be  sinful  to 
give  the  hand  to  one,  while  the  heart  clings 
to  another  ?  Come,  Janet,  do  not  turn 
from  me.  My  father  vnll  bless  us — Mr. 
Cuthbertson  himself  will  pardon  us.  Go 
call  my  Henry. 

"  The  wretch  is  not  here  !"  cried  Janet, 
in  the  transport  of  her  feelings  ;  "  and, 
oh,  that  the  sea  had  swallowed  him  ! — or 
buried  you  baith  in  its  bosom — that  I 
should  say  such  a  word ! — ^before  I  had 

lived  to  see  my  Mary  the  wife  of — a 

but  it  shanna  be  spoken  by  me  !  O  Mary ! 
Mary  ! — may  heaven  hold  ye  guiltless  !" 

"  Janet !''  said  Mary,  grasping  her  hand, 
"  have  I  merited  this  language  ? — or  what 
— Janet — what  is  its  meanincr  ?  You  trem- 
ble  !     Speak,  Janet! — speak  !" 

At  that  moment,  a  sound  of  voices  was 
heard  without.  Mary  glanced  from  the 
window ;  and  beheld  the  mangled  and 
bleeding  body  of  her  father,  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  a  group  of  villagers !  She 
gave  but  one  scream  ! — but  one  thought 
flashed  throu2;h  her  bosom.  It  was  that 
she  was  a  wife,  the  wife  of  a  murderer  ! — 
of  the  murderer  of  her  father  ! — and  Ja- 
net caught  her  in  her  arms. 

Mr.  Robertson  was  senseless,  but  his 
eyes  still  moved  ;  and  there  was  a  quiver- 
ing motion  about  his  breast.  His  wounds 
were  dressed  by  the  village  surgeon,  Mr. 
Leslie,  but  his  recovery  was  pronounced 
impossible.  Mr.  Cuthbertson  and  the  boy 
had  whispered  their  suspicions  to  the  vil- 
lagers ;  and  their  fears  augmented  their 
evidence  of  Henry's  guilt.  A  party,  who 
were  despatched  to  the  widow's  to  secure 
him,  returned  without  procuring  any  far- 
ther trace  of  him.  That  Henry  had  com- 
mitted the  deed,  no  one  but  the  surgeon 
aforementioned  entertained  a  doubt. 

As  jMary  recovered,  she  east  a  chilling 
glance  of  despair  upon  old  Janet.  A  few 
tears  followed — they  were  but  a  few  ;  and 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


119 


dashing  them  away — "  Follow  me,  Janet !" 
said  she,  calmly,  but  sternly.  The  old 
woman  obeyed,  with  a  fearful  and  me- 
chanical motion,  as  deprived  of  power  to 
resist  the  command.  She  entered  the 
apartment  where  her  father  lay.  Mr. 
Leslie  watched  anxiously  over  him  ;  while 
Mr.  Cuthbertson,  and  three  or  four  vil- 
lagers, conversed  in  deep  whispers  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  They  fell  back  at 
her  approach.  The  kindest-hearted  gazed 
on  her  with  horror.  The  boldest  shudder- 
ed, and  avoided  the  touch  of  her  garments. 
Every  bosom  was  filled  with  dark  thoughts ; 
but  none  dared  to  whisper  them  in  her 
presence.  At  the  accusing  glance  of  her 
tearless  eyes,  they  crowded  closer  together. 
She  approached  the  bed  where  her  father 
lay,  bent  for  a  moment  over  his  body ; 
kissed  his  pale  forehead ;  and,  without  a 
word,  without  a  sigh,  sat  down  by  his  side. 
The  sursreou  took  her  hand. 

CD 

"Be  comforted,"  said  he;  "your  fa- 
ther will  yet  be  able  to  explain  all ;  and 
whoever  is  guilty,  it  will  not  be  as  some 
have  said,  and  perhaps  wish."  And  he 
cast  an  upbraiding  glance  towards  Mr. 
Cuthbertson. 

"  What  do  you  mean.  Doctor  .^"  inquired 
Mr.  Cuthbertson  vehemently,  and  with  a 
degree  of  indignation  of  which,  to  do  him 
justice,  he  was  seldom  criminal.  "  What 
do  you  mean,  Doctor  .^"  he  repeated,  rais- 
ing his  voice.  "God  forbid  that  I  should 
wish  the  blood  of  a  worm  to  lie  at  the  door 
o'  my  deadliest  enemy  !  I  have  but  gien 
evidence  and  testimony  of  the  scenes  and 
of  the  blood  of  which  I  was  a  witness — 
evidence,  sir,  that  has  convinced  every 
weel-disposed  mind,  but  your  ain  ;  which, 
it  is  weel  kenned,  bears  the  mark  of  the 
beast,  and  the  image  of  the  suspected  per- 
son's !  And  could  I,  Doctor — could  I  see 
the  blood  of  my  best  friend — the  blood  of 
my  mair  than  faither — on  the  face  and  the 
hands  of  his  murderer  and  not  give  evi- 
dence to  the  truth  .-" 

Mr.  Leslie  would  have  replied,  or  or- 
dered all,  from   the  privilege  of  his  pro- 


fession, to  withdraw.  But  Mary  had  ri- 
veted her  eyes  upon  the  speaker.  When 
he  concluded,  she  arose,  walked  firmly 
across  the  floor  to  where  he  stood,  and 
darting  upon  him  a  glance  that  struck  dis- 
may into  his  heart,  and  to  the  hearts  of 
all — "  Tell  me,  accusing  spirit,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  clear  and  slow,  but  dreadful  and 
piercing  as  its  wonted  sounds  were  melo- 
dious— "  tell  me  by  what  right  ye  accuse 
my  husband  .'^" 

She  had  never  heard  Henry  named  as 
being  guilty ;  and  her  fearful  interroga- 
tion, the  vehemence  with  which  it  was 
uttered,  the  absence  of  a  single  tear  or  a 
sigh— of  anything  like  a  woman's  or  a 
daughter's  jrrief — clunsr  like  icicles  to  the 
hearts  of  all  present.  And  she,  whom 
yesterday  they  regarded  as  not  inferior  to 
an  angel,  they  now  shrank  from  as  the  wife 
of  a  murderer ;  nor  merely  his  wife,  but  his 
accomplice — his  accomplice  in  the  murder 
of  her  own  father  !  Overpowered  by  the 
conviction,  one  by  one,  they  slunk  fearful 
from  her  sight.  Each,  in  his  own  w^y, 
told  his  suspicions  ;  and,  before  night,  the 
gentle  Mary  Robertson  was  whispered  of 
with  horror ;  yea,  tongues  that  in  the 
morning  blessed  her,  trembled  to  pro- 
nounced her  name. 

Although  Mr.  Cuthbertson  did  not  par- 
ticipate in  the  idle  suspicions  of  those 
around  him  regarding  her,  yet,  awed  by 
her  appalling  look,  the  unearthly  earnest- 
ness of  her  tone  and  manner,  united  with 
the  almost  horrible  calmness  of  her  sorrow, 
he  stood  silent,  quaking  in  her  presence  ; 
and  as  she  cast  upon  him  a  deadly  glance 
of  accusation  and  scorn,  he  also  shrank 
from  the  room  with  the  deluded  villagers. 

Mary  again  took  her  seat  by  the  bedside. 
Niirht  came  and  the  morning  dawned  ;  and 
day  succeeded  day,  but  still  she  sat  silent, 
motionless,  and  tearless ;  her  cheeks  pale 
and  emaciated,  watching  as  a  spirit  by  the 
bed  of  death.  Buried  in  her  own  griefs, 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  father's  face,  sleep 
approached  her  not ;  of  food  she  was  al- 
most unconscious   when  presented;    and 


120 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


consolation  fell  upon  her  ears  as  on  a  life- 
less thing.  Life  had,  indeed,  returned  to 
her  father ;  but,  with  it,  reason  had  fled, 
lo-norant  of  all  around  him,  he  now  fan- 
cied  himself  surrounded  by  his  wife  and 
his  children.  He  spoke  to  them  ;  he 
called  them  by  their  names.  The  follies, 
and  the  glad  days  of  youth,  passed  in  ar- 
ray before  him.  Then  would  he  call  upon 
his  Mary,  his  poor  lost  Mary  !  With  him 
she  was  the  infant — the  darling — the  pride 
of  his  age — and  the  ruined  wife,  within  an 
hour !  Again  would  he  weep,  raise  his 
hands  to  bless  her,  burst  into  a  loud  laugh 
in  the  midst  of  his  blessing,  and  cry — 
"  The  murderers !"  and  in  the  same  breath, 
"  Your  husband,  Mary  !"  Still  her  fea- 
tures moved  not,  and  her  eyes  were  dry  as 
summer  heat. 

The  wild  ravings  of  Mr.  Robertson 
tended  to  strengthen  the  conviction  of  Mr. 
Cuthbertson  and  his  friends,  of  the  cer- 
tainty of  Henry's  guilt ;  and  the  circum- 
stances, augmented  by  all  that  indignation 
and  personal  suffering  could  suggest,  were 
transmitted  to  his  family  at  Buckham  Pri- 
ory. 

Still   Mr.  Leslie   would   admit    of  no 
steps  for  his  apprehension  ;  declaring  that, 
although  the   life   of  Mr.  Robertson  was 
beyond   hope,  yet,  as  the  fever  abated,  a 
lucid   interval   would    take   place   before 
death,  when  the  facts  of  the  melancholy 
event  might  be  learned  from  himself.    Mr. 
Leslie  and  Mary  were,  therefore,  the  only 
individuals   ignorant   of   the   intelligence 
sent  to  the  Priory ;  and,  for  many  days, 
with  but  momentary  intermission,  he  con- 
tinued by  the  bed  of  the  sufferer,  eager 
to  catch  the  first  word  of  certainty  regard- 
ing the  innocence  or  guilt  of  his  unhappy 
friend.     Mary  sat  beside    him  as  a  pale 
ghost :  she  was  neither  heard  to  breathe, 
nor  seen  to  move ;  but  gazed,  the  skele- 
ton of  what  she  was,  on  her  dying  parent. 
He  had  sunk  into  a  long  and  undisturbed 
sleep  ;  and  Mr.  Leslie  having  announced 
that  when  he  awoke  his  reason  would  have 
returned,    Mr.    Cuthbertson,    Janet,  and 


three  of  the  kirk  elders,  were  anxiously 
waiting  in  the  room.  He  at  length  awoke, 
and,  with  a  fond,  but  feeble  voice,  cried — 
"Mary!"— my  child!" 

Every  ear  was  strained  to  listen — every 
eye  turned  to  the  bed.  She  started  from 
her  long,  death-like  trance,  and  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck. 

"My  father!"  she  cried  wildly,  and 
pressed  her  lips  to  his.  They  were  the 
first  words  she  had  spoken  since  demand- 
ing of  Mr.  Cuthbertson  why  he  accused 
her  husband. 

"My  dear  Mary!"  said  he,  "I  feell 
have  but  a  few  minutes  to  live.  Call  your 
Henry,  that  I  may  obtain  his  forgiveness ' 
— that  you  both  may  receive  the  blessing 
of  a  dying  father  !  My  dear,  dear  child !" 
he  added,  and  endeavored  to  press  her  to 
his  breast. 

She  started  to  his  embrace.  The  tears 
burst  in  torrents  from  her  eyes.  A  loud 
laugh  rang  through  the  room  !     She  threw 

o  o  o 

herself  upon  the  ll5ed,  and  cried — "  Am  I 
not  the  wife  of  a  murderer  !  My  father  I 
— say — is  not  your  Mary  the  wife  of  her 

father's Tell  me — tell  me  ! — are  the 

hands  of  my  Henry  clean  .' — shall  I  be- 
hold him  again  .''  Speak  !  Oh,  speak,  my 
father  !" 

"Your  Henry!  my  beloved  child!" 
said  he  ;  "  no  !  no  !  where  is  my  son  P^ 

Mr.  Cuthbertson  hung  his  head  in  con- 
fusion.  The  elders  looked  upon  him  up- 
braidingly,  and  pressed  closer  to  their 
minister. 

Mr.  Robertson  now  briefly  received 
from  Mr.  Leslie  an  account  of  the  sus- 
picions that  rested  upon  Henry,  and  their 
cause.  He  begged  to  be  raised  upon  his 
bed ;  and,  throwing  his  feeble  arm  around 
his  daughter,  said — "  Forgive  ine,  my 
dear  child — forgive  your  dying  father  ; 
and,  when  you  meet  your  Henry,  obtain 
me  also  his  forgiveness.  Two  men  sprang 
upon  me  on  the  heath.  I  cried  to  Hea- 
ven for  help  ;  for  I  thought  not  that  man 
could  hear  me.  I  was  wounded,  cruelly 
wounded,  when  my  cries  brought  a  stran- 


THE   MINISTER'S   DAUGHTER. 


121 


ger  to  my  assistance  !  He  closed  witli 
the  unhappy  men,  and  by  their  cries  ap- 
peared to  overpower  them.  I  heard  his 
voice — it  was  Henry's  ! — my  child,  your 
injured  husband's  !  I  endeavored  to  fly — 
where  I  ran  I  know  not.  I  rushed  bleed- 
ins;  over  the  heath — the  earth  seemed 
turning  with  me — and  I  remember  no- 
thing- until  this  hour.  And  now  I  feel  that 
death  is  with  me  !  My  friends — fare- 
well!" 

He  took  Mr.  Cuthbertson's  hand — "  Be 
a  father  to  my  dear  child  !  Best,  gene- 
rous friend — bear  Henry  your  forgiveness, 
and  my  blessing  ! "  He  pressed  his  daugh- 
ter for  the  last  time  to  his  bosom — "  God 
of  the  orphan,  protect  my  Mary  !  Fare- 
well ! — my  child — my  joy — farewell  !" 

They  raised  her  from  his  breast  ;  but 
his  spirit  had  passed  into  the  presence  of 
Him  who  gave  it.  Mary  fell  upon  her 
knees ;  she  raised  her  eyes  to  Heaven. 
The  sealed  up  fountains  of  her  heart 
gushed  out  afresh  ;  and  destroying  joy  held 
conflict  with  bitter  agony,  bereavement, 
and  sorrow. 

Weeks  passed  on — a  successor  to  Mr. 
Robertson  was  already  nominated.  Ma- 
terials were  placed  around  the  Manse,  in 
order  to  its  undergoing  improvements  for 
his  reception.  To  Mary  they  were  a  re- 
newal of  griefs  ;  and  at  times  she  almost 
regarded  them  as  an  insult  to  her  sorrows. 
She  had  now  to  leave  the  hearth  where 
her  first  smile  of  infancy  was  greeted  by  a 
parent's  kiss.  The  furniture  being  to  her 
unnecessary,  and  not  knowing  where  to 
remove  it,  she  felt  compelled  to  announce 
it  for  sale.  Previously,  she  had  sent  her 
father's  books  as  a  present  to  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertson.  On  the  day  of  sale,  many  at- 
tended to  procure  a  remembrance  of  a  man 
whose  memory  they  esteemed.  A  stran- 
ger, however,  whose  motive  appeared  a 
determination  to  secure  all,  without  re- 
gard to  the  value,  was  the  sole  purchaser. 
Many  surmises  where  whispered  round 
regarding  him  ;  but  he  was  unknown  to 
all.     On  several  of  the  carts,  however,  in 


which  the  goods  were  conveyed  away,  ap- 
peared the  words — "  Thomas  Cuthbert- 
son,  Esq.^  Cuthbertson  Lodge.'' ^ 

Mary  left  the  Manse  on  the  preceding 
day,  and  remained  an  inmate  with  a  far- 
mer in  the  neighborhood.  She  crossed 
the  little  wooden  bridge  in  calm  resigna- 
tion,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and 
fearful  to  cast  a  look  behind.  But  Janet 
followed  and  wept.  On  the  third  morn- 
ing after  leaving  the  Manse — "  Janet," 
said  Mary,  "  business  of  importance  calls 
me  immediately  to  England.  At  this 
season,  and  at  your  years,  it  will  be  im- 
possible you  can  accompany  me.  In  a 
few  months — I  hope — I  trust,  Janet,  your 
Mary  will  be  able  to  send  for  you  again. 
In  the  meantime,  at  Mr.  Cuthbertson's 
you  will  find  a  home — in  him  a  friend.  I 
have  prepared  you  a  conveyance,  and 
must  myself  depart  to-morrow." 

"  Oh  !  dinna  speak  o't ! — dinna  think 
o't,  my  dear  bairn  !"  cried  Janet — "  what 
is  there  in  the  season,  or  what  is  there  in 
the  distance,  that  I  am  na  able  to  follow 
ye  ?  Can  ye  think  that  I  wad  see  you, 
you  a  young  an'  unprotected  cratur, 
gang  hunders  and  bunders  o'  miles,  wi' 
naebody  to  look  after  ye — naebody  to  gie 
ye  an  advice  !  O  Mary  !  neither  you  nor 
ane  o'  your  faither's  house  ever  refused 
me  a  favor  that  I  asked — an'  it  surely 
winna  be  my  ain  Mary  that  will  deny  me, 
in  a  case  like  this,  an'  for  her  ain  guid  ? 
Dinna  think  o'  leavin'  me  behint  ye  !" 

Mary  threw  her  arms  around  her  neck. 
''  Distress  me  not,  Janet  !"  cried  she — 
"  it  is  impossible  you  can  accompany  me. 
But  we  shall  meet  again  !" 

Janet  knew  not  the  forebodings  that  dis- 
tressed the  mind  of  her  young  mistress, 
nor  suspected  the  romantic  and  desperate 
nature  of  her  journey. 

"  How  can  it  be  impossible  .'"  continu- 
ed she — "  O  my  bairn  ! — how  can  it  be 
impossible  }  But  if  it  be  His  will  that  we 
maun  part,  oh,  may  it  be  only  for  a  sea- 
son, to  accomplish  the  all-wise  purposes 
o'  His  unerring  providence  ;  for   He  can 


122 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


brino-  crood  oot  o'  apparent  evil.  An'  oh, 
mind,  Mary,  hinnj,  ye  hae  nae  faither 
noo  to  direct  ye  ! — Ye  winna  liae  me  to 
advise  ye  !  But  put  your  trust  in  the 
Faither  o'  the  faitherless.  He  will  be 
your  director.  An'  oh,  should  ye  enter 
the  houses  o'  the  ungodly,  where  family 
duty  is  unheard,  as  duly  as  ye  rise,  let  the 
blessed  thought  o'  the  morning  exercise 
in  your  faither's  house,  summon  ye  to 
your  knees.  And  at  night,  when  others 
sit  down  to  cards  an'  to  gambling,  think 
that  there  were  nae  sic  books  in  the  house 
where  ye  were  brought  up  ;  an'  that  the 
hours  they  spend  in  wickedness  an'  folly, 
were  there  spent  in  prayer  and  in  edifica- 
tion, concerning  the  things  that  belong  to 
our  eternal  peace.  1  ken,  my  dear  bairn, 
that  my  words  winna  be  wasted  upon  you. 
An'  oh,  let  me  say  wi'  the  wise  maa — '  If 
sinners  entice  thee,  consent  thou  not.' 
Let  them  ca'  it  amusement — to  kill  time 
— or  what  they  will.  Life  is  uncertain 
an'  tune  is  precious.  Flee  ye  rather  to 
your  closet,  an'  there,  in  secret,  pour  out 
your  soul  before  a  prayer-hearing  God. 
An'  only  think,  if  shuffling  pieces  o'  paint- 
ed pasteboard,  sacrificing  fortune,  health, 
an'  reputation,  be  for  a  moment  to  be  put 
in  the  balance  wi'  the  sublime  privilege  o' 
holding  conversation  wi'  Him  that  sitteth 
upon  the  throne  for  ever  and  ever,  an' 
filleth  immensity  wi'  his  presence  !  They 
may  mock  you,  they  may  persecute  you ; 
but  think  o'  Him  that  was  mocked,  scourg- 
ed, spit  upon,  an'  crucified  on  a  tree,  for 
your  sake  ;  an'  remember  that  He  has 
said — '  They  who  arc  ashamed  o'  Him  be- 
fore men,  o'  them  will  He  be  ashamed 
before  His  Father  who  is  in  heaven.' 
Pray  for  a  humble  an'  a  contrite  spirit. 
In  a'  your  trials  may  He  be  your  rock  o' 
support ;  an'  wi'  this  assurance,  I  will  go 
down  to  the  grave  in  peace." 

Next  morning  Mary  parted  from  her 
faithful  domestic.  The  farmer,  with  whom 
she  resided  for  a  few  days,  sent  a  cart  with 
her  luggage  to  the  inn,  where  the  coach 
passed  for  Edinburgh.     Every  inhabitant 


in  the  village — the  old,  the  young,  and 
the  middle-aged — were  assembled  round 
the  house,  to  say  "  Farewell  I"  and  be- 
stow their  blessing.  Every  eye  was  wet ; 
and,  as  she  came  forth  to  take  their  hands, 
hers  alone  was  dry.  She  spoke  not,  for 
anguish  fettered  her  tongue  ;  and  as  she, 
without  a  sigh,  took  the  hand  of  the  last, 
and  went  forth,  a  homeless  orphan,  from 
the  midst  of  them,  they  might  have  said 
to  each  other — 

"  The  sadness  which  thou  seest  is  not  sorrow, 
Her  wounds  are  far  too  deep  for  simple  grief." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Hail,  Prudence  '.  well-fed  child  of  Forethought — hail! 

Cold,  cautious  Beauty,  in  a  Quaker's  bonnet — 
Thou  friend  indeed,  when  friends  and  patrons  fail — 

Accept  a  stranger's,  would-be-follower"s  sonnet  I 
At  thy  hard  heart,  the  purseless  fool  may  rail  : — 
"What,  though  thy  cheeks  with  pity  ne"er  were  pale — 

Ne'er  went  ye  shoeless — dinnerless — and  ne"er 

From  friendship  begged  a  cup  of  meagre  beer — 
Ne'er  bartered  from  thy  back  thy  clothes  for  sale, 

To  help  thy  hunger — never  met  the  sneer 
Of  wealth  nor  wisdom — ne'er  a  copper  gave, 

But  saved  thy  pence  a-day,  and  pounds  a-year 
No  man's  mean  debtor  ; — and  no  passion's  slave  ; 
Thy  law,  thy  god — thy  self;  thy  aim — to  savs. 

None  will  believe  Henry's  feelings  to 
have  been  of  the  most  enviable  descrip- 
tion, as  he  crossed  the  little  wooden  bridge 
leading  from  the  Manse  ;  yet  there  are  no 
moments  of  despair  of  such  dark  and  con- 
tinued depression,  but  that  hope,  like  the 
flash  of  an  angel's  wing,  will  dart  across 
the  bosom  ;  and  as  we  would  hurry  on- 
ward in  desperation,  will  chain  us  in  in- 
certitude. Acted  upon  by  the  contention 
of  such  feelings,  and  as  the  shadow  of  hope 
is  more  potent  in  the  soul  than  the  dense 
and  solid  gloominess  of  despair,  he  hurried 
across  the  heath  to  the  cottage  of  the 
widow;  where,  having  once  met  with 
Mary,  he  believed  that  there  he  should 
be  more  immediately  associated  with  the 
presence  of  her  spirit — that  there,  at 
least,  she  would  still  be  present  in  re- 
membrance ;  and  perhaps  he  conceived, 
that,  having  found  him  there  once,  there 
also  she  would  fly  again  to  find  him.  The 
supposition  was  sufiiciently  improbable  ; 


— s 


THE  GUIDWIFE  OF  COLDINGHAM. 


ISS 


but  lie  is  indeed  a  wise  man  who  can  resist 
believing  ttiat  to  be  possible,  whicb  is  the 
first  of  his  desires.  The  widow  was  too 
blind  to  observe  his  agitation  ;  too  deaf  to 
interrupt  him  by  conversation  ;  and  he 
had  seated  himself  on  the  round  stool  by 
the  turf  fire,  brooding  in  silence  how  to 
act,  when  hearing 

— »- — "  the  cries  of  one  in  jeopardy, 

He  rose  and  ran." 

With  the  parties  the  reader  is  already  ac- 
quainted. Having  rushed  upon  the  assail- 
ants without  identifying  the  object  of  their 
attack,  he  drew  their  fury  upon  himself ; 
and  holdino;  with  them  a  retreatins;  con- 
flict,  separated  them  from  each  other. 
One  of  the  ruffians,  discharging  a  pistol 
without  effect,  and,  overpowered  by  Hen- 
ry's superior  strength,  screamed  to  his 
comrade  for  assistance  ;  and,  upon  regain- 
ing his  feet,  both  fled  for  safety,  leaving 
their  unknown  antagonist  to  follow  up  the 
rescue  of  their  victim.  But  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  and  Mr.  Robertson's  attempt 
at  flight,  thwarted  his  efforts.  Therefore, 
after  an  ineffectual  search  for  an  hour,  he 
re-entered  the  cottage. 

Wearied  by  the  loneliness  of  the  objects 
around  him,  and  urged  to  change  of  scene 
by  the  irksome  despondency  of  his  feel- 
ings, as  the  shadows  of  the  morning  began 
to  throw  their  first  uncertain  glimmering 
over  the  fading  stars,  he  arose  from  the 
dying  embers,  which  had  withdrawn  both 
their  heat  and  light ;  and  approaching  the 
bedside  of  the  aged  invalid,  gave  a  last  and 
an  indistinct  look  of  sympathy  on  her 
withered  features,  where  time,  disease, 
and  poverty  had  left  their  ravages.  The 
gloomy  picture  of  wretchedness  cut  him 
to  the  heart, 

"  Farewell,  Peggy  !"  said  he,  and  he 
cast  a  parting  glance  around  the  hovel ; 
where  the  dun  rays  of  morning  gave  a 
deeper  squalidness  to  the  apartment,  and 
rather  than  affording  light,  made  misery 
visible . 

''  Are  ye  here  yet,  my  bairn  P''  inquired 
she   anxiously  — "  whar   are  ye    gaun  .-" 


And  she  stretched  forth  her  feeble  hand  ta 
detain  him. 

He  made  no  reply;  but,  drawing  his 
purse  from  his  pocket,  laid  it  upon  her 
pillow.  From  Mary's  sufferings  and  cir- 
cumstances, he  feared  the  widow  was  de- 
prived of  her  best  or  only  friend.  He 
farther  considered  himself  as  the  principal 
cause  of  that  deprivation  ;  and  deemed  it 
his  duty  to  make,  as  he  best  could,  equi- 
valent restitution.  It  was  partly  this  feel- 
ing of  niggard  justice,  but  more  a  momen- 
tary gush  of  sympathy,  that  influenced  the 
action,  without  reflecting  upon  what  might 
be  his  own  necessities.  All  he  knew  of 
want  was  from  the  pages  of  some  novelist, 
as  ignorant  of  its  meaning  as  himself,  or 
the  picture  of  a  beggar  who  solicited  his 
alms ;  but,  as  he  dropped  him  his  loose 
pence,  or  a  piece  of  silver,  he  stopped  not 
to  see  hunger  written  on  the  eyeballs  of 
the  supplicant.  Generosity,  too,  is  often 
the  weakness  of  noble  and  ardent  minds.  It 
is  a  weakness  that  pleases  in  the  act ;  andy 
even  where  misplaced  or  thoughtlessly  be- 
stowed, it  is  a  "  failing  leaning  to  the  side 
of  virtue  ;"  and  the  reflection,  if  not  pleas- 
ing, has  but  little  of  bitterness. 

For  three  hours  he  wandered  across  the 
moors,  which  were  arrayed  in  all  the  lone- 
liness of  winter  sterility.  The  sheep  were 
crowded  together,  and  penned  on  the  hill 
tops.  The  whistle  of  some  lonely  shep- 
herd, and  the  barking  of  his  faithful  colly 
in  reply,  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke 
upon  the  silent  torments  of  our  traveller. 
Though  without  caring  where,  or  in  what 
direction,  his  journey  for  the  day  mio-ht 
terminate,  he  purposely  deviated  from  the 
main  path.  About  noon  he  gained  the 
summit  of  Dnnse  Law.  Had  the  earth 
been  touched  by  the  finger  of  a  potent 
wizard,  the  burst  of  transformation  could 
not  have  been  more  instantaneous  or  en- 
chanting. For  hours,  and  but  for  a  mo- 
ment before,  he  had  waded  through  the 
snows  of  a  desert,  where  winter  moaned 
to  the  freezing  air,  or  slept  in  the  clefts  of 
the    barren   hills,   undisturbed  by  life  or 


a24 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


vegetation.  Such  wa-s  the  scene  behind 
him.  At  his  feet,  the  Merse  lay  like  a 
vast  garden  shieided  from  the  storm,  and 
looking  glad  in  conscious  security.  The 
Whitadder,  breaking  amidst  hanging  woods 
from  the  obsciirity  of  the  wilderness,  pour- 
ed its  sound  upon  his  ears.  The  sun,  till 
then  obstiured  by  mountain  mists,  smiled 
over  the  snowy  top  of  Cheviot,  upon  the 
fairy  strath.  The  Blackadder,  leaping 
from  the  icy  fetters  of  its  upland  birth, 
ran  to  embrace  the  Whitadder  ;  smaller 
streams  hastened  to  join  them  ;  and  the 
Tweed,  roUing  undisturbed,  in  deep  ma- 
jesty, down  the  middle  distance,  with  the 
pride  and  the  heart  of  a  parent,  received 
and  had  room  for  all.  The  sea,  kissed  by 
motionless  clouds,  lay  far  to  the  east ;  and, 
cheerful  towns,  glad  villages,  rich  villas, 
and  farm-steads  groaning  beneath  a  load 
of  plenty, 

"  Thick  as  autumnal  leaves,^' 

studded  the   spacious  valley,  which  was 
still  lovely,  though  in  its  winter   naked- 
ness.    The  trees  were  leafless  ;  but  the 
numerous    forest-looking    plantations    of 
pines,  added  a  green  variety  to  the  scene. 
Hitherto  the  bleak  hills  were  in  unison 
with  his  feelings  ;  but  misery  and  melan- 
choly are  so  foreign  to  the  natural  tem- 
perament of  humanity,  that  it  is  almost 
impossible  for  the  heart  to  be  so  soured  as 
to  continue  long  v/holly  insensible  to  the 
influence  of  surrounding  objects.     An  im- 
pression of  comfort  and  cheerfulness  was 
diffused  around  him  ;  and,  unused  to  sor- 
row, when  gladness  met  his  eye,  his  breast 
answered  the  landscape  with  a  sigh,  and 
felt  lighter.     He  stood  for  a  moment  to 
contemplate  it.     It  was  one  of  those  long 
deep    draughts   of  admiring   observation, 
when  the  eyes  wander  above,  below,  and 
around,  till  they  swim  in  a  whirl   of  poe- 
try.    But  a  man  must  be  alone,  before  he 
can  feel  the  soul  of  a  breathing  landscape. 
Were  we  travelling  with  a  clever,  imper- 
tinent, stage-coach  hunter  after  the  pic- 
turesque, who  vents  his  stupid  admiration 


by  the  mouthful  at  every  turn  of  the  road, 
we  would  go  through  Italy  with  such  a 
fellow,  and  swear, — "  It  is  all  barren." 
We  know  not  how  long  he  stood,  for  na- 
ture steals  like  sleep  upon  the  senses  j  but 
he  was  arcused  from  his  contemplation  by 
the  following  unceremonious  salutation — 
"  That's  a  sicht  no  to  be  seen  ilka  day ! 
Ye  should  come  up  here  an'  tak  a  peep  at 
the  Merse  aboot  the  end  o'  May,  an'  then 
ye  wad  see  a  sicht  guid  for  weak  een  !'^ 

The    speaker    was    a   brawny,    ruddy- 
faced  man  ;  his  age  could  net  exceed  for- 
ty.    He  wore  a  short  dark-grey  coat,  a 
double-breasted  waistcoat  of  the  same  ma- 
terial, white  corduroy  knee  breeches,  dark 
blue  stockings,  a  pair  of  half  lecririns  of  the 
same    consistency   as   his   breeches,    and 
above    these   were    wrapt    firmly-twisted 
straw  ropes  round  the  ankles,  which  con- 
verted his  substantial  double-soled  shoes 
into  all  the  purposes  of  snow-boots.     He 
wore  also  a  plaid,  which  was  merely  thrown 
round  his  neck  as  a   protection   to    the 
throat.     His   stature  might  be  five    feet 
ten  ;  and  with  him  were  two  companions, 
who  shared  no  small  portion  of  his  atten* 
tion.     The  one  was  a  pepper-colored  dog, 
betwixt    the    greyhound    and    the   colly 
breed,  which  appeared,  in  all  but  speech, 
to  answer  every  thought  that  arose  in  its 
master's  mind.     The  other  was  a  formida- 
ble hazel  cudgel,  or  walking-stick,  which 
was  the   better  secured  to  his  grasp  by  a 
piece  of  whip  cord,  forming  a  loop  to  its 
head,  and  twisted  round  his  hand.     This 
he,  from  time  to   time,   surveyed  with  a 
look  of  admiring  satisfaction  ;  and  Rover, 
as  he  called  his  dog,  evidently  shared  in 
his  complacency. 

"  Ye'll  be  for  Dunse,  now,  I  reckon  .^" 
continued  he. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  town  in  the 
^^lley  before  us  .-"  returned  Henry. 

"  Odd  !  ye  maun  be  a  stranger  here- 
away, I  take,"  replied  the  other—"  that's 
Dunse  ;  yc've  heard  the  saying,  ^  Dunse 
dings  a'  for  honest  men  an'  bonny  lasses ;' 
an'  that's  as  true  a  saying  as  if  it  had  been 


THE  GUIDWTFE   OF  COLDINGHAM. 


125 


preiited  at  the  end  o'  the  gospels.  Ye 
wad  say  it  yersel'  if  ye  were  acquaint  wi' 
them.  There's  mony  a  clever  fallow  come 
out  o'  Dunse,  lad;  frae  Duns  Scotus, 
doon  to  the  present  time.  1  belang  there 
myseP,  in  a  kind  o'  way.  Ye'll  be  stop- 
pin'  there  a'  night,  nae  doot  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  may,"  answered  Henry, 
who,  as  he  walked  by  the  side  of  his  new 
companion,  scarce  knew  how  to  receive  his 
instantaneous  familiarity. 

"  Weel,  I  think  ye  had  better,"  said  the 
other,  ^'  If  ye  hae  far  to  gang  ;  for  ye  look 
gay  sair  fagged.  I  dinua  think  ye've  been 
used  wi'  walkin'.  Sir.     Hae  ye  come  far  .^" 

This  was  a  question  Henry  felt  inclined 
to  answer  drily  ;  but  there  was  something 
in  the  countenance  of  the  other  which 
made  it  impossible  to  be  angry  or  offended 
with  his  inquisitive  curiosity  ;  and  he  re- 
plied— "  At  daybreak  I  left  the  house  of 
a  friend  ;  but  I  cannot  say  the  milestones 
have  been  sufficiently  numerous  to  make 
me  note  the  distance.'' 

"  I  dare  say  no  I — I  dare  say  no  !"  re- 
sumed the  stranger,  with  a  well-pleased 
laugh.  "  It's  a  dreary  bit  that  back  owre 
there,  at  a'  times.  The  puir  peeseweeps 
starve  to  death  on't,  in  the  very  middle  o' 
simmer  ;  an'  they  are  the  last  craturs  that 
I  ken  o'  to  starve  !  But  as  for  lookin'  for 
milestanes  there,  ye  micht  as  weel  expect 
to  find  the  grace  o'  God  in  the  court  o'  a 
Spanish  inquisition.  I  think,  by  yer 
tongue,  ye 're  an  Englishman.  What 
pairt  do  ye  come  frae,  if  it  be  a  fair  ques- 
tion .?" 

"  From  Devonshire,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Frae  Devonshire  !"  said  the  stranger, 
with  surprise,  ''  Odd,  I  see,  by  the  map, 
that's  maistly  at  the  Land's  End  !  An' 
are  ye  gaun  hame  the  noo  .^" 

"  Yes — perhaps,"  said  Henry,  vexed 
at  everything  that  reminded  him  of  his 
situation. 

"  Then  ye  arena  vera  sure  about  it, 
like  .^"  returned  the  other  ;  "  but,  if  ye 
intend  to  walk  a'  the  way,  yer  shoon  win- 
na  be  meikle  in  yer  debt  afore  ye  get  to 


yer  faither's.  But  is  yer  faither  living  } 
— that's  the  question." 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Henry,  hastilyj, 
wearied  of  his  inquiries. 

"  Then  ye're  no  vera  sure  about  that 
either  !"  resumed  the  incorrigible  que- 
rist. "  Ye've  been  a  guid  while  awa,may 
be  ?  I  think  ye  look  something  like  a 
better  sort  o'  a  sailor.  Ye'll  be  in  the 
Kinsf's  service,  I  fancy  .^" 

"  I  was,"  replied  Henry,  in  a  tone 
which  indicated  his  deter  miniition  to  finish 
the  conversation. 

"  An'  what  ship  did  ye  belang  to  .^"  con- 
tinued the  undisturbed  and  unwearied  in- 
quisitor. 

"  The  Biblia !"  said  Henry,  with  a 
quickness  approaching  to  bitterness,  and 
half  determined  to  bid  his  companion 
walk  on. 

"  The  Biblia  !"  ejaculated  the  other, 
and  stood  still,  staring  upon  Henry  with 
astonishment.  "  Lord  preserve  us  !  I'll 
wager  ye  what  ye  like,  ye're  the  young 
officer  that  was  saved  by  Miss  Mary 
Robertson  !  Am  I  no  richt .?" 

"  You  are,"  said  Henry  ;  but  he  could 
feel  anger  no  more.  The  mention  of  his 
Hilary's  name  had  molten  down  every  an- 
gry feeling  into  a  semblance  of  herself. 

"  Save  us  a'',  man  !  an'  are  ye  him  .^'' 
said  the  stranger.  "  She  is  really  an  ex- 
traordinary being,  Mary  Robertson.  My 
mither  ance  lived  in  her  faither's  parish  ; 
an'  I  hae  heard  her  rame  owre  her  guid 
qualities,  ti-ll,  although  I  had  ne'er  seen 
her  then — an'  I  was  double  her  age, 
ye  may  say — as  sure  as  death,  I  could  hae 
cut  my  fingers  aff,  when  I  thocht  that 
she  was  a  gentle  cratur,  an'  a  minister's 
dochter,  an'  me  nae  better  than  a  rough 
drover  !  An'  whan  I  did  see  her,  she  was 
jist  exactly  what  I  think  the  angels  will 
be  like — an'  better,  I'm  sure,  it's  hardly 
possible  for  them  to  be,  I'm  confident  it 
would  tak  the  langest  Lapland  winter  that 
e'er  darkened  snaw,  to  rin  owre  but  the 
half  o'  what  I  hae  heard  in  her  praise,  an' 
ken,  frae  my  ain  knowledge,  to  be  fact." 


126 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


During  this  harangue,  Henry's  feelings 
became  too  violent  to  be  suppressed.  He 
accused  himself  for  having  harbored  a 
thought  against  the  stranger  ;  and,  ap- 
proaching his  side,  grasped  his  hand  in 
both  of  his,  and  gazed  in  his  face  with  a 
look  of  earnestness  and  emotion,  that  a 
single  word  would  have  robbed  of  half  its 
worth.  The  other  returned  his  pressure, 
with  a  fervency  that  evinced  his  sympa- 
thy. 

"  Faith,  now,  that's  what  I  like  !"  said 
he  ;  "  that  shews  sterlin' gratitude  !  Grati- 
tude is  like  a  dumb  man  speakin' !  Ye 're 
a  noble  young  chield,  I  can  see  by  the 
vera  look  o'  yer  e'en  !  I  could  swear  by 
the  grip  o'  yer  hand,  were  it  nae  mair, 
that,  officer  though  ye  be,  ye  ne'er  made 
a  rope's  end  come  across  the  back  o'  a 
better  man  than  yersel." 

The  stranger  was  bound  for  Newcastle, 
and  he  at  once  seemed  determined  that 
Henry -should  be  his  companion  by  the 
wav.  On  leavino;  Lon^framlino-ton  in  the 
morning,  the  noble  prospect  which  the 
lofty  situation  of  the  village  commands, 
compensated  for  the  damp  chaff  bed  and 
flat  ale  of  the  inn.  Behind  them,  rose 
Cheviot  and  the  Scottish  hills ;  to  their 
right,  the  mountains  of  Cumberland  were 
visible  ;  and  between,  the  long,  broad,  ir- 
regular valley,  with  its  hundred  farms — a 
nursery  for  rivers,  and  receptacle  of  up- 
land streams  ;  to  their  left,  the  sea — the 
Coquet  Isle  ;  and  proud  vessels  were  seen 
rejoicing  on  their  course,  as  if  conscious 
of  their  own  magnificent  beauty,  bending 
their  stately  prows  to  the  passing  billow, 
and  again  rising  in  majesty,  like  a  proud 
steed  pawing  the  earth,  bending  its  neck 
of  thunder,  and  tossing  it  again  in  the  air, 
in  the  pride  of  regal  sublimity  and  con- 
scious strength.  Before  them  spread  a 
deep  plain,  through  which  winded  the  Co- 
quet and  the  Wansbeck. 

"  Damp  beds  are  a  bad  thing  for  the 
rheumatism,"  said  Willie,  as  they  reached 
the  bridge  over  the  former  river  ;  "  an' 
they  sell  an  excellent  preventive  here  in 


the  Angler's  Inn.  It's  nae  use  palaver- 
ing," continued  he,  as  Henry  remonstrat- 
ed— "  I  tell  ye  it's  nae  use  palavering  ; 
there's  a  lang  road  before  us  afore  bed- 
time." 

It  would  be  an  endless  task,  however, 
to  foUow  our  worthy  drover  through  his 
houses  of  call,  at  which  he  felt  a  habitual 
thirst  that  he  conceived  to  be  natural. 
During  most  of  the  day,  according  to  the 
adage,  it  did  not  rain  but  poured.  The 
roads  became  at  first  clammy,  and  in  the 
end  almost  impassable.  At  length, 
drenched,  wo-begone,  and  bespattered 
with  mud,  like  two  spirits  escaped  from 
the  Deluge,  they  reached  Newcastle,  and 
silently  bent  their  steps  down  Northum- 
berland Street.  The  rain  abated  none  of 
its  violence,  and  again  Henry  regretted 
the  prodigality  of  his  generosity,  in  part- 
ing with  the  entire  contents  of  his  purse. 
He  had  slept  none  the  jDreceding  night. 
Misery,  fatigue,  and  the  long  continuance 
of  the  cold  bleaching  rain,  battled  in  his 
heart,  and  pressed  upon  his  pride,  with  a 
weight  that  caused  it  to  bend,  though  it 
could  not  break  it.  He  drew  his  breath 
quick  and  short.  An  anxious,  disquiet 
feeling,  approaching  to  peevishness,  seem- 
ed stickins;  in  his  throat,  and  he  lonfred 
that  his  companion  would  speak  of  Tialting 
for  the  night.  After  proceeding  down  Nor- 
thumberland and  Pilgrim  Streets,  nearly  a 
mile  in  a  direct  line,  Willie,  halting  before 
a  gateway,  said — "  Now,  I  usually  stop 
down  here,  at  the  Bird  an'  Bush  ;  it's  a  kind 
o'  carrier's  quarters ;  but,  ye  see,  the 
like  o'  the  York  Hotel  is  aboon  my  fit ; 
an'  I'll  answer  for  our  beins:  comfortable. 
Come  awa — faith  we'll  hae  a  nicht  o't ! 
A  jug  o'  boiling  brandy,  mistress,  for  twa 
drowned  men  I"  shouted  he,  as  they  en- 
tered the  house. 

Next  morning,  Henry  desired  his  friend 
to  favor  him  with  his  address. 

"  Now,  what  are  ye  driving  at,  Mr. 
Walton  .?"  said  Willie,  eagerly,  and  with 
a  degree  of  sorrow;  "ye  are  sm'ely  no 
thinkin'  o'  leavin'  me  already.      Stay  a 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


127 


day  or  twa,  man,  to  see  the  toiin.  Ye 
see,  Fm  here  about  a  bit  lawsuit ;  an'  if 
I  dinna  get  it  settled  here,  I  dinna  ken 
but  I  may  hae  to  gang  up  to  London.  The 
matter  o'  five  thousand  pounds  is  worth 
the  lookin'  after  !  Hoots  !  dinna  say  ony 
mair  about  partin'  yet — will  ye  no,  Mr. 
Walton  ?" 

His  honest  and  unsophisticated  kind- 
ness was  oppressive  to  his  young  compan- 
ion, whose  first  wish  was  an  opportunity 
to  reward  him. 

"  Whether  we  talk  of  parting  or  not," 
said  Henry,  "  let  me,  at  least,  have  the 
happiness  of  knowing  where  to  find  you 
hereafter." 

"  Weel,"  replied  the  other,  "  onybody 
kens  whar  to  find  Wull  Watson,  o'  Finch- 
ley-hill,  by  Edrom,  in  the  county  o'  Ber- 
wick. I  maun  awa  oot,  an'  see  my  attor- 
ney body.  But  noo,  mind,  Mr.  Walton, 
dinna  be  oot  o'  the  way  at  denner-time  ; 
I  tak  it  exactly  at  ane  o'clock." 

Henry  being  left  alone,  walked  to  the 
quayside,  with  the  hope  of  finding  a  vessel 
in  which  he   might   obtain   a  passage   for 


London  ;  where, 


he  conceived,  it  would 


not  be  difficult,  amidst  his  own  or  his  fa- 
ther's friends  to  procure  the  advance  of  a 
sum  sufficient  to  defray  the  expense  of  con- 
veyance and  overcome  his  embarrassments. 

A  neat-looking  brig  was  clearing  out, 
and  on  the  eve  of  sailing.  He  stepped 
aboard,  and  inquired  if  he  could  be  ac- 
commodated with  a  passage  to  London. 

"  Like  enough,"  said  the  mate ,  who 
was  busied  in  giving  directions  for  haul- 
ing oil;  "but  go  aft,  and  speak  to  the 
master." 

A  black,  porky,  surly-faced  man,  in  a 
shabby  blue  surtout,  like  a  cloak  thrown 
over  a  barrel,  stood  smoking  a  pipe  by  the 
side  of  the  companion,  and  overlooking 
the  preparations  for  sailing.  To  him  Hen- 
ry repeated  his  question. 

"  A  passage  ' — why — yes,"  said  the 
skipper  ;  "  thou  mayst  have  a  passage  ; 
but  where's  thy  luggage  } — we  be  hauling 
off." 


This  was  a  question  for  which  Henry 
was  unprepared  ;  and  his  momentary  hesi- 
tation did  not  escape  the  lynx-eyed  tyrant 
of  the  brig,  who  immediately  added — 
"  You've  got  none,  eh  ?  Well — all's  one 
wi'  us  ;  a  guinea  and  a  half,  if  you  please, 
sir.  That  is  wur  usual  fare — we  make 
nyae  reduction  for  want  o'  luggage,  lad. 
Be  quick,  if  ye  please,  sir — hang  it  !  d'ye 
see,  they  are  taking  away  the  planks  !" 

On  Henry's  assuring  him  he  would  be 
paid  on  their  arriving  at  London — 
"  Ashore  !  ye  swindling  scamp  !"  vocifer- 
ated the  skipper.  "  Ashore  ! — or,  by  the 
Lord  Harry  !  I'll  chuck  ye  overboard  ! 
Here's  a  precious  scoundrel !"  cried  he 
to  the  people  on  the  quay — "  tried  to 
humbug  mye  out  of  a  passage  !" 

Henry  would  have  felled  him  to  the 
deck,  but  he  immediately  sought  protec- 
tion among  his  crew  ;  and  the  vessel  being 
then  about  ten  feet  from  the  shore,  he 
sprang  upon  the  bulwarks,  and  with  reck- 
less violence  threw  himself  into  the  midst 
of  the  assembled  crowd.  Those  who  the 
instant  before  were  prepared  to  receive 
him  with  hootings,  gathered  around  him  in 
wonder  ;  some  declaring,  he  had  made  "  a 
clean  jump  of  five  yards  !" 

Rage,  and  the  tumult  of  his  troubled 
feelings,  flashed  from  his  eyes.  He  pressed 
through  the  throng  like  a  madman.  Many 
were  wistful  to  offer  him  a  kindness,  but 
quailed  at  the  wild  haughtiness  of  his 
looks.  The  face  of  man  sickened  him.  In 
every  eye,  he  read  suspicion  and  scrutiny  ; 
and  hurrying  across  the  bridge,  and  up 
Gateshead,  he  turned  off  the  road  into  the 
fields,  and  threw  himself  down  by  the  side 
of  a  deserted  coal-mine,  in  secret  to  give 
vent  to  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit. 

The  day  passed,  and  the  boisterous  ago- 
ny of  his  bosom  subsided  into  a  gnawing 
calmness.  At  midnight,  he  arose  shiver- 
ins;  and  benumbed,  the  night  damp  drip- 
ping from  his  glossy  hair,  and  turned  to- 
wards the  town.  He  felt  he  would  rather 
die  than  again  be  dependent  on  the  gene- 
rosity of  his  late  fellow-traveller. 


128 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


CHAPTER    V. 

Well,  of  all  teasing  tortures,  sure  the  worst 

Is.  on  some  tedious  journey,  to  be  curst 

In  a  compauion,  vvitli  a  sliapcless  thing 

Clad  in  the  scrapings  of  an  insect's  wing  ! 

A  pert  vain  fop,  a  libertine,  and  fool, 

Who  minces  oaths  per  rood,  and  walks  by  rule  ; — 

The  barber's  nightmare  dream  I — the  tailor's  dread  !- 

Who,  if  you  cannot  sleep,  will  "talk  you  dead  1" 

Who  deems  his  sickly  face,  and  scented  glove, 

Sufficient  charms  for  every  lady's  love  ; 

Nor  doubts  the  brightness  of  his  tortured  hair, 

To  be  a  passport  to  insult  the  fair  I 


Mary's  friends,  who  assembled  to  bid 
her  adieu,  had  again  returned,  weeping, 
on  their  way  to  Burnpath.  She  had  parted 
with  the  lingering  few  who  attended  her 
to  the  coach,  seen  their  hands  waved,  and 
heard  their  farewell — "  God  bless  you  /" 
pronounced  with  tears  ;  but  her  own  cheeks 
were  still  dry.  Yet  their  clear  paleness, 
and  melancholy  expression,  appeared  like 
a  marble  sanctuary  of  grief,  lighted  by  the 
lamp  of  sorrow  which  burned  within.  Her 
youth,  and  the  elegance  of  her  figure,  ren- 
dered still  more  interesting  by  her  garb 
of  mourning,  which  cast  its  deep  shadows 
over  the  ivory  purity  of  her  beauty,  sin- 
gled her  out  as  an  object  of  sympathy  to 
some,  and  of  admiration  and  scrutiny  to 
all  her  fellow-passengers. 

It  was  a  beautiful  March  morninir, 
ruffled  only  by  a  breeze  from  the  south- 
west, which,  although  not  cold,  was  occa- 
sionally too  strong  to  be  pleasant.  The 
whins  were  already  adorning  the  barren 
heath  with  their  golden  covering ;  and,  as 
they  approached  the  northern  extremity 
of  the  mountains,  in  a  moment,  spring  re- 
joiced in  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  la- 
bors of  the  husbandman.  The  empire  of 
sterility  was  suddenly  stayed  in  the  pride 
of  its  desolation  ;  and  a  straight  line, 
stretching  from  the  sea  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  seemed  to  declare — "  Hither- 
to shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther ;" 
while  in  summer  the  heather  put  forth  its 
gorgeous  blossoms,  and  the  strong  wheat, 
towering  by  its  side,  waved  gracefully  over 
it ;  the  one  touching  the  other,  and  each 
thriving  in  the  strength  of  its  own  true 
region. 


Mary's  travelling  companions  grew  cla- 
morous in  their  admiration  of  the  scene  ; 
and  a  small  gentleman,  who  was  deter- 
mined to  be  nothing,  if  not  critical, 
checked  what  he  considered  their  want  of 
taste,  by  observing  that  the  landscape  was 
spoiled  by  too  great  a  proportion  of  water. 
While  another  remarked,  that  "  he  was 
perfectly  of  his  opinion,  and  thought  that 
the  country  would  be  much  finer,  were  it 
not  for  the  fir  trees,  and  others  that  he  did 
not  know  the  name  of." 

"  By  my  faith  !  but  ye  are  twa  judges, 
I  warrant  ye  !"  said  a  sturdy  countryman, 
with  an  equally  sturdy  cudgel  between  his 
knees,  and  who  had  hitherto  devoted  his 
attention  exclusively  to  a  sagacious-looking 
dog  which  occupied  a  place  by  his  side — 
"  ye  are  twa  judges,  without  a  doot ! 
Wud  and  water  destroy  a  landscape ! 
Was  ye  born  in  a  coal-pit,  gentlemen  ! — 
or  in  the  region  round  about  Bow-Bells, 
where  the  smoke  and  the  trees,  I  under- 
stand, are  meikle  o'  a  color  }  I  thocht 
yer  famous  Doctor  Johnson  said  we  hadna 
a  tree  in  a'  our  country  !" 

To  these  sarcastic  and  half  unintelligible 
observations,  the  young  gentlemen  deemed 
it  prudent  to  be  silent ;  and  the  first- 
mentioned  connoisseur — who  appeared  to 
have  been  brought  to  the  coach  in  a  band- 
box, fresh  from  the  hands  of  his  tailor — 
with  the  impudent  and  unfeeling  efi'rontery 
of  an  empty  coxcomb,  who  considers  his 
own  insio-nificant  form  and  disaixreeable 
foce  irresistible,  commenced  an  attack 
upon  Mary,  who  had  hitherto  remained 
silent,  playing  oif  his  impertinent  badinage, 
to  the  edification  of  his  own  ear,  and  the 
annoyance  of  all  around  him.  But  she, 
buried  in  her  own  thoughts,  did  not  even 
deign  to  answer  him  with  one  monosyllable 
— with  one  glance  of  scorn.  An  angry 
scowl,  from  time  to  time,  was  given  by 
the  countryman,  who  sat  facing  him  ;  and 
another  from  the  dog,  that  looked  in  its 
master's  face,  and,  cat<chiug  the  expres- 
sion of  his  eyes,  gave  a  low  growl,  indi- 
cating its  wish  to  punish  the  object  of  his 


THE  MINISTER'S   DAUGHTER. 


129 


resentment.  The  young  gentleman,  how- 
ever, still  affected  to  despise  the  displea- 
sure of  his  plebeian  fellow-traveller  ;  and, 
throughout  two  stages,  he  continued  to 
persecute,  with  ill-timed  mirth  and  vul- 
garity, which  he  mistook  for  wit,  the 
lovely  and  unprotected  being  whom  chance 
had  thrown  for  a  few  hours  by  his  side. 
Sinkins:  beneath  the  weio-ht  of  her  sor- 

O  O 

rows,  she  was  resting  her  brow  pensively 
on  her  hand,  when  the  coach  stopped  for 
a  few  minutes  at  an  inn  by  the  way-side  ; 
where  her  loquacious  companion,  whose 
assumed  familiarity  now  amounted  to  in- 
solence, having  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy 
and  water,  attempted  to  pull  her  hand 
from  her  face,  saying — "  Come,  my  pretty 
dummie,  if  you  can't  speak,  you  can  per- 
haps drink  !" 

"  Drink  yersel',  ye  infernal  impudent 
puppy  !"  exclaimed  the  countryman  ;  and, 
at  the  same  instant,  raising  his  cudgel,  he 
dashed  the  glass  in  a  hundred  pieces, 
spilling  the  brandy  and  water  on  the  inex- 
pressibles of  the  exquisite,  and  causing  the 
blood  to  gush  from  the  ends  of  his  fingers, 
which  had  received  part  of  the  blow. 

"  Scoundrel  i"  vociferated  the  tremblins: 
pattern  of  the  fashions,  half  choked  with 
pain  and  passion,  while  he  stretched  out, 
at  arm's  length,  his  gentle  fingers,  drip- 
ping with  gore  ;  and  casting  a  rueful  look 
at  his  soiled  cassimeres,  added — "  Scoun- 
drel !  you  shall  answer  for  this  !" 

"  No  a  word  oot  o'  yer  head  !  ye  un- 
mannerly vagabond!"  cried  the  other; 
"  no  a  word  oot  o'  yer  head  ! — or  there's 
the  grund  for  ye  I" 

And,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he 
seized  him  neck  and  heel,  and  the  next 
moment  the  thing  of  "  shreds  and  patch- 
es," his  fashionables  covered  with  March 
dust,  was  weeping,  and  mincing  genteel 
oaths  upon  the  pavement. 

"  Let  him  lie  there,  and  be  hano-ed  to 
him,"  said  the  countryman  ;  "  he  deserves 
a'  he's  got." 

"  No,  no  !"  interrupted  Mary  ;  "  let  no 
one  suffer  upon  my  account.     The  io-no- 

voL.  ir.  9 


ranee  of  the  young  man  is  his  sufficient 
punishment." 

"  I  wad  say  that  wad  be  bad  logic, 
ma'am,  in  a  court  o'  law,"  said  her  cham- 
pion ;  '^  but,  howsever,  if  I  helped  the 
insignificant  cratur  doon,  I'll  help  him  up 
again." 

He  leaped  from  the  coach,  raised  the 
gentleman  like  a  child  in  his  arms,  and 
placed  him  again  in  his  former  seat,  re- 
marking— "  Noo,  see  that  ye  be  quiet  till 
we  get  to  Edinburgh,  least  a  warse  thing 
happen  ye.  But  I  didna  intend  to  smash 
yer  bits  o'  leddy-like  fingers,  after  a'. 
Are  they  sair  hurt  .?"  And  taking  them 
in  his  own  Herculean  fist  to  examine  them, 
he  inquired — "  Has  ony  o'  ye  a  bit  rag  .^" 
The  coach  drove  off;  and  Mary,  hav- 
ing dressed  the  wounds  of  her  late  tor- 
mentor, he  hung  his  head  upon  his  breast, 
and  was  silent  during  the  rest  of  the  jour- 
ney. 

For  some  tune  they  had  seen  Arthur's 
Seat  uprearing,  in  bold  magnificence,  its 
stony  front,    and   bearing,    even    at    this 
view,  some  resemblance  to  a  lion  preparino- 
to  spring  upon  its  prey  ;  together  with  the 
Calton  Hill  and  its  observatory  ;  and  the 
proud   castle,    high    towering  in  gigantic 
majesty  between  them,  like  the  genius  of 
war,  defying  its  thunderbolts.     And  now 
the  fair  City  of  Palaces,  glistening  in  the 
sun,   opened  to  their  right,   like  a  sea  of 
silver  ;  while,   to  their  left,  grey  and  ve- 
nerable with   years,   rose   pile  upon  pile, 
house  rising  upon  house,  in  eccentric  but 
sublime   array,  bearing  the  shapes  of  de- 
parted ages  ;    and  their   hoary  summits, 
partly  veiled  in  the  cloudy  columns  which 
floated    around    them,    seemed    like    the 
ghosts  of  time,   looking  down,  ''  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger,"  from  their  irregular 
and  strong  towers,  on  the  beauty  and  order 
of  modern  improvements ;    while    Leith, 
stretching  out  its  arms  to  embrace  it,  and 
a  hundred  fair    gardens    smiling   around 
their  union,  with    the  blue  Frith    circling 
them,  and  bearing  the  wealth  of  other  na- 
tions to  their  threshold,  make  Edinburgh 


130 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


appear,  to  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  one  of 
earth's  fairest  cities. 

On  their  stopping  at  the  Black  Bull, 
the  countryman  sprang  first  to  the  ground, 
and,  with  the  air  of  a  cavalier,  politely 
assisted  Mary  from  the  coach. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  he  ; 
^'but,  as  I  ken  ye  are  a  stranger,  if  ye 
will  alloo  me,  I'll  just  tak  yer  bit  trunk 
under  my  arm,  and  show  ye  to  ony  place 
ye  may  be  gaun  to  ;  for  I  ken  every  fit  o' 
Edinburgh,  jist  as  weel  as  I  ken  Burnpath 
or  Cowdingham." 

She  expressed  her  gratitude  for  his 
kindness  ;  but  begged  that  he  would  not 
think  of  burdening  himself  with  her  trunk. 
"  Burden  !  hinny  !"  said  he  ;  "I  wush 
I  micht  ne'er  hae  a  greater  burden,  than 
to  carry  it  back  th'  nicht  again,  to  whar  it 
cam  frae  !  Mind  ye,  thae  cadie  an'  por- 
ter bodies  are  extortionable  craturs,  whan 
they  get  baud  o'  ony  ane  that  they  think 
they  can  impose  upon.  And,  throwing 
the  trunk  upon  his  shoulder,  he  added, 
"  Now,  ma'am,  if  ye'll  just  say  whar  ye 
wish  to  gang,  I'm  at  yer  service." 

Mary  knew  but  little  of  Edinburgh,  and 
that  little  appeared  to  her  like  the  broken 
remembrance  of  a  dream.     She  was  here 
without     friends,     almost      without     an 
acquaintance ;    and    the    only   individual 
whose  house  she  could  look  to  as  a  tem- 
porary home,  during  her  stay  in  the  Scot- 
tish capital  was   a  commercial  gentleman, 
called  Lindsay,  residing  in  Brown  Square, 
who   had  been  highly  esteemed  by,  and 
was  distantly  related  to  her  father.     On 
her    signifying   a   wish   to  be    conducted 
there — "To    Brown  Square!"    said  the 
countryman,  whom  the  reader  will  have 
perceived  was  no  other  than  Willie  Wat- 
son, the  Berwickshire  drover — "  To  Brown 
Square  ! — ye  shall  be  there  in  ten  minutes. 
An',  besides,  it  wunna  tak  me  oot  o'  my 
way  in  the  least,  for  my  line  o'  business, 
ma'am,  lies   in  the   Grassmarket ;  an'  I 
can  just  w4iup  down  Merchant  Court,  an' 
be  there  in  a  jiffy  after  seein'  ye  safe." 
On  arrivino;  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Lind- 


say, the  footboy  who  opened  the  door 
stated  that  his  master  was  in  Glasgow,  and 
that  Mrs.  Lindsay  and  daughters  were  at 
home,  but  were  then  dressing,  in  order  to 
go  out  to  an  evening  party.  Mary's  heart 
felt  sick.  There  was  a  coldness  in  the 
accent  and  manner  of  the  very  boy.  She 
knew  Mr.  Lindsay  only  ;  his  wife  and 
dauo-hters  she  had  never  seen.  She  hesi- 
tated  in  what  manner  she  should  give  in 
her  name,  and  her  confusion  became  visi- 
ble. She  was  shown  into  a  parlor,  and 
Willie,  having  placed  her  trunk  in  the 
passage,  seemed  anxious  to  witness  her 
reception  before  leaving  ;  but  Mary  took 
his  hand,  thanked  him  for  his  friendly  care 
and  attention,  and  desired  that,  if  possible, 
she  might  see  him  again  before  he  left 
town. 

"  Ye  may  depend  on  that,  ma'am," 
said  he,  "  ye  may  depend  on  that" — and 
a  tear  stole  down  his  weather-beaten  cheek 
— "  I  wad  hae  liket  to  see  hoo  ye  are  to 
be  situated  before  I  left  ye  ;  but,  although 
I  am  only  a  plain  farmer,  I'm  no  insensi- 
ble o'  what  is  due  to  guid  breedin'.  Sae 
I'll  bid  ye  guid-day  the  noo,  ma'am  ;  but 
I'll  mak  it  my  business  to  ca'  the  morn, 
afore  I  gang  east  again  ;  an',  if  ye  hae 
ony  word  to  send,  I  wul  tak  it  as  a  favor 
to  be  the  bearer." 

The  honest  drover,  making  a  slight  bow, 
worth  all  the  formal  suppleness  of  super- 
ficial politeness,  took  his  leave.  Mary  re- 
membered having  seen  him  formerly  ;  and 
had  heard  him  spoken  of,  but  only  as  a 
wi'estler  and  a  pugilist,  whose  quarrels 
were  in  the  mouth  of  every  one,  and  the 
terror  of  a  peaceable  neighborhood.  But 
now  she  could  only  look  upon  him  as  a 
warm-hearted  man,  who,  whatever  were 
his  faults,  could  not  be  destitute  of  re- 
deeming virtues. 

"  Half-an-hour  passed,  and  she  was  still 
left  to  muse  upon  her  reception,  without 
seeing  either  IMrs.  Lindsay  or  her  daugh- 
ters. She  felt  it  as  an  indignity  to  a 
friendless  orphan — to  the  only  child  of  a 
man   who   befriended   them,    and   placed 


THE   MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


131 


them  in  the  path  of  fortune.  She  had 
arisen  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the 
house,  and  seeking'  a  lodsjina;  elsewhere, 
when  Mrs.  Lindsay  and  her  three  daugh- 
ters, rustling  in  a  gaudy  and  tasteless  dis- 
play of  showy  silk,  rich  brocade,  and 
Brussels  lace,  with  head-dresses  as  ri- 
diculous and  unnatural  as  silver  tissue, 
golden  ears  of  corn,  artilBcial  hair,  and  the 
wearied  fingers  of  their  maid  could  make 
them,  sailed  into  the  room.  Each  in  her 
turn  slid  towards  Mary,  like  a  boat  glid- 
ing for  a  few  yards  by  a  single  stroke  of 
the  oars — halted  within  three  feet,  like  a 
young  recruit  at  the  word  of  command — 
dropped  a  low  and  graceful  congee — gent-  I 
ly  extended  the  tip  of  her  fore-finger —  I 
smiled — whispered — and  withdrew  to  a  i 
chair.  j 

The  mother  and  daughters  having  paid  '  home,  and  we  are  just  going  out  to  a  party, 
their  formal  salutations  to  their  visiter —  i  so  that  you  see  the  thing  is  quite  impossi- 
"  You  look  shockingly  pale,    child,"  said  i  ble — wc    cannot    leave    Miss    Robertson 


wine,"  said  the  youngest  daughter,  whose 
heart  was  not  touched  by  the  frigid  afiec- 
tation  of  her  mother  and  sisters ;  and  she 
hastened  to  present  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Lindsay  is  from 
home,"  added  the  matron,  "  and  we  do 
not  expect  him  before  to-morrow.  Do 
you  intend  making  any  stay  in  town  .^" 

"  Only  a  few  days,"  rejoined  Mary. 

''  And  perhaps  you  have  not  procured  a 
lodging."'  inquired  the  other. 

"  Oh,  dear  mamma,"  replied  the  young- 
est, who  at  that  moment  entered  with  the 
wine,  "  I  am  sure  Miss  Robertson  will 
have  no  objections  to  sleep  with  me;  and, 
if  she  only  do,  I  shall  be  so  happy." 

"  True,  child  !"  returned  the  mother  ; 
"  and  I  should  be  very  happy  if  she 
would  :  but  remember  your  father  is  from 


the  former  ;  "  don't  you  think  so,  girls  .?" 
And  again  turning  to  Mary — "  I  believe 
your  father  and  Mr.  Lindsay  were  ac- 
quainted— were  they  not  .^" 

"  They  were^  ma'am,"  answered  Mary, 
shocked  at  the  cool  indifference  of  a  ques- 
tion so  little  to  have  been  anticipated. 

"  Your  father  is  dead  lately,  I  think 
my  husband  was  saying,"  returned  the 
other. 

Mary  could  only  reply,  "  Yes  !" 

She  would  have  wept,  but  indignation 
at  the  unfeeling  ingratitude  of  the  other 
withheld  her  tears. 

''  And  met  with  his  death  rather  unfor- 
tunately too,  did  he  not  V  continued  Mrs. 
Lindsay. 

This  was  too  much.  A  crowd  of  thoughts 
and  recollections  flashed  at  once  upon 
her  bosom  ;  she  replied  only  with  a  sigh, 
and  the  tears  burst  forth. 

"  Nay,  do  not  distress  yourself,  dear 
child,"  said  the  wife  of  her  father's  friend 
— "  those  sort  of  things  will  happen,  you 
know  ;  and  our  tears  will  do  no  good." 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Robertson  is  fatigued 
with  her  journey  and  will  take  a  glass  of 


alone." 

"  Nay,  nay,  mamma,"  said  the  daugh- 
ter ;  "  you  and  sisters  can  give  my  apolo- 
gies to  Lady  Sillerdykes  (should  she  dis- 
cover I  am  absent),  and  I  shall  remain  at 
home  to  bear  Miss  Robertson  company, 
which  will  give  me  a  great  deal  more 
pleasure." 

*'  Do  not  name  it,  my  dear  friend,"  said 
Mary;  "you  nor  anyone  shall  make  a 
sacrifice  of  enjoyment  for  me.  1  have  met 
with  trials  more  severe  than  the  procuring 
of  a  lodging,  or  passing  a  night  alone." 

"  She  is  the  most  foolish,  wilful  girl  in 
the  world,"  resumed  the  mother.  "  To 
talk  of  not  going  to  my  Lady's — when — 
would  you  believe  it,  Miss  Robertson  .? — 
these  four  dresses,  which  were  made  for 
the  occasion,  cost  one  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  !  For  the  life  of  me,  I  don't  know 
what  her  father  will  say  when  the  bill  is 
presented  !  And  yet  to  talk  of  not  going  ! 
— not  going,  indeed  !  Do  you  suppose  if 
you  will  not  appear  in  public,  that  your 
father  is  to  keep  you  in  private  all  your 
life  !" 

"  La  !  now  mamma  '"  said  the  laughing 


132 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS, 


girl,  how  you  do  talk  !     Get  husbands  for 
sisters  before  you  think  of  me." 

As  she  spoke,  a  loud  knocking  was  heard 
at  the  front  door.  Mrs.  Lindsay  bit  her 
lips — the  two  elder  sisters  looked  to  each 
other  in  dismay.  The  youngest  flew  smil- 
ing to  the  passage,  and  entered,  holding 
her  father's  hand,  saying — "  Miss  Robert- 
son, father — your  friend — my  friend — 
from  Burnpath." 

"  Miss  Robertson  !'"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Lindsay,  who  had  unexpectedly  returned. 
He  hurried  forward,  pressed  her  hand 
fervidly  within  his.  He  gazed  on  her  face 
for  a  few  moments  with  silent  tenderness  ; 
and,  at  length,  in  a  voice  broken  with 
emotion,  said — "  Welcome  !  welcome,  be- 
loved child  of  my  best  friend  ! — welcome 
to  my  house — to  your  home  !"  Still 
holding  her  hands,  and  turning  to  his  wife 
and  daucrhters — "  Behold,"  said  he,  "  all 

O  7  7 

that  remains  of  our  fir«t  benefactor  !  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  henceforth  be  to  her  a  mother  ; 
children,  regard  her  as  a  sister." 

"Oh,  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  said  the 
youngest,  fondly  smiling  in  her  face — 
"  and  love  her  too." 

"  At  present,"  said  Mary,  "  I  shall  be 
with  you  but  a  few  days  ;  but  for  your 
affection  for  my  beloved  father,  accept  his 
orphan's  tears — accept  her  gratitude." 

"  Let  it  be  for  a  few  days,  or  for  a  few 
years,"  added  Mr.  Lindsay — "  whatever 
is  mine,  you  may  at  all  times  command." 

Mrs.  Lindsay  now  endeavored,  by  over- 
"wrought  civility,  to  atone  for  her  past  in- 
difference. And  having,  as  she  conceived, 
by  her  attentions  and  protestations  of  af- 
fection for  Mary,  sufficiently  delighted  her 
husband  to  venture  upon  informing  him  of 
the  invitation  to  Lady  Siller  dykes — ''  My 
love,"  said  she,  with  an  endeariufj  smile, 
"  would  you  believe  it ! — my  lady  Siller- 
dykes  has  sent  your  daughters  and  me  the 
kindest  invitation  in  the  world,  to  attend 
her  party  to-night !  There  is  to  be  a 
Marquis   there  ! — several   lords  ! — and    I 

don't  know  how  many  baronets  !" 

"  And  needy  fortune-hunters,"  added  her 


husband,    "  ruined   gamesters,    and    cor- 
rupters of  morals,  ad  libitum.'''' 

^'Oh!  shocking,  love!''  replied  Mrs. 
Lindsay  ;  "  you  really  distress  me  ! — you 
are  always  so  cjTiical  !  But  you  know,  if 
you  won't,  I  must  take  our  children  into 
society,  like  other  people.  And,  with  our 
prospects,  the  present  honor,  I  assure  you, 
my  dear,  is  not  to  be  overlooked." 

"  Oh  !  doubtless  !  doubtless  !"  said  Mr. 
Lindsay,  V7ith  a  sarcastic  smile  ;  "  its  ad- 
vantages will  be  incalculable  !" 

The  worthy  merchant,  not  having  deem- 
ed it  prudent  to  set  up  his  own  carriage, 
and  Brown  Square  being  but  indifferently 
situated  for  the  approach  of  one,  Mrs. 
Lindsay  and  her  two  daughters  had  the 
mortification  of  walking  to  the  College,  to 
procure  a  hackney-coach  ;  in  which  mise- 
rable vehicle  they  were  to  come  in  con- 
tact with  the  coroneted  and  crested  equi- 
pages of  their  companions  for  the  night,  in 
the  Crescent. 

In  the  company  of  Mr.  Lindsay  and  his 
youngest  daughter,  Mary  forgot  the  insult- 
ing coldness  of  her  reception.  She  un- 
disguisedly  related  to  him  all  the  events 
which  had  recently  transpired  at  Burn- 
path  ;  save  one — one  on  which  all  the  rest 
in  a  measure  revolved — her  own  mar- 
A.nd  this  she  wished  not  to  con- 


nacre. 


ceal  from  him — but  feared,  and  knew  not 
how  to  communicate  it.  It  was  known  to 
but  few  beyond  Burnpath  ;  and  until  she 
should  see  Henry,  or  hear  from  him,  she 
knew  not  how  far  she  might  act  wisely  in 
divulging  it ;  and  his  mysterious  silence, 
since  his  departure,  increased  her  hesita- 
tion. 

Next  day,  Willie  Watson  strode  across 
Brown  Square,  "  To  inquire  after  the  bit 
lassie,"  as  he  said  ;  "  for  he  feared,  as  far 
as  he  could  judge,  she  wad  meet  wi'  but  a 
blae  reception  !" 

He  had  heard  of  her  marriage  with 
Henry  ;  and  his  name  being  at  the  mo- 
ment uppermost  in  his  thoughts,  on  the 
servant  opening  the  door,  he  inquired — 
"  Is  Mrs.  Walton  within,  this  morning.?" 


THE   MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


13:i 


"  There  is  no'  such  person  here,"  said 
the  boy,  attempting  to  shut  the  door.- 

^'  Nae  sic  person  here  !"  said  Willie, 
intercepting  him  with  hia  foot — "  Nae  sic 
person  here,  do  ye  say  ?  What's  come 
owre  her  then  ?  Did  1  no  bring  her  trunk 
here  yesterday  ?" 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Walton  !— beg  pardoa  !— 
yes,  yes  !  I  had  forgotten  !"  said  the  crafty 
urchin,  while  a  laughing  devil  twinkled  at 
the  corners  of  his  eyes  ;  and  hurrying  to 
the  parlor,  where  Mary  was  sitting  with 
Mrs.  Lindsay  and  family — "  A  person 
wishes  to  speak  with  Mrs.  Walton j''"'  sa:id 
he. 

"  Mrs.  Walton  !"  responded  all,  raising 
their  eyes  inquiringly — "  Mrs.  Walton  I" 

She  trembled — blushed — cast  her  eyes 
upon  the  ground — shed  a  sudden  tear — 
and,  rising  with  the  dignity  of  a  princess^ 
laid  her  hand  upon  Mr.  Lindsay's,  saying 
— "  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  Mrs.  Wal- 
ton ;  hereafter  you  shall  know  all.  Show 
the  stranger  to  me." 

"  How  singular  !"  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Lindsay. 

^'  Did  you  ever!'^  exclaimed  Miss 
Lindsay,  in  the  attitude  of  adoration. 

''  Such  a  discovery  !"  cried  her  sister. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Walton  !"  said 
the  youngest,  leaping  towards  her,  "  and 
you  are  married,  are  you  }  Well,  I  wish 
you  joy  with  my  whole  heart." 

"  1  trust  I  may  rejoice  that  it  is  so,  my 
amiable  friend,"  replied  Mr.  Lindsay; 
"  but  reveal  nothinjx  to  me  which  it  would 
give  you  pain  to  relate." 

Willie  Watson  was  heard  stalking;  alono; 
the  passage,  shaking  the  walls  "  with 
thundering  tread."  Making  his  best  bow 
to  the  company,  and  firmly  smoothing 
down  his  hair  over  his  forehead,  as  he  be- 
gan to  speak,  he  be<?-an  also  to  smooth 
round  his  hat ;  and,  continuing  to  turn  it 
in  his  hand,  said — "  I  ask  your  pardon, 
leddies,  and  yours,  too,  sir,  for  coming  in 
amang  ye  in  a  figure  like  this ;  for  it 
doesna  do  to  be  owre  particular  in  my 
line  o'  life.     But,  ye  see,  having  a  great 


reo;ard  for  Mrs.  Walton's  connexions — 
the  memory  o'  her  worthy  faither  in  par- 
ticular— no  to  mention  that  the  like  o'  me 
has  even  the  honor  o'  being  familiar,  I  may 
say,  wi'  her  worthy  husband,  the  son  o' 
the  great  Sir  Robert  Walton  o'  Devon- 
shire, ye  ken,  that  (I  saw  it  in  the  papers' 
myseP)  gied  twa  thousand  pounds,  no  lang 
syne,  for  an  Arawbian  mare — I  say,  no 
even  to  mention  this,  coming  to  the  toun 
wi'  her  yesterday,  I  couldna  think  o'  gaun 
hame  till  I  heard  how  she  was  situated,  an' 
to  see  if  she  has  ony  word  to  send  east  by 
to  Berwickshire." 

Kis  professing  acquaintance  with  Hen- 
ry, rendered  him  doubly  interesting  to 
Mary,  and  she  more  than  forgave  the  con- 
fusion he  caused  by  the  betrayal  of  her 
secret.  He  further  had  mentioned  cir- 
cumstances relating  to  her  husband's  fa- 
mily with  which  she  was  unacquainted ; 
and,  with  the  natural  energy  of  her  man- 
ner, she  thanked  him  for  the  kindly  inte- 
rest he  manifested  in  her  behalf.  Mr. 
Lindsay,  to  testify  the  sincerity  of  his 
welcome,  placed  him  a  chair  beside  his 
own,  and  ordered  a  morning  dram.  (A 
false  and  pernicious  token  of  hospitality, 
which  we  trust  to  see  exploded  for  ever.) 
One  glass  begot  another ;  and  between 
Mr.  Lindsay  and  the  drover,  an  acquaint- 
ance that  had  been  forgotten  for  almost 
thirty  years  was  revived.  The  elder 
Misses  Lindsay  and  their  mother,  were 
forgetting  the  shock  they  sustained  on  the 
entrance  of  the  unpolished  figure  before 
them,  in  their  redoubled  attentions  to  the 
— wife  of  a  Baronet's  son  ! — when  the 
Honorable  Timothy  Higgins  was  an- 
nounced. 

"  Oh  !  shocking  !"  exclaimed  Miss 
Lindsay,  rising  in  perturbation — ^'  and 
that  odious  man  ! — show  the  gentleman 
into  the  drawing-room." 

Mr.  Lindsay  was  at  this  moment  in  the 
midst  of  a  school  adventure,  in  which 
Willie  Watson  and  himself  had  been  the 
principal  actors. 

"  The  Honorable  Fiddle-de-dee  !"  said 


134 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


he,  baTing  heard  the  words  ^'  odious  man," 
applied  to  his  old  school-fellow — "  Show 
him  in  here.  I  certainly  am  entitled  to 
see  that  no  honorable  visitors  to  my  house 
be  dishonorable.  Show  him  in  here." 
"  Oh  !  horrid  ! — Mr.  Lindsay,  you  are 

the    most    unaccountable    man" said 

Mrs.  Lindsay. 

"  My  love  !''  replied  the  husband. 
"  I'll  be  bidding  ye  guid-day,  Mr. 
Lindsay,"  said  Willie  ;  ''  for,  although  I 
hae  the  honor  to  be  acquainted  wi'  Mr. 
Walton,  I  maun  say,  after  a',  that  drovers 
arena  just  the  kind  o'  company  that  yer 
Honorables,  and  Richt  Honorables,  wad 
like  to  sit  doun  wi' ;  though  cast  off  the 
bit  coat,  an'  they  wad  maybe  find  wha  is 
the  best  man,  for  a'  that." 

"  Be  seated,"  said  Mr.  Lindsay ; 
"  whoever  may  come,  my  house  is  large 
enough  for  an  old  friend." 

Mr.  Higgins  had  arrived  on  the  pre- 
ceding day  from  England,  was  at  Lady 
Sillerdj^kcs'  soiree  in  the  evening,  and  hav- 
ing escorted  the  Misses  Lindsay  and  their 
mother  home,  had  sent  in  his  card  to  pay 
his  respects  to  the  ladies  in  the  morning. 
Miss  Lindsay  was  his  partner  during  the 
evening  ;  and  she  had  already  informed 
Mary  that  he  was  a  divine  creature,  though 
his  form  was  rather  petit  ;  and  he  had  had 
the  misfortune,  a  few  weeks  ago,  as  he  told 
her,  to  have  his  right  hand  wounded  in  an 
affair  of  honor,  which  caused  him  at  pre- 
sent to  wear  it  in  a  sling,  and  rendered 
him  indescribably  interesting. 

The  mighty  Mr.  Higgins  now  entered, 
in  all  the  imposing  dignity  of  five  feet  two  ; 
bowed,  smiled— bent  his  body — begged 
they  would  excuse  his  misfortune  ;  saw 
Mary — blushed,  shook — turned  his  eyes 
to  the  farther  end  of  the  room — started, 
and  almost  fainted  at  the  feet  of  the  ladies  ! 
Mary  slightly,  and  somewhat  disdainfully, 
returned  his  confused  bow.  Mr.  Lindsay 
was  rising  to  welcome  him,  when,  to  the 
horror  of  all,  Willie  Watson  stalked  across 
the  floor,  offered  his  hand  to  the  Honora- 
ble and  petrified   Mr.   Higgins,   saying — 


"  Weel,  sir,  hoo's  a'  wi'  ye  the  day  ? 
Hoo's  your  fingers  }  I'm  very  sorry  for 
that  bit  lick  I  gied  them  yesterday  V 

Mr.  Higgins  trembled  —  perspired  — 
grew  pale — stuttered  he  would  call  again 
— turned  his  back  upon  the  drover,  and 
muttering  something  about  the  engage- 
ments, to  the  astonishment  of  the  ladies, 
bowed,  blushed,  and  backed  out  of  the 
room. 

^'  I  fear,  my,  dears,"  said  Mr.  Lindsay, 
"  your  Honorable  has  met  with  a  sur- 
prise ; — he  has  made  but  a  short  visit." 

"  The  less  o'  his  company  the  better," 
said  Willie,  "  if  we  may  judge  by  the  spe- 
cimen Mrs.  Walton  an'  me  had  o'  it  on 
the  coach  yesterday." 

He  then  narrated  his  impertinent  con- 
duct towards  IMary,  and  bursting  into  a 
loud  laugh,  said — "  But  it  wad  hae  been 
nae  joke,  after  a',  if  I  had  left  his  bits  o' 
honorable  fingers  on  the  road,  for  the 
crows  to  build  their  nest  wi'.  Mrs.  Wal- 
ton," continued  Willie,  as  he  rose  to  de- 
part, "  if  I  micht  mak  sae  free  as  to  ask  a 
favor,  ye  wad  greatly  oblige  me  b}^  a  word 
or  twa  in  private." 

This  being  granted,  he  proceeded — "  I 
I  was  just  wishing  to  ken,  ma'am — if  it's 
no  impertinent  in  me  to  ask  — when  ye 
heard  frae  Mr.  Walton.  For,  to  tell  ye 
the  truth,  ma'am,  I  like  him  maist  as  weel 
as  ye  can  do  yersel'.  I  gaed  frae  Dunse 
to  Newcastle  wi'  him  ;  an'  four  happier 
days  I  never  spent  in  my  life.  He  invited 
me,  if  ever  I  was  up  in  the  south,  to  come 
ower  and  spend  a  while  at  his  faither's. 
But  I've  heard  naetliiu'  o'  him  since  he 
left  Newcastle." 

He  forebore  alluding  to  the  nature  of 
Henry's  disappearance,  or  the  circum- 
stances attending  it ;  for  what  he  wanted 
in  politeness  he  had  supplied  to  him  in 
feeling.  It  was  a  question  which,  of  all 
others,  Mary  would  have  avoided ;  for 
the  thouo-ht  that  she  had  not  heard  from 
Henry  was  her  deepest  affliction.  But 
she  could  not  tell  a  falsehood  ;  and,  least 
of  all,  to  one  who  gloried  in   the   thought 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


135 


of  being  her  husband's  friend,  and  who  had 
acted  as  hers.  Melting  into  tears,  she  re- 
plied, that  she  had  not. 

Willie  drew  his  coat  sleeve  across  his 
eyes. 

"  Forgie  me,  ma'am  I — forgie  me  for 
askin'  ye,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  expect  to  be 
in  London  very  soon  ;  an',  if  I  dinna  see 
you  in  Devonshire^  I'll  at  least  bring  ye 
word  frae  it  !  Guid-day  the  noo,  ma'am  ! 
— guid-day!"  And  again  drawing  his 
sleeve  across  his  eyes,  the  good-natured 
drover  bent  his  way  to  the  Grassmarket. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

Withering  and  scorching  as  the  eye  of  God, 
Is  the  proud  glance  of  injured  innocence, 
When  bent  by  woman  upon  worthless  man. 
For,  what  are  threatening  frowns,  or  strength  of  arm, 
While  virtue  grasps  omnipotence,  and  wields 
The  burning  electricity  of  heaven, 
At  which  a  giant  trembles  !     To  behold 
A  woman  fixed  as  death — deep,  calmly  desperate- 
Read}^  to  die,  and  die  with  dignity — 
Weaxing  her  honor  in  her  life's  last  blood — 
Makes  naught  the  fiercest  purposes  of  man, 
And  buries  passion  in  his  blushing  soul ! 
Or  who  could  view  the  tear  steal  silent  down 
The  cheek  where  beauty  blossomed,  ere  the  winds 
Of  misery  nipped  its  roses  in  tlieir  bud, 
I'lor  beg  that  he  might  chase  that  tear  awa3% 
Though  falling  for  au  enemy  ? — Or  feel 
His  heart  burst  forth — his  hand  already  raised 
To  strike  Ia  her  defence.     For  woman's  tears 
Are  as  a  sovereign's  voice  whom  all  men  love  ; 
And  there  is  neither  left  the  will,  nor  power. 
To  stand  a  rebel  to  their  fond  appeal. 

On  the  day  after  leaving  the  worthy 
drover,  Henry  Walton  obtained  a  passage 
to  London,  from  whence  he  found  but  lit- 
tle difficulty  in  pursuing  his  journey  to  his 
father's  house. 

Now,  when  Henry  Walton  returned  to 
Buekham  Priory,  the  seat  of  his  ancestors, 
he  found  that  his  parents  were  from  home  ; 
and  there  accompanied  him  from  London 
a  Sir  Mark  Wallingford — a  gay  man  and 
a  man  of  the  world,  but  withal  a  heartless 
man. 

Henry  longed  for  the  return  of  his  pa- 
rents, that  he  mioht  acknowledo;e  to  them 
his  marriage  with  Mary  Robertson,  and 
that  he  might  hear  their  lips  pronounce 
her  their  daui2;hter. 


One  morning,  as  Sir  Mark  was  passing 
through  the  hall,  he  perceived  a  letter,  in 
a  fine  female  hand,  addressed  to  Henry, 
and  bearing  a  Scottish  post-mark.  It  was 
a  temptation  he  could  not  resist.  He  took 
up  the  letter  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket. 
"  A  Scottish  Venus !"  said  he—"  A 
Greenland  dove  !"  The  letter  was  from 
Mary,  announcing  her  intention  of  leaving 
Scotland  for  her  husband.  The  words, 
husband  and  wife,  with  which  the  letter 
began,  were  lost  upon  Wallingford.  He 
resolved  to  proceed  to  London,  and  there 
wait  the  arrival  of  his  friend's  northern 
rosebud. 

When  Mary,  therefore,  arrived  in  Lon- 
don, she  found  Sir  Mark  Wallingford  there 
to  receive  her  in  her  husband's  name, 
whom  he  said  he  expected  from  Devon- 
shire daily.  The  appearance  of  the  house 
to  which  he  conducted  her,  was  not  in 
keeping  with  his  professions  ;  yet  she  had 
no  suspicion. 

A  day,  however,  did  not  pass,  until  the 
villain  unmasked  the  villainy  of  his  soul. 
It  was  now  that  all  the  energy  of  Mary's 
character  was  revealed.  The  villain  felt 
himself  crouch  in  her  presence  ;  and,  al- 
though he  at  first  ordered  the  landlady  to 
keep  her  a  prisoner,  that  personage  soon 
tired  of  acting  jailer,  without  knowing  who 
was  to  pay.  His  threatenings  and  his 
visits  ceased. 

One  day,  the  landlady  abruptly  entered 
the  apartment,  and  said — "  I  ask  your 
pardon  ma'am — and,  to  be  sure,  I  am 
very  sorry  to  see  a  young  creature  in 
distress — but  I  has  a  family  of  my  own 
to  provide  for ;  and  as  you  'an't  paid 
last  week's  lodgings,  I  shall  thank  you 
ma'am,  to  have  the  goodness  to  settle  it 
now  ;  and,  as  I  must  look  to  the  charac- 
ter of  my  children,  poor  things,  in  what 
sort  of  people  I  keep,  I  hope,  ma'am,  you 
will  have  no  objectiotis  to  quit  my  house 
next  week." 

Mary  raised  her  eyes  slowly  to  her  face, 
and  again  met  the  cold,  stupid,  and  sus- 
picious glance  which  she  had  repelled  with 


136 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


indio-nation  on  her  first  entering  the  house, 
^he  drew  her  hand  slowly  across  her  brow, 
like  one  awaking  from  a  dream,  and  still 
in  doubt  regarding  its  reality.  Her  eyes 
became  fixed,  deeply  fixed,  on  the  prying 
and  unfeeling  countenance  of  her  intruder ; 
and  her  lips  quivering  with  emotion,  she 
exclaimed — "  Woman  !" 

"  Don't  woman  me,  madam,"  retorted 
the  other ;  ''  it  perhaps  an't  for  me  to 
judge,  but  Heaven  knows  I  always  thought 
there  was  too  much  kindness  and  attention 
about  thy  gentleman  to  stand  long,  or  mean 
good.  Thou  art  a  quiet  enough  lady,  I 
own  that,  but  quiet  looks  an't  to  pay  me,  nor 
do  anything  for  my  family.  I  may  think 
wrong;  about  his  leavinsr  thee  in  this  here 
sort  of  way  ;  but,  why,  all  the  neighbors 
say  the  same  about  it  already  ;  and,  as  I 
has  nothing  but  the  good  name  of  my 
house  to  depend  on  for  a  livelihood,  I 
hope  you  will  think  of  paying  me,  and  re- 
move as  soon  as  possible." 

Mary's  natural  spirit  and  self-posses- 
sion had  returned.      During;  this  insulting 
harangue,  she    arose    to    her    feet.     Her 
breast   no    longer    heaved,    her    lips    no 
longer  quivered,  and  her  eyes  no  longer 
wept ;    she    no   longer  trembled,   seemed 
sorrowful,  nor  exhausted  ;  the  very  tears 
dried  on  her  glowing;   cheeks  ;  she   stood 
erect  and  motionless  as  a  pillar   of  death, 
bending  her  piercing  and  immovable  gaze 
on  the   object  before   her  ;  every  feeling 
absorbed  in  one — and  that  one   measure- 
less disdain.     She  continued  for  a  few  mo- 
ments in  the  same  silent  and   sublime  at- 
titude, her  eye  resting  on  the  speaker  with 
inefiable  scorn  ;    and,   taking  her   purse, 
which  contained  but  a  few  shillings  more 
than  the  sum  demanded,  she  counted  out 
the  paltry  debt,  and  placing   the   amount 
on  a  table  before  the  landlady,  she  waved 
her    hand   in    disgust,    and,    in    a    tone 
which  commanded  obedience,   exclaimed 
— "  Away  !" 

With  the  servile  cowardice  of  an  infe- 
rior mind,  the  other  placed  her  hand  up- 
on the  money,  and  silently  obeyed  ;  but, 


on  reaching  the  door,  she  hesitated — turn- 
ed ;  and  the  sound  of  the  silver  having 
brought  her  back  to  humanity,  she  falter- 
ingly  ventured  to  inquire — "  Could  I  serve 
you  in  anything,  ma'am  ?" 

Without  speaking,  Mary  impatiently 
stamped  her  foot,  and  again  waved  her 
hand ;  while  the  other,  trembling  beneath 
her  own  insignificance,  slid  out  of  the 
room. 

On  finding  herself  again  alone,  Mary's 
feelings  gushed  back  into  their  former 
channels ;  and  the  heartless  indignity  ad- 
ding its  sting  to  her  other  sorrows,  her 
tears  burst  forth  anew,  and  flowed  faster 
than  before.  She  sank  upon  her  Knees, 
and,  in  the  excess  of  her  grief,  prayed 
that  she  might  be  given  strength,  and 
taught  resignation.  Her  petition  was 
humble,  earnest,  and  importunate ;  and, 
as  she  breathed  a  fervid  and  anxious  Amen, 
tranquillity  fell  upon  her  troubled  spirit, 
as  the  morning  dawn  silently  rolls  the 
mist  from  the  valley,  or  melts  away  the 
cloud  upon  the  hills.  It  was  not  hope, 
but  a  something  more  than  hope,  which 
no  physician  but  prayer  can  impart ;  as 
though  a  radiant  angel  had  winged  his  way 
to  heaven  with  our  request,  and  from  his 
wake  of  glory  beamed  back  holiness  on 
our  souls. 

Mary's  first  act  was  now  to  change  her 
lodgings  where  she  might  be  secure. 


CHAPTER  vri. 

His  was  not  madness,  such  as  maniacs  show, 
But  love — deep  love — absorbing  agony — 

A  withering  of  the  heart — a  shroud  of  wo — 
The  tossing  of  a  bark  upon  a  sea 

That  ever  doth  in  storm  and  darkness  flow — 
Whose  shores  are  death,  whose  waves  are  misery  I 

A  wailing  of  the  spirit,  and  a  grief 

That  knew  no  hope — no  soothing — no  relief  I 

Pain  made  its  dwelling  in  his  lonely  breast, 
"Where  wo  bent  o'er  the  sepulchre  ol  hope  ; 

Palo  lamentation  was  its  cheerless  guest, 
And  there  would  anguish,  there  would  sorrow  stop, 

And  make  their  habitation.     Peace  and  rest 
Had  left  it  desolate.     Despair  might  grope 

And  lose  its  way  within  it.     Every  ray 

Of  hope  had  died — of  joy  had  passed  away. 

Six  weeks  had  passed,  and  the  domes- 


THE   MINISTER'S    DAUGHTER. 


137 


tics  of  Cutbbertson  Lodo-e  heard  no  ti- 
diugs  of  their  master  ;  for  he  had  left  it 
none  knew  whither,  shortly  after  the  fune- 
ral of  Mr.  Robertson.  Every  individual 
in  the  house  and  upon  the  estate,  from 
Janet  Gray  down  to  the  cow-boy  who  her- 
ded by  the  hillside,  began  to  feel  alarmed 
for  his  absence.  Several  of  the  tenants 
and  household  were  met  in  conclave  before 
the  Lodge,  deliberating  upon  the  cause,  and 
concerting  measures  to  procure  intelli- 
gence respecting  him.  An  elderly  cotter, 
holding  a  snuff-box  in  his  hand,  and  into 
which  he,  ever  and  anon,  dipped  his  finger 
and  thumb,  without,  however,  raising  their 
contents  half-way  to  his  nostrils,  assuming 
a  countenance  of  more  than  usual  serious- 
ness and  sagacity,  said — "  I  dinna  ken, 
sirs — an'  I  dinna  like  to  be  forward  in 
giein'  an  opinion — but  I'll  tell  ye  what  it 
is — an'  its  not  only  my  opinion,  but,  I 
ma}'  say,  it's  the  opinion,  o'  mair  folk  than 
ane — do  ye  ken,  I  think  there  was  an  un- 
co change  upon  the  laird  afore  ever  he 
gaed  awa  : — that's  what  I  think." 

'•^  Losh,  John,  man,"  interrupted  ano- 
ther, "  whar  do  ye  get  yer  news  .'^  I'm 
sure  we  a'  kenned  that." 

'•  Weel,  neighbor,"  replied  the  com- 
posed cotter,  "  I  wasna  sayin'  that  ye 
didiia  ken  ;  but  ye '11  no  hear  what  a  body 
has  to  say.  Noo,  I  was  sayin'  that  in  my 
opinion,  the  laird  was  greatly  altered ; 
but  I'll  tell  ye  hoo — and  this  is  a  fact : 
whether  I  was  workin'  about  the  plantin', 
biggin  at  the  dykes,  or  even  ditchin' — it 
was  nae  matter  what ;  whanever  he  cam 
past,  he  wad  hae  stopped  an'  had  a  crack. 
'  Weel,  John,'  he  wad  hae  said,  as  familiar 
like  as  if  we  had  lived  butt  an'  ben — 
'  Weal,  John,hoo's  a'  wi  ye  the  day  }  Is 
the  wife  an'  the  bairns  a'  weel  ? '  '  Thank 
ye,  si.','  I  wad  hae  said — '  we  are  a'  meikle 
about  our  ordinar.  How  are  a'  the  folk 
about  the  lodge  ?'  Ye  may  lauch,  sirs, 
but  as  sure  as  death,  I  used  to  ask  him 
just  in  that  familiar  way.  Do  ye  think  I 
wad  till  ye  a  lee  .•'  '  Hae  ye  onything  in 
yer  mull  the  day,  John.'^'    he   wad   hae 


said  again  ;  '  ye  keep  famish  sneeshin' — 
whar  do  ye  get  it  '^  'I  dare  say,  sir,' 
says  I,  '  I've  nae  particular  merchant,  but 
sometimes  frae  ane,  an'  sometimes  frae 
anither.'  Noo,  we  just  used  to  crack  in 
that  sort  o'  way,  for  maybe  half  an  hour 
at  a  time,  twice  or  thrice  a-week.  For  he 
used  to  say,  '  I  like  to  hear  John  enter 
fairly  upon  a  crack — he's  sae  entertainin'.' 
I  canna  mak  oot,  sirs,  what  ye  are  a'  geeg- 
lin'  at.  It's  my  opinion  ye  think  I'm 
tellin'  ye  an  untruth.  Ye  may  either  be- 
lieve it  or  no  ;  but  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is — 
for  some  time  afore  he  gaed  awa,  there 
was  a  great  change  upon  the  laird,  and  he 
used  to  pass  me,  without  gommin'  me  ony 
mair  than  than  if  I  had  been  an'  auld 
milestane ;  never  even  looked  the  road  I 
was  on  ;  or  said,  '  Is  that  you  John .-'  but 
gaed  saunterin'  and  seighin' — Lord,  pre- 
serve us  !  I  could  hear  his  seighs,  I'll  no 
say  a  quarter  o'  a  mile  aff,  but — I  canna 
tell  ye  hoo  far.  Noo,  what  I  infer  frae 
a'  this,  is,  that  the  laird  is  greatly  changed  ; 
or  in  my  opinion,  that  there  is  something 
upon  his  mind." 

"  Weel,  if  ye  be  dune  wi'  yer  sermon, 
John,  an'  a  body  may  put  in  a  word  edge- 
ways," said  a  farmer,  "  Til  tell  ye,  with- 
out palaver,  that  the  laird  was  a  wee  thocht 
unsettled  afore  he  left  the  lodge,  an'  ought 
to  be  seen  about.  I  doubt  the  back-gaun 
o'  his  marriage  has  been  a  sair  upsettin' 
to  his  reason,  honest  man ;  and  it  will  be 
a  pity — that's  a'  that  I  can  say.  I  think 
his  agent  in  Kelso  should  be  written  to — 
and  that  immediately.'' 

Janet  Gray,  who,  from  the  period  of 
Mary's  leaving  Burnpath,  had  resided  in 
the  lodge,  as  a  sort  of  superior  house- 
keeper, was  about  to  be  consulted,  when 
the  laird  himself  was  seen  proceeding  up 
the  avenue,  and,  like  a  mischievous  school- 
boy, with  his  cane,  switching  the  heads 
from  the  flowers  which  adorned  the  sides 
of  the  path.  The  group  remained  to 
welcome  his  approach,  for  they  not  only 
respected  him  as  a  master,  but  loved  him 
as  a  brother.     But  the  incorrigible  cotter, 


138 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


whose  assurance  was  after  the  same  quality 
as  his  equanimitj,  still  holding  the  snuff- 
box in  his  hand,  and  deeming  it  an  irre- 
sistible opportunity  of  giving  ocular  proof 
of  the  familiarity  on  which  he  had  en- 
larged, shouldered  his  spade,  and  pro- 
ceeded down  the  avenue  to  meet  him. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  ye  back,  sir — unco 
glad,  indeed,"  said  he,  holding  the  snuff- 
box to  his  master's  breast. 

"  Glad  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Cuthbertson, 
as  if  starting  from  a  dream,  and  dashing 
the  proffered  box  to  the  ground — "  glad  ! 
the  rivers  run  wi'  sorrow,  and  the  sun  has 
burnt  up  joy  ! — and  ye  say  ye  are  glad  ! 
— glad  ! — hae  ye  nae  sympathy  ?  The 
earth  is  a  lump  o'  desolation,  an'  hoo  can  i 
ye  be  glad  I"  | 

"  I'm  very  sorry  ye  should  think  sae, 
sir,"  said  the  tranquil  cotter,  stooping  and 
lifting  his  box — "  very  sorry  to  hear  ye 
say  sae,  indeed  ;  for,  in  my  opinion,  sir, 
if  we  war  to  count  owre  the  mercies  we 
enjoy,  instead  o'  the  things  which  we 
covet" 

"  Excuse  me,  John,"  said  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertson, kindly  shaking  the  hand  of  the 
cotter  ;  "  I  doubt  I've  no  been  sae  pleasant 
to  ye  as  I  should  hae  been.  But  I  was 
kind  o'  daized  and  stupid  ways  when  ye 
spak;  for  I've  had  but  little  rest,  and  a 
guid  deal  to  mak  me  unhappy  lately.  I've 
skailt  yer  snuff,  but  I'll  tak  care  that  yer 
box  be  replenished.  But  oh,  John  !  John, 
man  !  when  a'  the  best  and  the  dearest 
hopes  and  feelings  o'  the  heart  are  spilt, 
they  are  like  water  upon  the  ground,  that 
canna  be  gathered  up  again  !" 

The  cotter  was  about  to  make  one  of 
his  accustomed  prose  replies ;  but,  as  his 
master  returned  to  recollection,  the  fulness 
and  anguish  of  his  heart  returned  also, 
and  he  turned  away  from  the  never-ruffled 
speaker,  and  proceeded  towards  the  Lodge. 
The  others  di-ew  near  to  cono-ratulate  him 
on  his  arrival,  and  express  the  uneasiness 
they  had  felt. 

Thank  yc,  thank  ye,  friends,"  said  he, 
passing  on,  and  endeavoring  to   conceal 


the  emotions  to  which  his  last  conversa- 
tion had  given  rise  ;  "I'm  unco  weel. 
Here  is  braw  weather  for  the  harvest  " 

"  Mercy  !  hear  that  !"  whispered  the 
farmer  ;  "  he  says  braw  weather  for  the 
harvest !  I'm  sure  we'll  hae  nae  shearin' 
in  this  part  o'  the  country  for  twa  months 
to  come.  Wheat  is  hardly  in  the  shot- 
blade  yet." 

"  Do  ye  observe,"  added  another,  as  he 
entered  the  house,  "  how  careless  he  is 
wi'  his  claes,  and  how  particular  he  used 
to  be  ;  he  wadna  gaen  out  owre  the  door 
wi'  a  single  jesp  on  them." 

"  Ay,"  said  a  third  ;  "  an'  how  frichtfu' 
his  beard  looks." 

"  Preserve  us  !"  cried  a  fourth,  "  are 
ye  a'  daft  thegither  f  Hasna  the  laird 
been  a  journey  ? — an'  do  ye  think,  when 
folks  are  travellin',they  can  hae  a  tailor  or 
a  barber  for  ever  at  their  elbow !  A  bon- 
ny story  truly,  that  a  man  maun  be  said 
to  be  out  o'  his  head,  because  he's  no  jist 
as  prim  and  preceese  as  a  mantie- maker  ! 
An'  what's  the  great  fault  ye  hae  to  find 
wi'  him  say  in,  that  this  is  '  fine  weather 
for  the  harvest .?'  Is  it  no  fine  weather 
for  bringin'  it  forward ;  an',  therefore,  I 
say  it's  fine  weather  for  the  harvest — an' 
the  laird  was  richt.  Had  he  said, '  Here's 
fine  harvest  weather,'  ye  micht  hae  spoken 
_l3ut" 

"  Hech,  man !  where  did  ye  learn  to 
argue  ?"  interrupted  a  listener  ;  "ye  wad 
made  a  famous  writer  to  the  signet." 

"Or  an  advocate  before  the  Lords  o' 
Session!"  returned  another  sarcastically. 

"  It  wad  be  worth  half-a-crown  to  hear 
him  and  John  the  hedger  yoked,"  added 
the  farmer.      And  the  party  dispersed. 

The  domestics  in  the  Lodge  were  en- 
deavoring to  testify  their  joy  at  their  mas- 
ter's return.  Each  flew  to  proffer  him  a 
hundred  little  services,  or  make  inquiry 
into  every  want.  Old  Janet  threw  aside 
her  stocking  ;  and,  without  performing  the 
customary  formalities  of  adjusting  her  cap 
and  apron,  bustled  down  stairs  to  welcome 
her  favorite  and  friend.     He  was  kindly 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


139 


shaking  hands  with  the  servants,  and 
thanking  them  for  their  attention.  They 
withdrew  as  Janet  approached,  and  he 
hastily  rose  to  meet  her. 

"  Welcome  !  welcome  hame,  Sir  !"  cried 
she  ;  "  an'  sair,  sair  lookin'  we  have  a' 
had  for  ye  !  But,  oh  !  did  ye  find  her  ? — 
hae  ye  seen  my  ain  bairn  r" 

"  Yes  !  yes,  Janet,  IVe  seen  her  !"  re- 
plied he.  "  Heaven  kens — and  my  dis- 
consolate, mourning  spirit  kens — 1  have 
seen  her  !  Yes,  Janet,  I  have  seen  her  ! 
But,  sit  doYvn — sit  down.  Hech,  woman  ! 
it's  been  a  lang  journey,  and  a  sad  one. 
My  voice  by  night  has  been  like  the  troub- 
led wind  on  the  dark  sea.  Oh,  Janet !  ye 
may  think  my  grief  unreasonable,  but 
mine  was  no  common  love — it  was  strong: 
as  the  judgments  o'  eternity  !" 

''  Oh,  Sir  !  Sir  !"  said  Janet— "  there's 
nane  kens  yer  feelings  better  than  1  do — 
and  nane,  I'm  sure,  that  has  mair  cause  to 
mingle  her  tears  o'  ujourning  wi'  yer  la- 
mentations ;  but,  oh  !  my  worthy  friend 
and  benefactor,  in  the  midst  o'  our  sor- 
row, let  us  remember  the  Hand  that  afflicts 
us,  an'  not  yield  to  sinfu'  and  profane 
lanci-uao-e." 

"Janet,"  said  he,  "when  the  very 
heartstrings  are  stangin  and  writhin""  round 
the  bosom,  like  adders,  the  tongue  canna 
wale  the  words.  This  may  be  a  judgment 
upon  me — for  it  wasna  love — it  was  ador- 
ation ! — an'  though  it  may  crush  me  to  my 
grave,  it's  adoration  still.  Without  her, 
an'  my  life  is  to  live  and  feel  death  for 
ever  !  Death — wi'  the  last  pangs  o'  life  ! 
Death — wi'  the  horrors  o'  the  grave  ! 
Death — wi'  a'  that's  terrible  hereafter  !" 

"  Oh,  my  freend  !  my  freend  !"  cried 
Janet,  "  if  it  be  His  will,  may  ye  find 
peace  and  comfort  to  yer  troubled  spirit  !" 

"  Peace  an'  comfort!"  he  exclaimed — 
"  na  !  na  ! — naethin'  upon  this  earth  can 
now  gie  peace  an'  comfort  to  me,  but  the 
spade — the  shool — the  kirkyard  !  Talk  o' 
peace  and  comfort  to  the  deein'  traveller 
in  the  desert,  wha  has  the  burnin'  sand  for 
a  windin'  sheet,  and  the  scorchin'  wind  to 


cool  his  parched  tongue  !  But  what's 
death  in  the  wilderness,  Janet,  to  the 
desolation  of  the  soul ! — what's  the  burnin' 
sand  to  the  burnin'  brain  o'  despair  ! — and 
what's  the  scorchin'  wind  an"*  the  parched 
tono;ue,  to  the  witherin'  an'  consumin' 
agony  o'  love  without  hope  ! — o'  a  heart 
dried  up  for  ever  !    for  ever  !" 

"  Do  try  an'  compose  yersel',  sir,"  said 
Janet.  "  I  wad  fain  ask  a  question  or 
twa  aboot  my  bairn  ;  but  while  ye  are  in 
such  agitation,  1  canna — I  daurna.  But, 
oh  !  how  has  she  been  .-*  How  did  she  get 
there  }  Is  he  good  till  her  .^  An'  what 
for  did  she  no  write  .^ — or  hae  ye  a  letter  ^ 
Has  she  no  forgotten  my  counsel }  Are 
his  family  guid  to  my  bairn  }  Oh,  sir, 
try  an'  compose  yersel'  for  a  single  minute, 
and  answer  me  only  that  one  question." 

"Oh,  Janet!"  answered  he,  "  dinna 
ask  me,  I  implore  ye,  for  I  canna  answer. 
My  bein'  there  is  like  a  dream — (for  he 
had  been  to  London  in  quest  of  her) — a 
painfu',  painfu',  dream  I  But  I  surely 
saw  her — yes,  I  surely  saw  our  ain  IMary  ! 
— drooping  like  a  snaw-drap,  an'  fair  as 
the  alabaster  !  But  I  mind  nae  mair  ! — 
naethin' !   naethin' !" 

"  Oh  !"  said  Janet,  "if  it  were  the 
Lord's  will  that  I  might  be  permitted  to 
see  my  dear  bairn  again  !" 

"  Ye  shall  see  her,  Janet,"  said  Mr. 
Cuthbertson,  calmly,  and  he  rose  and  took 
her  hand  ;  "ye  shall  see  her,  Janet.  I 
mind  naething  distinctly,  but  I  fear  I  hae 
added  affliction  to  the  spirit  I  beheld  sink- 
ino-,an'  that  thocht  is  mair  bitter  to  endure 
than  a'  my  sorrows.  I'm  a  lonely,  friend- 
less bein',  wi'  nane  to  share  my  griefs — 
nane  to  mourn  for  me.  I  had  but  one 
hope — one  desire.  It  was  buried  here, 
Janet'' — (and  he  laid  his  band  on  his 
breast) — "  it  was  buried  here  for  years, 
and  for  years.  The  joys  o**  life,  the  melo- 
dy o'  existence,  were  locked  up  wi'  its 
very  bein' — but  now  it's  gane — it's  broken 
— it  has  perished,  like  the  first  sound  o' 
our  infant  voice  ! — and  they're  gane  also. 
I  hae  but  ae  wish  left,  an'  I  will  perform 


140 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


it.  I  will  pray  for  fortitude.  I  will — I 
must  see  her  again ;  an'  you,  Janet,  shall 
accompany  me." 

A  few  days  after  this  conyersation,  the 
family  carriage,  which  had  not  been  half- 
a-dozen  times  without  the  coachhouse 
since  the  death  of  the  former  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertson,  was  put  in  preparation  for  a 
journey.  A  footman  took  his  seat  behind  ; 
Janet  was  handed  by  the  laird  into  the 
vehicle  ;  and,  after  wishing  good-bye  to 
his  household,  he  took  his  place  by  her 
side.  None  knew  their  destination,  save 
that  they  took  the  English  road,  by  way 
of  Otterburn. 

With  what  success  old  Cuthbertson  and 
Janet  Gray  pursued  their  inquiries  in  Lon- 
don, will  be  now  seen.  Mary  began  to 
be  in  want.  With  a  trembling  hand  she 
took  a  watch — the  gift  of  her  father — from 
her  neck.  She  gazed  on  it  and  wept. 
'"'■  It  was  thine  !  it  was  thine,  my  father  !" 
she  cried — "  thy  last  gift  to  thy  poor 
child  !  But  forgive  me  1 — my  father,  for- 
give thy  Mary  !     It  must  be  done  !" 

She  was  ignorant  of  its  value  •  but 
trusting  to  the  honesty  of  the  world,  and 
knowing  it  at  least  was  worth  more  than 
what  was  required  for  immediate  necessi- 
ties, with  an  anxious  and  a  throbbing  heart 
she  left  her  lodgings  to  offer  it  in  pledge. 
Every  step  seemed  leading  her  to  some- 
thing resembling  guilt — to  an  action  for 
which  she  blushed.  Her  soul  appeared  to 
shrink  within  itself ;  and  her  body  moved 
onward  with  a  consciousness  of  misery  and 
of  shame.  Every  eye  in  the  passing 
crowds  looked  as  if  fixed  upon  her,  and 
every  eye  in  those  crowds  seemed  to  read 
her  errand  as  she  passed  them.  She  was 
passing  down  Holborn,  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  words,  "  Money  Lenty  She  stood 
still  for  a  moment.  The  window  was 
filled  with  every  varied  token  of  misfor- 
tune and  dissipation,  from  the  jewelled 
watch  and  wearing  apparel  down  to  the 
prayer  book ;  and  the  ancient  arms  of 
Lombardy  were  suspended  from  the  door. 
Twice  she  essayed  to  enter,  and  resolution 


failed.  In  vain  she  wiped  away  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  for  others  uncalled  on  took 
their  place. 

"  1  must  !  I  must !"  she  murmured  with 
a  sigh  ;  and  yet  a  third  time  her  hand 
was  on  the  door,  her  foot  upon  the 
threshold. 

"  Guidness  and  mercy  !"  exclaimed  a 
voice  behind  her — and  an  arm  was  sud- 
denly thrown  around  her  waist — "  it  is 
her  !  Janet !  it's  oor  ain  Mary,  oor  angel 
Mary,  snatched  like  a  brand  frae  the  burn- 
ing !  wi'  her  very  feet  upon  the  steps  o' 
poverty  an'  disgrace,  an'  her  han'  on  the 
door  o'  ruin  !  It's  me,  Mary,  hinny  ! — 
it's  me  !  an'  here's  yer  ain  Janet  come  to 
seek  ye  !  But  oh,  hinny  !  hinny  !  what  in 
the  earthly  globe  has  driven  ye  to  this  .^" 

The  speaker  was  Mr.  Cuthbertson.  At 
the  sudden  sound  of  his  voice,  and  at  such 
a  moment,  Mary  uttered  one  exclamation 
of  confusion  and  surprise,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  heard  no  more.  She  seemed 
launched,  with  the  velocity  of  the  light- 
ning, from  this  world  of  realities  to  a  state 
of  dreams.  She  yielded  almost  unresist- 
ing to  his  arm,  while  his  voice  was  like 
the  murmur  of  water  in  her  ears  ;  and  as 
her  eyes  beheld  them,  it  was  only  a  con- 
sciousness of  perceiving  a  substance,  with- 
out distinguishing  the  form. 

^'  Oh,  my  Mary  ! — my  bairn  !"  cried 
the  old  woman,  throwing  her  arms  round 
her  neck,  "•  hae  ye  no  ae  word  to  say  to 
your  am  Janet  ?  My  sweet,  my  winsome 
bairn  !  what's  the  meaning  o'  this  V 

"  Desperation  and  poverty,  Janet ! — 
desperation  and  poverty,  Janet !"  cried 
Mr.  Cuthbertson  ;  "  that's  the  meaning 
o'  this  !  Waes  me  !  what  a  pass  ! — that 
— no — no  my  Mary — but — but — but ! — 
oh,  Janet !  that  she  should  hae  been  starv- 
ing, while  we  were  wallowing  in  the  land 
o'  Goshen !" 

*'  Starving  !"  exclaimed  Janet — ''  Oh, 
sir  !  what  do  ye  mean  ? — or  hoo  do  ye 
ken  }  Speak  to  me — speak  to  me,  my 
mair  than  bairn,  or  my  heart  will  break  !" 

The  strangeness  of  the  scene,  the  stran- 


Ji 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


141 


ger  language,  and  broad  Scottish  accent 
of  the  speakers,  had  akeady  collected  a 
crowd  around  them,  which,  as  Mary  par- 
tially recovered  from  her  agitation,  tend- 
ed to  deepen  her  confusion. 

^'  My  kind,  faithful  Janet !"  she  replied, 
"this — this  is  a  happiness  I  did  not  now 
expect ! — and — Mr.  Cuthbertson,too !" — 

"Ay!  just  Mr.  Cuthbertson  !"  inter- 
rupted he.  "  O  Mary  !  Mary  ! — ^just  Mr. 
Cuthbertson  ! — little  did  I  think  ance  to 
hear  you  ca'  me" 

"  Dinna  talk  o'  that  the  now,  sir," 
cried  Janet;  "for  I'll  declare,  wi'  ye 
talking  about  starving^  je  have  made  me 
that  I  dinna  ken  what  I'm  doing  already  ! 
What  does  he  mean,  my  ain  darling  ?  Oh, 
tell  me,  noo  that  ye  can  speak.  And  hoo 
hae  ye  been,  r^^ 

"  Dear  Janet,"  said  Mary,  "  this  is  no 
place  for  explanations — the  people  are 
gathering  round  us,  and  it  pains  me" 

"  I'll  do  nae thing  to  pain  ye,  my  daw- 
tie,"  said  Janet;  "  sorry  wad  I  be  to  do 
onything  that  could  pain  ye — ye  ken  that ; 
but  think  to  yerseP,  is  it  no  natural,  that 
me  that  nursed  ye- — me  that  ate  o'  your 
faither's  bread  for  thirty  years — is  it  no 
natural" 

Here  her  voice  failed — she  sobbed,  and 
again  threw  her  arms  round  Mary's  neck. 

"  Very  true,  Janet,"  said  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertson ;  "  but  think  ye  it's  no  mair  natu- 
ral for  me,  to" 


The  crowd  continued  to  increase,  and 
were  pressing  around, them. 

"  Dear  friends,"  said  Mary,  "  I  can- 
not— I  will  not  endure  this.  You  know  I 
do  not  feel  less  at  this  meeting  than  you  ; 
but  you  would  not  have  us  to  become  a 
spectacle  and  expose  our  feelings,  and  the 
circumstances  of  our  family,  on  a  public 
street.  Be  composed,  dear  Janet."  She 
took  Cuthbertson's  hand — "  Come,  bro- 
ther^ I  claim  your  protection." 

"  And  ye  shall  hae  it,"  replied  he, 
kindly;  "if  I've  said  or  dune  onything 
amiss,  only  forgie  me  !  For  every  now  and 
then  there's   a  mist  comes  owre  my  soul, 


and  I  hardly  ken  whether  the  past's  the 
present,  or  the  present's  the  past,  or  hoo 
it  is,  or  where  I  am.  But  forgie  me, Mary." 

"  Name  not  forgiveness — I  have  nothing 
to  forgive,"  she  returned  ;  "  but  let  us 
leave  this  crowd." 

"  Crowd  ! — what  crowd  .?"  he  inquired, 
with  a  look  of  stupidity ;  and  turning 
round,  only  then  became  aware  of  the  pre- 
sence of  some  hundred  individuals,  whom 
he  and  Janet  had  drawn  around  them. 
"  In  the  name  o'  wonder,  folk  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, "what  are  ye  a' gapin' an' starin' 
at .''  Is  nature  sic  a  stranger  to  yer  breasts, 
that  ye  will  stand  glowrin'  there  like  a 
wheen  savages  ?  Is  this  a  specimen  of  yer 
London  manners  ? — awa  we  ye,  every  ane 
o'  ye,  an'  look  after  yer  ain  business." 

"  Peace  !  peace,  my  friend !"  said  Ma- 
ry ;  "  let  us  leave  them."  And  they  pro- 
ceeded towards  her  lodgings. 

After  they  had  sat  for  a  time — "  I  must 
leave  ye  now,"  said  Mary,  "but  I  will 
return  soon.    You  will  not  weary,  Janet !" 

"  O  bairn,  just  baud  yer  tongue,"  cried 
Janet,  "for  I'll  gang  wi'  ye,  though  it 
were  to  the  end  o'  the  earth.  Do  ye  think 
that  Pll  let  you  out  o'  my  sight  already, 
an'  ye  no  answered  me  ae  question  !  I  see 
ye  are  put  about  something,  an'  ye  winna 
tell  me.  How  can  ye  be  sae  cruel  ?  Wad 
I  no  lay  down  my  life  to  serve  ye  }  and 
yet  ye'll  no  tell  me — no  ae  word." 

"Janet,"  said  Mary,  "when  I  return, 
you  shall  hear  everything ;  at  present  I 
am  compelled  to  leave  you,  but  only  for 
a  few  hours." 

"  Alas  !  alas  !"  replied  Janet,  "  an'  hae 
I  come  three,  four,  or  I  dinna  ken  how 
mony  hundred  miles,  just  to  hear  ye  say 
— 'Janet,  I'm  compelled  to  leave  ye!' 
There's  something  wrang,  I  see  that  plain- 
ly— an  ye  winna  tell  me — me  that  carried 
ye  in  my  arms" 


"  No  !  no  !  dear  Janet — nothing  ! 
nothing!"  rejoined  Mary;  "all  will  be 
well.  Good-by  now,  and  I  trust  we  shall 
not  part  again." 

"  No  part  again  !"  resumed  the  other, 


142 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


in  a  tone  of  delight ;  "  do  1  hear  mj  ain 
bairn  say  the  words  ?  Then  I  will  let  ye 
gang,  but,  oh,  dinna  bide  an  hour — dinna 
stay  mony  minutes — for  if  ye  only  kenned 
my  anxiety,  hinny,  to  ken  hoo  ye  gat  to 
Devonshire,  as  they  ca'  it — or  what's 
brought  ye  here  again,  Pm  sure  ye  wadna 
stay  a  single  moment.  An'  bring  Mr. 
Walton  wi'  ye — noo,  will  ye  promise  to 
bring  him,  and  I'll  just  be  happy  .^" 

"  1  cannot  Janet !— I  cannot  !"  said 
Mary,  in  accents  of  unconcealed  anguish  ; 
"  do  not  distress  me." 

"Ye  canna!"  exclaimed  Janet,  and 
sank  back  in  her  seat.  "  Sirs  !  sirs  !  what 
does  my  bairn  mean  .?" 

"  I  know  your  friendship,"  she  replied, 
and  trembling  arose  to  depart ;  "  but  fare- 
well now— 1  shall  return  shortly  ;  yes — 
yes — I  shall  return  soon." 

Her  manner  was  flurried,  and  expressive 
of  inward  struggling.  Mr.  Cuthbertson 
arose,  and  sorrowfully  but  tranquilly  walk- 
ing towards  her,  took  her  hand  within  his, 
and  said—' '  Stay  Mary  !— stay !  My  Si  s- 
TER  shall  not  go  forth  in  sorrow.  Yes. 
my  Sister!  You  have  called  me  Brother, 
an'  henceforth  the  daughter  o'  my  mair 
than  faither,  shall  be  to  me  a  Sister,  an' 
an  only  Sister.  My  brain  was  bewildered, 
an'  it  is  often  sae ;  but  1  heard  something 
o'  what  was  passin',  an'  I  see  the  tear 
upon  my  sister's  cheek — My  Brother's 
no  here  !  yes,  my  Bro'.her  ! — my  Brother ! 
Thank  God  I've  got  the  word  past,  an'  I 
can  say  it  again — my  brother  Henry  ! — an' 
noo,  if  I  canna  be  happy,  I  shall  be  com- 
posed. If  the  sun  o'  joy  winna  shine  on  me, 
1  shall  yet  see  the  twilight  o'  consolation." 

CHAPTER    Vlll. 
"  They  parted— ne'er  to  meet  again 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  painin». 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  have  bcL-n  rent  asunder; 
A  dreary  sen  now  flows  between, 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 
Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been." 

It  is  now  necessary,   in  concluding  our 
story,  to  follow,  for  a  brief  space,  tlie  ad- 


ventures of  Sir  Robert  Walton  and  bis 
friend  Mr.  Northcott.     It  will  be  rcmem, 
bered  that,   on  Henry  Walton's  return  to 
Buckham   Priory,  he   found  his  parents 
from  home,  and  that  he  was  left  to  rumi- 
nate, in  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  on  the 
eventful  step  he  had  taken,  and  the  sor- 
rows and  trials  which  had  followed  up  his 
marriage   with   Mary   Robertson.       The 
cause  of  the  absence   of  his  parents  was, 
alas  !  unknown  to  him.     During  his  so- 
journ in  Scotland,  Mr.  Northcott,  a  per- 
son of  ruined  fortunes,  and  of  desperate 
character,  having  contrived  to   gain  the 
ascendency  over  Sir  Robert's  mind,  took 
occasion  to  cast  suspicion  upon  the  honor 
of  his  lady.     The    infamous  slander  too 
readily  accomplished  the  villain's  purpose. 
It  wrouorht  like  madness  in  the  brain  of  Sir 
Robert,   and  without  asking  for  a  single 
proof  of  Lady  Walton's   incontinency,  he 
barbarously  commanded  her  to  leave   the 
Priory  ;  and,  to  complete  the  measure  of 
his  revenge,  he  ordered  Northcott  to  pre- 
pare a  deed  of  disinheritance  against  his 
own  son,  Henry  Walton.     Lady  Walton, 
however,    did   not   long    survive  the  un- 
founded jealousy  and  brutality  of  her  hus- 
band ;  she  died  in  the   course   of  a    few 
weeks,  of  a  broken  heart — an   innocent 
victim    to    his    malign  suspicions.      Sir 
Robert  himself,  whose  health   for    some 
time  had  been  upon  the  wane,  was  ordered 
by  his  physician — a  creature  of  North- 
cott's — to   take   a  voyage  to  the  Morea  ; 
and  in  compliance  therewith,  he  embarked 
in   company  with  the  latter  in  a  vessel 
bound  for  the   Mediterranean.     But  its 
classic  shores  had  for  him  no  charms  ;  he 
looked  upon   every  object  with    apathy, 
and  it  was  in  vain  that  Northcott  put  forth 
all  his   eloquence   and  all  his  art  in  en- 
deavorino;  to  astonish  and  attract  his  atten- 
tion,  by  the  frequent  boldness  and  beauty 
of  the    scenery.      Sir    Robert   peevishl}- 
shook  his  hhad,   and  looked  in  a  contrary 
direction.     He  labored  to  ply  him  into 
humor  with  the  bottle  ;  the  other  drank, 
but   remained   sullen.       They   had   been 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


143 


visited  by  storms,  pursued  by  a  Frencli 
cruiser,  and,  to  lighten  the  vessel,  part  of 
their  cargo,  water  casks,  and  provisions, 
had  been  cast  into  the  sea.  Almost  for 
the  first  time,  Sir  Robert  had  drank  water, 
and  that  in  measured  quantities,  granted 
only  at  intervals.  He  had  felt  there  was 
a  meanino;  in  hunger,  and  had  been  de- 
nied  a  coarse  biscuit  until  his  next  meal. 
He  had  been  in  terror  of  death — in  fear 
of  capture  and  imprisonment  in  a  strange 
land — and,  above  all,  a  perpetual  sea- 
sickness, or  rather  a  murmuring  of  the 
disease,  had  for  weeks  been  whispering 
about  his  heart,  and  he  cursed  the  ship, 
the  sea,' his  companion,  and  the  hour  that 
he  left  Enirland,  in  the  same  breath. 

His  sleep  grew  disturbed  and  fevered, 
while  the  images  of  the  past  crowded  upon 
his  imagination.  The  voices  of  his  wife 
and  of  his  son  spoke  through  his  troubled 
slumbers  ;  and  to  his  locked  up  senses, 
frequently  the  flapping  sail  and  the  hollow 
wind  shouted  their  upbraidings  and  accu- 
sations ;  and  often  would  he  start  from 
his  pillow,  call  upon  their  names,  and  vow 
to  make  atonement.  As  the  voyage  be- 
came more  and  more  disag-reeable,  their 
remembrance  swallowed  up  every  other 
thouj;ht,  and  haunted  him  throuo-hout  the 
restless  night,  like  a  reviling  spirit.  Now 
the  thought  of  his  cruel  injustice  to  Henry 
overwhelmed  him  with  agony  ;  and  weep- 
ing as  a  child,  he  would  cry  aloud — ''  O 
Hal  !  Hal ! — what  has  my  jealousy  and 
madness  brought  upon  thee  ?" 

Again,  the  idea  that  he  might  be  wan- 
dering as  a  beggar  upon  the  earth,  that  he 
might  have  leagued  himself  with  banditti, 
roused  all  the  father  in  his  bosom,  and  let 
loose  nature's  wildest  anguish.  Then 
would  he  picture  his  injured  wife  before 
him ;  and,  to  hide  the  vision  from  his 
sight,  bury  his  face  in  the  clothes  that 
covered  him,  while  he  reddened  with  ter- 
ror before  the  phantom  which  memory 
crushed  upon  his  brain.  He  slept,  but 
she  was  still  present,  and  his  conscience 
heard  her  wild  reproaches. 


Once  awakening  in  frenzy  from  such  a 
dream, he  rushed  to  where  Northcott  slept, 
and  grasping  his  throat,  wildly  exclaimed 
— ^'  Speak,  wretch  !  speak  !  Was  it  not 
thy  doing }  Was  it  not  thou  saidst  Jess 
was  unfaithful  V 

"  True,  it  was  I,"  said  Northcott,  start- 
ing, but  endeavoring  to  soothe  him  ;  "  but 
why  this  foolish  agitation.''  Pray,  be 
calm." 

"  Be  calm  !"  shouted  Sir  Robert ;  "  dost 
think  I  will  be  dragged  to  perdition  for  thy 
sins }  Dost  think  I  will  be  tormented 
every  night,  and  haunted  by  my  Jess's 
spirit  for  doings  of  thine  }  Jess  was  my 
wife — the  mother  of  my  Hal !  Canst  thou 
deny  it }  Rise  !  rise,  I  tell  thee  ! — for 
thou  shalt  not  sleep  while  my  soul  is  pur- 
sued by  furies  for  thy  actions." 

"  Away  !"  cried  the  other, fiercely,  hop- 
ing to  intimidate  him  ;  "  am  I  a  schoolboy 
to  listen  to  these  childish  absurdities }  Is 
this  the  return"  I  am  to  receive  for  the 
love  which  I  manifested  towards  you,  in 
tearing  you  from  the  embrace  of  a  wanton  "^ 
Begone  to  thy  son !  and  leave  me  for 
ever." 

"  And  I  ivill  leave  thee,"  said  Sir  Ro- 
bert, relinquishing  his  grasp,  "  thou  calm 
sinner  !  Were  my  foot  upon  land,  I  would 
leave  thee.     Where  is  thy  love  now .?" 

"  Restraining  my  hand.  Sir  Robert," 
replied  Northcott,  "  that  it  is  not  raised 
to  wipe  out  your  insult  and  ingratitude." 

"Thy  hand!"  cried  Sir  Robert 
"  Swinge  !  dost  think  I  fear  thy  hand,  or 
any  man's  hand !  And  hast  not  thou 
insulted  me  ?  Hast  thou  not  called  me 
jealous  fool  ?  Didst  thou  not  tell  the  cap- 
tain— didst  thou  not  tell  all  the  crew,  not 
to  mind  me,  for  I  was  mad!  And  was 
that  thy  gratitude  for  the  money  I  have 
lent  thee!" 

Northcott  sprang  up  to  reply,  but  the 
other  turned  away  and  ascended  to  the 
deck.  Sir  Robert's  antipathy  to  continue 
the  voyage  increasing  with  its  inconveni- 
ences and  distance,  and  his  headstrong  and 
boisterous  character  breaking  out  into  ex- 


114 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


travagance  wheitever  thwarted,  Northcott,  j 
fearing  that  he  might  prevail  upon  the 
captain  to  place  him  on  board  of  some  } 
vessel  boijnd  for  England,  availed  himself 
of  the  effect  produced  upon  these  occasions 
by  his  fierce  and  passionate  manner,  as  a 
measure  of  safety  to  himself,  to  circulate 
a  report  of  his  occasional  insanity.  This 
baseness,  on  the  part  of  Northcott,  being 
afterwards  repeated  to  Sir  Robert,  if  it  did 
not  give  him  a  glimpse  of  the  real  character 
and  designs  of  his  pretended  friend,  it 
widened  the  breach  which  the  tardy  belief 
that  he  had  been  bitterly  deceived,  and 
unsuspectingly  betrayed  to  accompany  him 
to  a  far  distant  land  of  barbarians,  had 
created,  and  confirmed  his  determination 
not  to  proceed,  but  to  return  immediately 
to  England. 

It  was  near  sunrise  when  Sir  Robert 
ascended  to  the  deck  ;  the  vessel  was  with- 
in a  league  of  Malta,  and  bearing  towards 
the  land. 

"  What  land  be  that,  sir  ?"  inquired  he 
of  a  gentleman,  who,  in  company  with  a 
lady,  stood  engaged  in  conversation  with 
the  helmsman. 

"  The  Island  of  Malta,  sir,"  resumed 
the  other, 

"Zounds!  Malta!  Malta!"  repeated 
Sir  Robert.  "  Do  take  thee  a  boat  and 
set  me  ashore,"  continued  he^  addressing 
the  mate,  "  and  I'll  give  thee  a  guinea  for 
thy  trouble." 

"  Thank  your  honor  the  same,"  replied 
the  seaman,  "  but  they  may  all  go  ashore 
who  please  in  half-an-hour,  for  we  must 
put  in  here." 

"  Dang  !  dost  say  so,  lad  .^"  cried  Sir 
Robert ;  "  thou  shalt  have  a  bottle  of 
Burgundy  for  thy  news." 

The  vessel  had  now  anchored  off  the 
harbor  ;  and,  when  the  boat  was  lowered. 
Sir  Robert,  with  the  gentleman  and  his 
daughter,  entered  it,  and  were  rowed  to- 
ward the  land. 

"  Give  me  thy  hand,  sir,"  said  the  ba- 
ronet, turning  round  to  the  father  of  the 
young  lady — "  I  hope  you  will  not  leave 


me.  What  excuse  hast  thou  for  going  any 
farther.?  Let  us  ashore  at  this  ]\lalta, 
or  what  d'ye  call  it,  and  back  to  England 
as  we  best  can." 

"  I  give  my  hand,"  said  Mr.  Pahncr- 
ston — for  such  was  the  gentleman\s  ."Sur- 
name— "in  all  friend.ship.  It  pains  me 
that  we  must  part ;  yet  I  have  but  two  al- 
ternatives to  choose  between — to  lose  my 
newly  acquired  friend  for  a  time,  or  my 
daughter  for  ever.  It  is  true  that  her 
health  appears  improved,  but  you  will  for- 
give a  father's  fears  ;  I  cannot — I  cannot 
already  take  her  back  to  a  country  from 
which  I  have  snatched  her  as  from  the 
grave." 

"  Tush,  man  !"  exclaimed  Sir  Robert ; 
"  thou  talkest  of  countries — our  own  coun- 
try is  the  best  of  all  countries,  and  the 
healthiest  to  boot.  Dost  tell  me  about 
curing  consumptions  abroad — I  say,  cure 
consumptions  at  home  !  Dost  say — you 
must  go  to  France,  or  go  to  Italy,  or  go 
on  this  wild-goose-chase  of  thine  to  cure 
them  ?  I  say — go  to  Wales,  go  to  the 
Highlands  of  Scotland  !  Dost  think  there 
be  any  consumptions  there  .?" 

"  Where  there  is  nothinof  but  an  atmo- 
sphere  of  changes,  and  a  sky  of  clouds, 
there  must,"  said  Mr.  Palmerston. 

"  Nonsense,  man  !"  continued  Sir  Ro- 
bert ;  "  han't  I  been  there  .''  The  atmo- 
sphere, as  thee  calls  it,  clips  round  thee 
like  a  hunter's  coat ;  and,  as  for  clouds, 
why,  thou  mayst  live  above  them,  if  it 
suit  thee  best." 

"  Then  we  must  indeed  part  from  each 
other  !"  added  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Pal- 
merston, with  apparent  solicitude  and 
emotion. 

"  No,  I  tell  thee,  I  won't  part  with  thee, 
but  I  will  go  home  with  thee,"  resumed 
the  other.  "  What !  hast  not  suffered 
enough  already,  but  thou  must  have  us  go 
among  Turks  or  cannibals,  to  seek  what 
we  can  find  at  home  .?" 

"  Go,  Sir  Robert,"  said  I\Ir.  Palmer- 
ston, "  and  bear  with  you  my  esteem  for 
sympathizing  with  me  in  the  affliction  of 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 


145 


mj  daugliter ;  but  as  you  find  the  voyage 
unpleasant,  I  have  no  right  to  expect  you 
to  continue  it." 

" 'Sdeath!"  returned  Sir  Robert,  "I 
think  thou  art  mad  in  good  earnest,  if 
thou  art  not  as  tired  of  this  voyage  as  I 
am.  Why  this  be  nothing  but  a  rock  after 
all,"  continued  he,  rising  in  the  boat  as  it 
neared  Port  Mahon,  "  and  the  town  is  a 
prison,  for  all  that  I  see.  Why,  look  ye. 
Miss  Palmerston,  love,  if  this  be  one  of 
the  islands  thy  father  has  came  so  far  to 
seek  health  for  thee  in,  thou  mayest  bless 
me  that  I  am  laboring  to  prevail  upon  him 
to  turn  back  ao-ain." 

She  answered  only  with  a  sigh,  and  her 
breast  heaved  tumultuously. 

"  Zounds  !  duck,  what  dost  sigh  for  ?" 
he  added ;  "  Fm  sui-e  thou  art  glad  that 
we  shall  return  home  again.  Nay,  now,  I 
can't  stand  thy  tears  ;  I  tell  thee  thy  fa- 
ther shan't  go,  and  thou  shalt  not  go  on 
board  that  vessel  again." 

They  had  been  but  twa  days  upon  the 
land,  when  the  disease,  which  had  taken 
deep  root  in  the  constitution  of  Elizabeth 
Palmerston,  and  which  had  been  lying 
dormant  during  the  voyage,  began  to  de- 
velop itself  with  fearful  rapidity.  Her 
father,  finding  himself  on  shore,  yielded 
to  the  feeling  of  comfort  and  security 
which  it  inspired  ;  and  after  his  temporary 
privation,  being  surrounded  with  every 
delicacy  to  be  found  in  the  island,  he  be- 
gan to  feel  the  pleasures  and  the  influence 
of  sociality,  and  in  a  short  time  became 
the  boon  companion  of  Sir  Robert. 

"  Thou  shalt  go  to  England  with  me, 
Palmerston,"  cried  the  baronet,  in  his  one 
hand  holding  his,  and  in  the  other  a  glass. 
"  Thy  daughter  shall  not  die— she  shall 
live  for  Hal's  sake — and  never  shall  mer- 
rier party  assemble  together  than  that 
which  shall  meet  within  the  hall  of  Buck- 
ham  Priory  to  celebrate  their  nuptials. 
What !  dost  thou  look  sorrowful !  I  tell 
thee  thy  daughter  shall  be  happy  as  the 
day  is  long,  for  I  feel  within  my  heart  that 
1  love  her  already  better   tlian   her  own 


father  can,  and  why  wilt  thou  stand  in  the 
way  of  her  happiness.^" 

"  My  friend,"  said  Palmerston,  the 
words  faltering  on  his  tongue,  "  1  have 
told  you  the  declaration  of  the  physician, 
that  the  life  of  my  Elizabeth  depended 
upon  a  change  of  climate,  and  residence 
abroad.  I  fondly  would — but  dare  not 
return  to  Britain  now.  I  cannot  be  the 
murderer  of  my  daughter." 

"  'Sdeath  !  good  sir,  dost  intend  to  tear 
my  heart  to  pieces  ?"  cried  Sir  Robert ; 
"  1  tell  thee  we  shall  all  go  home  together. 
I  cannot  leave  thee.  My  Jess  is  lost  to 
me  eternally — Hal  is  lost  to  me  ;  and  all 
that  I  most  fondly  clung  to  has  been 
wrenched  from  my  grasp.  Body-o'-me  !" 
groaned  he,  in  continuation,  "  art  thou  in 
earnest  ?  Wilt  leave  me  a  prey  to  my 
own  conscience — the  victim  of  a  villain 
who  has  flung  deadly  poison  into  my  cup 
of  enjoyment,  and  made  me  drink  to  the 
dregs.  Never  I — you  shall  not  return  on 
board.  Thy  daughter  shall  live — she  shall 
reach  our  native  land  in  safety  and  in 
peace  ;  and  when  there,  we  shall  find  my 
poor  Hal,  who  will  bless  me  for  my  choice 
of  his  bride,  and  forgive  his  father  for  the 
barbarous  wrons:  he  intended  him." 

Palmerston  was  about  to  reply  to  the 
entreaties  of  his  friend,  when  a  messeno-er, 
dispatched  by  his  daughter,  intimated  to 
him  her  wish  to  see  him  immediately. 

"  Is  my  daughter  worse  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Palmerston  eagerly ;  and  without  waiting 
an  answer,  he  hurried  from  the  scene  of 
their  carousal,  followed  by  Sir  Robert,  to 
the  apartment  which  she  occupied  in  the 
house. 

On  entering  the  room  they  found  her 
resting  on  a  couch,  and  when  her  father 
approached  her  side  she  held  out  her  hand 
cheerfully  towards  him,  and  begged,  with 
a  tremulous  voice,  that  he  would  be  com- 
forted, as  she  had  a  stran2;e  feelino;  at  her 
heart,  which  told  her,  she  knew  not  how, 
that  she  would  soon  lay  her  head  down  in 
peace  for  ever. 

"  Don't  say  so,  love,"  cried  Su:  Robert, 


VOL.  rr. 


10 


146 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


stifling  his  emotion,  "  your  father  has 
agreed  we  shall  return  to  England,  and 
for  Hal's  sake  you  shall  not  die — nay,  if 
I  should  watch  thee,  child,  with  my  own 
eyes,  I  tell  thee  thou  shall  not  leave  me." 

She  raised  her  eyes,  in  which  were  seen 
a  strange  unearthly  fixedness,  upon  his 
countenance,  stretched  forth  her  pale 
transparent  hand  to  him,  and  in  accents 
half  inarticulate  with  emotion,  said — 
"  You  are  kind,  sir,  but  God  does  not 
will  that  I  should  participate  in  the  hap- 
piness you  intend  for  me.  A  few  brief 
hours  and  the  struggle  shall  be  over.  My 
poor  father  !  I  have  but  one  petition — 
distract  me  not  with  your  sorrow,  nor  suf- 
fer the  only  link  that  binds  me  to  exist- 
ence to  be  broken  violently.  I  could  have 
reposed  a  secret  to  your  keeping — but  it 
availeth  not.  I  have  seen  him  wasted 
with  bitter  remorse,  and  tortured  with 
shame  and  agony  of  soul,  who  was  the 
cause  of  the  voiceless  misery  which  laid 
the  foundation  of  disease  in  my  heart." 

"  Seen  whom,  my  daughter,"  exclaim- 
ed her  father,  raising  her  in  his  arms. 
"Speak!  speak j — a  few  minutes  more 
and  it  may  be  too  late." 

She  raised  her  drooping  head,  and  made 
an  effort  to  articulate,  but  in  vain ;  the 
sudden  paleness  that  overspread  her  fea- 
tures told  that  her  weary  heart  was  at 
rest,  and  that  her  sorrows  were  buried 
with  her  for  ever. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

•'  The  scene  was  changed,  and  years  were  fled, 
But  found  them  still  to  virtue  wed  : 
And  the  cheerless  months  that  had  passed  away, 
Threw  sunshine  o'er  each  blissful  day, 
"When  fairest  forms  around  them  played, 
And  father,  mother,  fondly  said  ; 
For  a  parent's  joy,  and  a  parent's  love, 
Is  a  joy  all  other  joys  above  I 
And  age  drew  on,  but  they  knew  it  not, 
The  face  of  youth  was  half  forgot  ; 
But  still  the  youthful  heart  was  there, 
And  still  his  partner  seemed  as  fair. 
As  when  he  first,  in  giddy  bliss, 
1  Snatched  from  her  lips  the  virgin  kiss." 

Henry  Walton,  on  receiving  the  letter 
from   Mary,  intimating  her  intention  of 


leaving  Scotland  to  share  the  fortunes  of 
her  husband,  left  Buckham  Priory  im- 
mediately, and  proceeded  by  land  to  the 
north,  in  the  hope  of  meeting  his  young 
wife.  It  was  on  the  second  morninfy  after 
Henry's  departure,  that,  as  the  coach  on 
which  he  travelled  passed  through  Mor- 
peth, he  was  abruptly  startled  from  the 
melancholy  reverie  into  which  he  had 
fallen,  by  a  stout  countryman  grasping 
him  by  the  arm,  and  crying  out — "  My 
service  to  you,  Maister  Henry — I'll  wager 
ye  a  mutchkin  o'  whisky  ye 're  gaun  down 
to  Scotland  to  look  after  Miss  Mary  Ro- 
bertson— I  beg  yer  pardon — Mrs.  Walton, 
I  mean." 

^'  Tell  me,"  said  Henry,  eagerly, "  what 
you  know  of  her." 

"  It  canna  be  done  in  a  breath,  IVIaister 
Henry,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  but  if  ye '11 
just  step  down  frae  the  coach,  and  walk 
wi'  me  owre  to  Lucky  Gillie's,  I'll  answer 
for  yer  being  weel  ta'en  wi',  if  that  yer  no 
blate  to  be  seen  wi'  a  rough  drover." 

"  Lead  the  way,  and  I  will  follow  you," 
said  Henry,  jumping  from  the  coach,  and 
seizing  the  arm  of  his  brawny  companion  ; 
"  but  keep  me  not  longer  in  this  agony  of 
suspense,  if  you  esteem  me,  or  regard  the 
dear  object  of  my  search," 

"  Save  us  a',  man !  and  do  ye  doubt 
for  a  moment  either  the  one  or  the  other," 
ejaculated  the  drover,  while  a  tear  forced 
its  way  down  his  cheek.  "  I've  borne 
baith  o'  ye  on  my  heart  ever  since  I  was 
made  acquaint  wi'  your  privations  an'  mis- 
fortunes, an'  I  diuna  think  ye  hae  reason 
to  fear  that  ane  o'  the  name  o'  Watson  will 
ever  forget  what  is  due  to  the  unfortunate." 

Henry  felt  grieved  that  he  should,  in  his 
anxiety  to  be  put  in  possession  of  all  that 
was  known  of  his  wife,  have  given  pain  to 
his  warm-hearted  and  generous  compa- 
nion. He  therefore  turned  round  to  the 
drover,  with  a  look  of  emotion,  and  ex- 
claimed— "  Forgive  me,  my  friend,  for 
any  expression  of  mine  that  may  have 
given  you  uneasiness  ;  let  my  anxious 
heart  and  the  tortured  state  of  my  feel- 


THE  MINISTER'S   DAUGHTER. 


147 


ings,  be  my  apology — I  a,ni  sorry  for 
it." 

^'  I  can  read  that,  Mais^er  Henry,  by 
the  look  o'  yer  een..  But  here's  Lucky 
Gillie's  house  ;  stap  in,  sir,  an'  ye  shall 
hear  a'  that  I  ken  concerning  Mrs.  Wal- 
ton." 

On  entering  the  inn,  they  were  shown 
up  stairs  to  an  unoccupied  room ;  and  after 
the  drover  had  broken  up  the  fire,  and 
seated  himself  in  front  of  it,  he^  jocosely 
turned  round  to  his  young  friend,  and  lay- 
ing his  brawny  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
said — "  Be  seated,  Maister  Henry — 
there's  warse  things  than  a  guid  fire  in  a 
cauld  mornin'  ;  I  hope  ye '11  mak  yerseP  at 
hame  here — it's  a  friend's  house  ;  for,  ye 
see,  sir,  auld  Lucky  Gillie's  mither  was 
the  wife  o'  the  Watson  that  fell  at  Cullo- 
den  ;  an',  though  my  faither  an'  her  faither 
werna  full  brithers,  they  were  faither's 
bairns  but  no  mither 's — yet  I  hae  aye 
looked  on  Lucky  an'  myseP  as  unco  sib. 
Say  the  word,  Maister  Henry — it's  what  I 
like  ;  shall  we  hae  tongue — or  ham — or 
baith  ?  Faith,  sir,  it's  a  bad  thing  takin' 
unpleasant  news,  fresh  and  fastin',  intil  an 
empty  stamach  in  a  raw  morning — they're 
nae  better  than  physic." 

"  Unpleasant  news!"  cried  Henry,  im- 
patiently, rising  from  the  chair  where  the 
hand  of  the-  other  had  half  constrained 
him ;  "  tell  me,  I  pray  you,  where  my 
poor  wife  is  domiciled,  and  let  me  fly  to 
her  protection.  Do  not  deceive  me,  nor 
torture  me  more  by  withholding  from  me 
your  knowledge  of  her  place  of  abode  ; 
for,  if  I  am  compelled  to  bear  this  agoniz- 
ing weight  of  suspense  a  few  minutes 
longer,  I  shall  be  unfitted  for  the  prosecu- 
tion of  my  journey." 

"  Excuse  me,  Maister  Henry,"  said  the 
drover,  soothingly,  "  I  wad  hae  had  ye 
first  to  hae  broken  yer  fast ;  but,  as  yer 
impatient  to  hear  a'  that  I  ken  aboot  Mrs. 
Walton,  I'll  just  tell  ye,  to  mak  a  lang 
hiorj  short,  that  I  gaed  on  the  coach  frae 
Burnpath  to  Edinbro'  wi'  her,  an'  though 
I  hadna  the  pleasure,  for  some  time,  o' 


kenning  that  my  travelling  companion 
was  nane  other  than  your  young  wife,  I 
wasna  lang  in  discovering  that  the  gentle 
creature  was  unfriended,  an'  sufi'erino; 
under  the  weight  o'  sorrow  an'  distress. 
'  1  ask  yer  pardon,  leddy,'  said  I,  when 
the  coach  stopped  at  the  Black  Bull ;  '  do 
ye  think,  ma'am,  I  could  be  o'  ony  service 
to  ye.'  She  thanked  me,  an'  seemed  op- 
pressed by  the  ofier  1  had  made  her  ;  but, 
without  mair  ado,  I  handed  her  frae  the 
coach,  pushed  aside  the  caddy  bodies,  an' 
flung  her  trunk  onto  my  ain  shouther,  an' 
trudged  ofi"  wi'  it  to  '  Brown  Square,'  to 
the  house  o'  a  Maister  Lindsay,  that's 
weel  to  do  in  the  world,  were  it  no  that 
his  wife  an'  twa  o'  her  dochters  hae  gaen 
clean  mad  wi'  pride.  I'll  no'  deceive  ye, 
Maister  Henry  ;  I  was  sae  ta'en  np  aboot 
the  way  that  Mrs.  Walton  micht  be  re- 
ceived by  her  Edinbro'  freends,  that  I  cam 
up  the  next  mornin'  frae  the  Grassmarket, 
an'  though  I  had  naething  on  but  my  short 
grey-coat,  leggums,  an'  double-soled 
shoon — ^just  as  ye  see  me  the  noo — I  made 
bold  to  inquire  after  the  comfort  o'  the 
dear  young  leddy  at  the  house  o'  Mr. 
Lindsay.  When  I  knocked  at  the  door, 
the  impudent  deevil  o'  a  callant,  that  they 
ca'  their  footboy,  geegled  ootricht  in  my 
face  ;  but  I  stalked  intil  the  parlor,  an' 
made  my  bow  ;  an'  in  a  short  time,  Mr. 
Lindsay  an'  mysel' — for  we  were  auld 
acquaintance — felt  the  spirit  o'  the  past 
come  owre  us.  We  had  glass  after  glass, 
tO'  the  happiness  an'  prosperity  o'  oor 
mutual  freend,  till  oor  hearts  became  ac- 
tually drunk  wi'  joy.  I  perceived,  in  a 
minute,  that  Mr.  Lindsay  treated  the 
dochter  o'  his  departed  freend  like  his 
ain  bairn  ;  an'  though  his  wife  was  a  puir, 
feckless  windlestrae  o'  a  creature,  an'  his 
twa  elder  lasses  mere  buskit  dolls,  withoot 
either  hearts  or  souls,  yet  I  saw  that  the 
youngest  ane  was  a  leddy  after  Miss  Wal- 
ton's ain  heart ;  an'  I  was  convinced  that 
my  dear  young  freend,  frae  the  liking  that 
1  discovered  had  sprung  up  between  her 
an'  Misses  Lindsay,  an'  frae  a'  that  I  kent 


148 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


o'  Mr.  Lindsajj  wad  feel  hersel  at  ease  in 
his  house." 

"  Did  3'OTi  inform  Mary  that  you  had 
met  with  me  ?"  inc^uired  Henry,  half  choked 
with  grief;  "I  hope  in  God  you  did  not 
add  my  sorrows  to  her  own  !" 

^'  It  was  far  frae  me  to  think  o'  doin' 
the  like,"  replied  the  drover.  ^'  I  merely 
hinted,  in  a  cautious  an'  becoming  man- 
ner, Maister  Henry,  that  1  had  the  honor 
— God  kens  hoo  undeserved — o'  being  a 
wee  bit  familiar  wi'  her  worthy  husband, 
an'  I  gaed  on  to  mention  a  circumstance 
or  twa  connected  wi'  yer  respected  faither 
— Sir  Robert  Walton  o'  Devonshire — 
naething  to  his  disparagement,  sir  ;  but 
just  sic  as  the  price  o'  his  A.rawbian  mare, 
his  great  connexions,  an'  the  like  ;  yet, 
instead  o' Mrs.  Walton  appearing  uplifted 
wi'  the  thocht  o'  being  the  wife  o'  a  baro- 
net's son,  she  only  answered  me  wi'  a  de- 
jected melancholy  smile,  an'  seemed  to  be 
completely  miserable  at  the  very  idea  o' 
the  grandeur  that  awaited  her." 

"  And  does  she  still  reside  in  the  house 
of  her  father's  friend.^"  inquired  Henry, 
taking  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  evincing  a 
disposition  to  proceed  immediately  on  his 
journey. 

"  It's  mair  than  I  can  say,"  answered 
the  drover,  "but  we  shall  soon  ascertain, 
Maister  Henry  ;  for,  if  ye '11  stop  or  I  get 
my  business  dune,  we  can  tak  the  afternoon 
coach,  an'  drive  straight  through  to  Brown 
Square,  without  mair  ado." 

Henry  felt  too  unhappy  to  be  able  to 
embrace  the  kind  proposal  of  his  compa- 
nion ;  and,  after  snatching  a  hasty  break- 
fast, he  bade  his  friend  farewell,  and 
posted  off  in  a  chaise  for  Edinburgh.  He 
travelled  all  night,  and  a  little  after  day- 
break, the  next  morning,  he  found  himself 
in  the  Scottish  capital,  long  before  the  stir 
and  bustle  of  life  were  heard  in  the  streets. 
He  silently  bent  his  course  to  Brown 
Square,  and  hastily  running  over  -the  brass 
plates  attached  to  the  doors  of  the  more 
respectable  of  the  houses,  his  eyes  at  last 
fell  upon  the  name  of  Mr.  Lindsay.     It 


was  too  early  to  disturb  the  inmates,  but 
the  thought  that  Mary  was  within,  acted 
as  a  spell  upon  his  heart,  and  he  had  not 
the  power  to  take  himself  from  the  Square. 
He  walked  to  and  fro  in  front  of  Mr. 
Lindsay's  dwelling,  and  ever  and  anon,  as 
he  examined  the  movements  of  his  watch, 
he  blamed  the  wearisome  length  of  the 
hours,  and  became  half  convinced,  in  his 
perturbation  of  mind,  that  time  was  lag- 
ging in  its  course.  A  servant  at  length 
opened  the  door,  when  Henry  stepped  up 
to  her,  and  inquired  if  he  could  see  Mr. 
Lindsay. 

"  It's  far  owre  sune  to  see  the  maister, 
sir,"  answered  the  girl ;  "  he'll  no  be 
doun  frae  his  room  for  a  guid  hour  yet." 

"  But  could  you  not  find  means  to  let 
him  know,"  said  Henry,  earnestly,  "  that 
a  gentleman  wishes  to  see  him  on  matters 
of  the  greatest  moment  r''^ 

"  It's  mair  than  my  place  is  worth, 
sir,"  replied  the  servant,  with  a  low  curt- 
sy ;  "  but  if  ye  wad  leave  yer  name,  I  can 
gied  intil  the  maister,  when  I  tak  in  the 
breakfast." 

"  Stop,  my  good  girl,"  cried  Henry, 
slipping  a  piece  of  silver  into  her  hand, 
"  perhaps  you  can  inform  me  if  Mrs. 
Walton  is  one  of  your  visitors." 

''  That  wad  be  the  young  leddy,  sir, 
wi'  the  bright  hair,"  ejaculated  the  ser- 
vant, "  that  the  maister  used  to  ca'  his 
angelJ  Na,  na,  sir,  she's  no  here  now; 
she  took  shipping  at  Leith,  and  gaed  awa 
some  weeks  sin'  syne,  to  seek  out  some  o' 
her  braw  friends  in  Lunnun.  There's 
naebody  visiting  here  the  now,  but  the 
upstart  Dawsons  o'  the  Grassmarket,  that 
carried  on  the  butchin." 

Henry,  speechless  and  trembling  with 
emotion,  rushed  from  the  girl's  presence 
and  proceeded  through  the  streets,  gazing 
franticly  upon  ^vcry  one  he  met,  till  ar- 
riving at  the  inn  where  he  first  alighted  in 
the  morning,  he  flung  himself  down  in  a 
paroxysm  of  most  impatient  agony,  ex- 
claiming, under  the  bitterness  of  disap- 
pointment, and  the  overwhelming  impetu- 


THE  MINISTER'S   DAUGHTER. 


149 


osity  of  his  feelings — "  My  wife  !  — my 
Mary  ! — where — where  shall  I  find  her  ?" 

Leaving  Henry  to  retrace  his  steps  from 
Edinburgh  to  Buckham  Priory,  we  in- 
troduce the  reader  once  more  to  Mr. 
Cuthbertson,  Janet,  and  Mrs.  Waltoh.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  latter  attempted  to 
steal  from  their  presence  and  to  go  in 
search  of  Henry ;  for  Janet,  now  that  she 
had  found  her  whom  she  would  willingly 
have  laid  down  her  life  to  serve,  was  de- 
termined that  her  "•  dear  bairn,"  as  she 
familiarly  termed  Mary,  should  no  longer 
be  subjected  to  the  privations  and'  misery 
she  had  so  long  endured. 

"  O  bairri  I"  cried  Janet,  on  Mary's 
importuning  her  again  to  be  allowed  to 
leave  her  and  Mr.  Cuthbertson  for  a  few 
hours — "  yer  miserable  and  restless  as  a 
house-bird  which,  escaped  from  its  cage, 
breaks  its  wings  and  its  heart  thegither,  as 
it  flutters  without  aim  and  without  rest, 
frae  place  to  place.  I  canna  think  o' 
parting  wi'  my  winsome  bairn  ;  but  if  she'll 
tell  me  what's  galen  wrang  wi'  her,  I'll 
travel  to  the  ends  o'  the  y earth  to  get 
back  her  peace  and  her  happmessi^' 

"  My  kind,  affectionate  Janet,"  replied 
Mary,  "  be  calm — all  will  be  well".  My 
poor,  dear  father'  has  often  told  me  to 
submit  in  all  things  to  Kis  will  who  bring- 
eth  good  out  of  apparent  evil  :  let  us 
hope,  then,  that  th<i  successive  misfortimes 
which  have  so  lotfg  chequered  the  scenery 
of  my  life  are  drawing  to  a  close,'  and 
that  a  better  fortune  awaits  me" 

"  Dear  sister,"  said  Mr.  Cuchbertson, 
enclosing  the  hand  of  Mary  in  his  own, 
"  let  us  proceed  to  Devonsiiire  instalntly, 
and  from  the  domestics  o'  Buckham  Pri- 
ory we  may  learn  some  intelligence  of 
Maister  Henry." 

"  I  know  your  goodness,''  Replied  Mary, 
wiping  away  the  tears  fi'om  her  eyes,  "  and 
could  you  bo  instrumental  in  bringing  me 
into  the  presence  of  my  l-Ienry,,tho  bless- 
in'^-  of  heaven,  and  the  listing  gratitude  of 
a  breaking  and  disconsolate  heart,  shall 
bo  your  meed  of  reward." 


"  Talk  not  o'  reward,"  said  Mr.  Cuth- 
bertsonj  sorrowfully. 

"  Na  !  na  !  my  dawtie  !"  ejaculated 
Janet,  "  we're  owre  glad  we  hae  found 
you  ;  an'  what  would  we  no  do  for  you  an' 
Maister  Walton  ?  In  troth,  my  bairn,  if 
he's  no  at  hame — or  if  his  folk  dinna- 
show  you  that  kindness  your  winsome  in- 
nocence deserves — will  ye  promise,  Mary, 
an'  I'll  just  be  content,  to  return  for  guid 
an'  a'  in  the  family  carriage  to  Cuthbert- 
son Lodge,  an'  bring  Maister  Henry 
alang  wi'  you .?" 

"  Return,  Janet  !"  cried  Mary,  strug- 
gling to  suppress  her  emotion,  "  in  my 
husband  is  bound  up  my  happiness  or 
misery  ;  with  him  I  could  enjoy  the  sun- 
shine of  prosperity,  or  welcome  the  long 
night  of  penury  and  wo  ;  nor  could  the 
destruction  of  my  heart's  last  hope  draw 
one  murmur  from  my  lips,  or  throw  one 
shadow  over  my  brow,  to  tell  my  Henry 
of  an  inward  pang.'' 

On  the  following  morning,  as  Mr. 
Cuthbertson,  in  company  with  Mary  and 
Janet,  were  setting  off  for  Buckham  Priory, 
they  were  unexpectedly  startled  by  a  per- 
son thrustino;  his  hand  into  the  carriage 
window,  and  exclaiming — "  Heaven  pre- 
serve us ! — do  I  dream  .''  or  is  this  a  delu- 
sion ?  I  darna  believe  my  een  !  Speak  f 
young  leddy,  were  it  but  ae  word.  Are 
ye  no  tho  minister's  daughter  o'  Burn- 
path — the  wife  o'  Henry  Walton  .^" 

Mary  uttered  a  loud  shriek,  and  fell 
back  in  a  swoon  ;  but  when  she  recovered: 
she  found  herself  supported  in  the  arms 
of  her  hi2sband,  who  had  for  some  days, 
with  the  honest  drover  for  his  companion, 
been  prosecuting  his  inquiries  through 
London,  iii  the  hope  of  meeting  with  his 
wife.  Their  meeting  may  be  more  easily 
conceived  than  described.  Henry  and 
Mary  wept  through  ex:cess  of  happiness  ; 
but  their  tears  were  gilded  with  the  smiles 
of  hope  and  of  bliss,  and  their  past  suffer- 
ings were  swallowed  up'  in  the  joyful  an- 
ticipations of  the  future.  Every  facilitj 
was  speedily  afforded  by  Mr.  Cuthbertson, 


150 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


in  order  that  Henry  and  his  young  wife 
might  appear  at  Buckham  Priory  in  a 
manner  suiting  their  station.  His  family 
carriao-e  was  laid  under  contribution,  and 
in  a  few  hours  the  whole  party  left  Lon- 
don for  Devonshire.  It  may  be  here 
necessary  to  mention,  that  Sir  Robert 
Walton  had  arrived  in  England  but  a  few 
weeks  previous  to  this  event,  in  restored 
health,  from  the  island  of  Malta.  On 
reaching  his  seat,  his  first  care  was  to 
destroy  the  instrument  that  robbed  his 
son  ;  and  he  now  strove  to  wipe  off  the 
injury  he  had  intended  him,  by  regarding 
Henry  with  that  overweaning  partiality 
which  a  dotiu^  father,  in  the  decline  of  his 
years,  is  apt  to  manifest  towards  an  only 
child.  Henry  had  at  once  acknowledged 
his  marriage  to  his  father,  and  the  latter 
was  now,  in  pride  and  fondness,  anxiously 
lono'ino-  to  welcome  his  daughter.  The 
arrival  of  the  party  at  Buckham  Priory 
soon  afforded  him  that  joy.  Every  eye 
was  contagious  of  felicity — every  breast 
glowed  with  transport, 

"  Bless  thee  for  thy  choice,  Hal !"  ex- 
claimed Sir  Robert,  gazing  with  a  look  of 
pride  alternately  on  both.  "  Thou  art 
father's  own  son!  Thou  hast  given  me 
the  loveliest  daughter  in  all  England  ! 
And  bless  thee,  too,  my  own  best  child," 
he  added  turning  to  Mary ;  "  thou  shalt 
be  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  Thou  shalt 
be  mistress  of  my  house, -and  not  even  thy 
own  Hal  shall  contradict  thee  ;  and  I 
will  settle  a  portion  upon  thee  myself." 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Cuthbert- 
son,  "but  my  sister  needs  nae  portion; 
why  I  call  her  sister  ye  will  learn  here- 
after. I,  sir,  have  been  a  lonely  man,  and 
a  miserable  man,  like  a  planet  driven  frae 
the  universe,  and  plunging  in  deeper 
darkness  through  a''  eternity.  But  com- 
fort has  at  last  stolen  owre  my  spirit,  as 
an  infant  fa's  asleep  to  the  lullaby  o'  its 
mother ;  and  joy  lias  broken  again  upon 
my  head,  like  the  first  dawning  o'  a  sum- 
mer's morning.  I  have  a  right,  sir,  to 
make  reparation  to  your  son  and  to  my 


sister,  for  I  have  been  (though  innocent- 
ly) the  author  o'  a  deal  o'  their  afflictions  ; 
and  at  this  happy  meeting,  if  ony  o'  ye 
feel  mair  joy  than  me,  there  are  none  o' 
ye  feel  a  holier  satisfaction.  Henry,"  he 
added,  ■^'  did  the  poor  petition  which  ye 
wad  see  in  the  pocket-book  I  left  wi'  ye, 
before  I  gaed  to  Scotland,  meet  your 
approbation  .^" 

The  pocket-bock  was  still  unopened, 
and  Henry  offered  to  return  it,  expressing 
the  depth  of  his  gratitude,  and  stating  that 
he  had  not  looked  on  its  contents. 
"Keep  it!  keep  it!"  exclaimed  the 
other,  ye  will  there  find  a  copy  o'  the  in- 
strument which  conveys  my  sister's  por- 
tion "" 

It  was  in  fact  a  copy  of  his  will,  be- 
queathing to  her  and  her  heirs,  the  estate 
of  Cuthbertson  Lodo-e,  too-ether  with  a 
thousand  pounds,  payable  immediately  by 
a  banker  in  London. 

Months  of  unmingled  joy  rolled  over 
the  party  before  they  left  the  Priory. 
Sir  Robert  was  about  to  enter  proceed- 
ings against  Northcott,  when  intelligence 
arrived  that  that  disgrace  of  humanity 
had,  by  self-destruction,  avoided  a  more 
public,  though  not  more  disgraceful  death. 

Mary  was  a  mother  ;  and  the  sole  de- 
light of  Mr.  Cuthbertson  was  to  act  as 
preceptor  to  her  children.  He  became  at 
once  their  guardian  and  playmate,  enter- 
ing with  the  simplicity  of  a  child  into 
all  their  sports.  The  desolation  of  heart, 
of  which  he  had  been  the  victim,  became 
like  a  half-remembered  dream,  or  an  au- 
tumnal sterm  iihat  had  passed  away,  and 
left  the  mellow  beams  of  a  settino;  sun  to 
throw  their  softened  light  upon  the  plain. 
He  never  again  parted  from  his  friends, 
but  remained  with  them  in  Devonshire, 
and  every  summer  accompanied  them  to 
his  own  estate  in  Roxburghshire. 

Old  Janet  lived  to  behold  "  her  bairn's" 
bairns,  virtuous  as  their  mother  ;  and 
as  age  drew  on,  Sir  Robert  vowed  he 
felt  younger  and  happier  every  day. 
Henry  and   Mary  made  several  visits  to 


^ 


THE  ONE-ARMED  TAR. 


151 


Burnpath,  and  caused  a  cottage  to  be  built 
for  the  helpless  old  widow,  iu  whose  ruined 
hovel  they  had  met  upon  the  moors,  and 
with  whom  Henry  had  left  his  purse. 
Thirty  years  have  passed  over  their  wed- 
ded lives,  and  on  them  middle  age  has 
descended  imperceptibly,  as  the  calm  twi- 
light of  a  lovely  evening,  when  the  stars 
steal  out,  and  the  sunbeams  die  away  ;  as 
a  holy  stillness  glides  through  the  air, 
like  the  soft  breathings  of  an  angel,  un- 
folding from  his  celestial  wings  the  rosy 
curtains  of  a  summer  night ;  and  the  con- 
scious earth,  kissed  by  the  balmy  spirit, 
dreams  and  smiles,  and  smiling  dreams 
itself  into  the  arms  of  night  and  of  repose. 
Mary  has  lost  somewhat  of  her  sylph-like 
form,  and  Henry  his  elasticity  of  step,  but 
they  have  become  middle-aged  together. 


They  have  half-forgotten  the  likeness  of  the 
face  of  their  youth,  yet  still  the  heart  of 
youth,  with  its  imperishable  affections  and 
esteem,  throbs  in  either  bosom,  smiling 
calmly  upon  time  and  its  ravages  ;  and 
still  in  the  eyes  of  Henry  his  partner  seems 
as  young,  as  fair,  and  as  beautiful,  as  when, 
in  the  noon-tide  of  her  loveliness,  she 
blushing  vowed  to  be  his  upon  his  bosom. 
Their  children  have  arisen  around  them 
and  called  them  blessed,  and  they  have 
beheld  those  children  esteemed  and  ho- 
nored in  society.  Mary  has  taught  Henry 
that  virtue  is  always  young,  and  that  there 
is  no  true  virtue  which  has  not  religion  for 
its  source  ;  and  Henry,  in  return,  has 
taught  Mary  that  "  in  the  husband  he  has 
not  forgot  that  he  is  still  her  lover." 


THE    ONE-AEMEDTAR. 


Old  Tom  ISIoffat  was  the  finest  fragment 
of  a  jolly,  good-natured,  fearless  seaman, 
that  ever  I  met  with.  I  say  a  fragment  of 
a  man ;  for  he  was  minus  his  right  arm. 
It  was  pleasant  to  look  upon  his  merry  old 
face,  and  to  see  his  flaxen  locks  descend- 
ing over  his  brow  in  sea-made  ringlets  ; 
for,  though  he  was  turned  threescore,  there 
was  not  a  grey  hair  upon  his  head.  He 
appeared  like  an  image  of  contentment, 
that  envious  mortals  had  deprived  of  an 
arm,  and  left  him  laughing  at  their  ma- 
lignity. But,  above  all— though  Tom 
was  neither  given  to  the  throwing  of  the 
hatchet,  nor  the  spinning  of  long  yarns — 
it  was  delightful,  when  he  was  about  half- 
a-sheet  in  the  wind,  to  hear  him  relate  a 
few  scraps  of  his  history. 

"  Ay  !  ay  !"  he  would  say,  "  I  have 
been  in  some  rum  scenes,  and  encountered 
some  rough  squalls  in  ray  time — but  no 
matter  :  I  am  now  sailing-master  Moffit, 


with  five  and  sixpence  a-day — and  no 
mistake  ;  and  a  pension  for  the  loss  of  my 
fin  into  the  bargain.  I  am  as  comfortable 
and  happy  as  any  two-handed  man  in  the 
three  kingdoms.  But,  if  you  wish  to 
know  my  history,  all  that's  worth  telling 
oft  is  soon  told.  I  was  born  in  Hexham. 
My  mother  was  a  naval  officer's  widow, 
and  her  father,  a  clergyman.  I  say  she 
was  a  widow,  because  my  father  died  be- 
fore I  was  born.  I  had  a  sister,  but  I  do 
not  remember  her ;  and  I  was  brought  up 
by  my  mother  beneath  the  roof  of  her 
father.  He  was  a  good  but  severe  old  man, 
and  I  tried  to  like  him,  but  I  could  not, 
for  I  shook  as  I  heard  him  cry — *  Thomas.' 
He  gave  me  a  good  education,  and  wished 
to  make  a  parson  of  me,  though  I  don't 
think  I  was  any  more  parson-like  then 
than  I  am  now,  and  that's  not  much,  I 
take  it.  The  old  man  didn't  belong  to 
the  Church — he  was  a  Dissenter  ;  and  he 


152 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


persevered  in  his  determination  of  making 
me  a  preacher.     Therefore,  when  I  was 
about  sixteen,  he  called  me  into  his  study, 
and  informed  me  that  he  intended  sending 
me  through  to  Edinburgh  to   attend  the 
classes.     He  even  spoke  of  my  succeed- 
ing to  the  pulpit  which  he  occupied  ;  and 
he   spoke   till   he    brought   the  salt  water 
into  mj  eyes,  and  almost  upon  my  cheeks, 
of  living  to  see  me  preach  in  it  !     I  had 
no    ambition    for    the    honors    which    he 
seemed  to  have  in  store  for  me.     However,  , 
as  he  was  rather  too   strict   a   disciplina-  j 
rian  for  me,  I  offered  no  objections  to  his  ! 
plan   of    sending  me    to    Edinburgh.      1  ! 
thought  it  would  free  me  from  the  restraint 
under  which  he  kept  me,  and  that  was  all 
I  knew  about  the  matter  ;  though,  like  an 
ungrateful   dog  as  I  was,  I  did  not  thank 
the  old  man  as  I  ought  to  have  done. 

Now,  my  grandfather  had  a  watch — it 
was  not  a  gold  one,  but  it  was  a  very  ex-  ! 
ccllent  silver  one,  and  it  had  a  gold  chain 
and  seals  attached  to  it — ^it  had  been  pre- 
sented to  him  as  a  token  of  respect  on 
the  day  of  his  ordination,  by  a  family  in 
which  he  had  been  for  six  years  tutor 
and  chaplain.  And,  on  the  day  of  my 
departure,  wben  I  had  kissed  my  mother's 
cheek  and  felt  her  lips  upon  mine — for  I 
loved  her  as  I  did  my  own  soul,  and  she 
deserved  it  all — the  old  man  took  my 
hand,  and  he  pulled  the  watch  from  his 
fob,  and  he  put  it  into  my  hand,  chain, 
seals,  and  all,  and — 

'  Take  this,  Thomas,'  said  he,  '  for 
your  grandfather's  sake  ;  and  as  often  as 
ye  look  at  it,  remember  that  time  is  pre- 
cious— spend  it  not  in  vain. ' 

If  1  never  loved  the  old  man  before,  I 
believed  that  I  loved  him  then.  For  pre- 
sents are  excellent  temporary  openers  of 
the  heart,  either  of  man  or  woman.  If 
your  sweetheart  be  shy,  it  is  wonderful 
how  a  present  will  mollify  her — but  it  is 
not  the  real  thing  ;  and  her  seeming  affec- 
tion, so  produced,  won't  stand  the  test,  or 
be  of  long  duration.  1  have  been  a  sailor, 
and  foolish  enough  in  my  day,  but  I  tell 


you,  if  you  wish  a  girl  to  love  you  sin- 
cerely and  truly,  never  attempt  to  win  her 
heart  by  the  offer  of  bribes.  Give  a 
heart  for  a  heart,  and  nothin"-  more,  till 
you  have  her  hand,  too,  and  then  give  her 
as  much  as  you  like. 

But,  as  I  was  telling  you,  I  set  out  for 
Edinburgh  with  my  grandfather's  watch 
in  my  pocket,  and  I  pulled  it  out,  cither 
to  see  the  hour,  or  admire  my  property, 
during  every  half  hour  on  the  journey. 
And,  I  believe,  though  I  did  shed  tears 
when  he  gave  it,  that,  before  I  was  half 
way  to  Edinburgh,  I  had  forgot  the  giver 
in  the  gift.  However,  the  first  session 
passed  on  tolerably  enough.  I  was  not 
kept  upon  short  allowance  ;  but,  though 
I  did  not  want  for  victuals,  I  had  not  a 
sixpence  of  pocket-money,  and  1  felt  this 
the  more,  because  I  thought  that  some  of 
my  fellow -students  perceived  my  circum- 
stances, and  despised  me  on  account  of 
them. 

I  returned  home  honored  with  a  prize, 
and  received  the  caresses  of  my  mother, 
and  the  congratulations  of  my  grand- 
father. The  old  man  predicted  bright 
days  for  me — already  in  imagination,  he 
beheld  me  in  the  pulpit  which  he  had  oc- 
cupied for  thirty  years. 

But,  with  his  first  session  ended,  the 
prudence  of  Tom  Moffat  and  his  grand- 
father's hopes.  About  the  end  of  the 
second,  a  circumstance  occurred  which 
put  a  stop  to  my  studies  for  twelve 
months,  if  not  for  ever.  The  people  with 
whom  I  had  lodged  during  the  first  year, 
were  about  to  emigrate  to  America.  Their 
name  was  Lindsay,  and  they  had  a  daugh- 
ter called  Margaret,  a  beautiful  girl  of 
seventeen.  I  never  saw  her  but  my  blood 
ran  at  the  rate  of  ten  knots.  During  my 
second  session,  we  used  to  walk  in  the 
Meadows,  or  around  Duddingstoue  Loch, 
together,  and  1  forsook  the  study  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  to  study  the  words  that  fell 
from  the  lips  of  Margaret  Lindsay.  But, 
as  I  was  saying,  they  were  about  to  emi- 
grate to  America,  and  I  accompanied  them 


THE   ONE-ARMED   TAR. 


15c 


to  Leith,  and  went  on  board  the  vessel 
with  them.  It  was  night  when  they  sailed. 
IMargaret  and  I  were  sitting  in  a  corner 
below,  away  from  her  parents  and  the  rest 
of  the  passengers,  unseen,  and  talking 
words  of  tenderness  together.  She  prom- 
ised never  to  forget  me — 1  never  to  forgot 
her.  I  intended  to  accompany  her  out 
into  the  Firth,  and  to  return  on  shore 
with  the  pilot.  But  we  knew  not  how 
time  moved  on.  We  were  loath  to  part, 
and  I  noted  not  that  the  vessel  was  under 
weigh.  In  truth,  I  had  never  been  on 
board  of  one  before.  But,  lo  !  her  pa- 
rents called  upon  Margaret,  and  there  sat 
she  with  my  hand  across  her  shoulders — 
and  the  vessel  not  only  beyond  Leith 
Roads,  but  out  of  the  Firth !  There  was 
I,  a  penniless  and  involuntary  passenger 
across  the  Atlantic.  It  was  a  glorious 
situation  for  a  student  to  be  placed  in  ! 
But  the  idea  of  enjoying  Margaret's  com- 
pany reconciled  me  to  it.  My  mind  was 
made  up  at  once,  and  I  went  to  the  com- 
mander of  the  vessel  and  offered  to  make 
myself  useful  during  the  voyage.  He 
agreed  to  the  proposal,  and  1  began  to 
take  my  first  lessons  in  seamanship. 

We  arrived  at  Quebec,  and,  after  ac- 
companying the  girl  I  loved  for  more  than 
three  thousand  miles,  it  was  hard  to  part 
from  her,  and  I  wished  to  go  up  the 
country  with  her  father.  But  he  would 
not  hear  of  the  scheme.  He  said  that  I 
must  go  back  to  my  friends  ;  and  the  mas- 
ter, having  found  me  of  service  on  my 
passage  out,  told  me  that  he  considered 
himself  accountable  for  me,  and  that  he 
must  take  me  back  to  Leith. 

I  will  not  bother  you  with  an  account 
of  my  parting  with  Margaret,  nor  of  her 
distress,  poor  thing.  More  than  forty 
years  have  passed,  and  I  never  think  of  it 
without  feeling,  I  can't  tell  how,  until 
this  day.  Neither  will  I  tell  you  about 
our  passao-e  home — there  was  nothino- 
particular  in  it.  My  mother  received  me 
as  if  I  had  risen  from  the  dead — her  joy 
was  unbounded — she  hung  upon  my  neck 


and  wept  for  hom*s  ;  and,  though  I  did 
not  escape  several  lectures  from  my  grand- 
father, he  was  not  so  severe  upon  me  as  I 
anticipated.  But  I  said  nothing  to  either 
him  or  my  mother  of  Margaret  Lindsay. 

Such  was  my  second  session  ;  and  my 
third  and  last  was  more  unfortunate.  As 
I  was  now  becoming  a  lad,  my  grandfather 
became  more  liberal,  and  he  allowed  me 
a  shilling  a  week  for  pocket-money.  But, 
during  the  very  first  month  of  the  session, 
a  fellow-student  advised  me  to  accompany 
him  to  the  theatre.  I  had  never  been  in 
one  ;  and,  besides  the  amusement,  he  said 
we  should  receive  a  lesson  in  elocution. 
I  needed  but  little  persuasion  to  accom- 
pany him,  and  we  went  to  the  pit  together. 
Two  young  ladies  took  their  seats  beside 
us.  They  were  wondrous  affable,  and  one 
of  them  was  almost  as  beautiful  as  Mar- 
garet Lindsay.  I  sometimes  thought  they 
were  too  affable  ;  but  then  they  were  polite 
— very  polite— and  they  smiled  so  sweet- 
ly, and  thanked  me  so  kindly  for  every 
answer  I  was  able  to  give  to  their  inqui- 
ries, that  I  could  not  think  evil  of  them. 
They  wished  ns  good  night  at  the  door  of 
the  theatre,  and  my  friend  and  I  proceed- 
ed to  our  lodgings.  But,  as  we  were 
passing  along  the  South  Bridge — 

^  Moffat,'  says  he  to  me,  *  what's  the 
clock  .?' 

I  put  my  hand  to  my  watch  pocket,  but 
neither  seals  nor  watch  were  there.  I  re- 
membered having  had  it  in  my  hand,  be- 
tween the  play  and  the  farce,  in  the  thea- 
tre. I  thought  I  should  have  fallen  dead 
upon  the  street.  A  blindness  came  over 
my  eyes.  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  grand- 
father crying  in  my  ears — '  Thomas  I 
Thomas! — reprobate!  reprobate  !' 

We  gave  information  to  the  watchmen 
at  the  police-office,  and  at  the  houses 
where  sitch  articles  are  received.  But, 
presto  ! — my  grandfather's  watch,  chain, 
and  seals,  were  gone.  They  had  vanished 
like  a  rainbow,  and  were  nowhere  to  be 
found.  Every  succeeding  day  of  the 
session  was  one  of  agony  and  reproach.     I 


154 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


learned  no  more.  If  I  opened  a  page, 
imagination  heard  the  ticking  of  my  grand- 
father's watch,  and  it  ticked  in  my  ears 
eternally ;  or,  as  I  strove  to  read,  I  put 
down  my  finger  and  thumb  mechanically, 
to  fumble  with  the  chain  and  seals,  and 
they  rubbed  against  each  other,  and  I 
started  and  cried — '  What  shall  I  do  for 
the  watch  P 

With  a  heavy  and  foreboding  heart,  and 
a  countenance  that  bespoke  disaster,  I  re- 
turned to  Hexham.  My  welcome  was 
beyond  my  deserving ;  but  supper-time 
came,  and  my  grandfather,  my  mother, 
and  myself,  sat  in  his  little  parlor. 

'  What  o'clock  is  it,  Thomas,  dear  .^' 
said  she,  kindly. 

Had  she  driven  a  knife  to  my  heart,  I 
would  have  taken  it  as  kind.  I  faltered 
— I  ventured  a  reply.  My  grandfather 
observed  my  hesitation,  and  he  inquired — 
^  Where  is  your  watch,  sir — the  watch 
which  I  gave  you  ?'  He  laid  particular 
emphasis  on  the  latter  part  of  his  ques- 
tion— my  confusion  increased,  and  I  stam- 
mered out  some  excuse  about  its  beinof  in 

o 

my  chest,  I  believed.  '  You  believe  no 
such  thing,  sir,'  said  my  grandfather, 
sternly  ;  '  go  bring  it  instantly.'  I  saw 
the  storm  gathering  on  his  brow.  I  per- 
ceived that  he  not  only  suspected  the 
truth,  but  believed  me  more  guilty  than  I 
was.  1  left  the  room,  as  if  to  go  to  my 
own  apartment  for  the  watch  ;  but  scarce 
knowing  what  I  did,  I  left  the  house  by 
the  garden  door,  and  took  the  road  towards 
Newcastle.  Before  I  had  proceeded  a 
mile,  my  resolution  was  taken  to  go  to 
sea. 

I  reached  Newcastle  before  the  inhabi- 
tants were  astir.  You  may  suppose  that 
my  experience  in  the  manual  duties  of  a 
seaman  were  not  great,  being  merely  what 
I  acquired  in  a  trip  across  the  Atlantic 
and  back  again.  But  I  had  a  love  for  the 
sea,  and  had  learned  readily.  I  knew  that 
the  clothes  which  I  wore  were  not  likely 
to  procure  me  a  berth,  and  I  resolved,  as 
soon  as  the   shops  should  open,  to   offer 


them  to  a  s€cond-hand  dealer,  in  exchange 
for  the  garb  of  a  sailor. 

About  seven  o'clock  I  was  wandering 
along  what  is  called  the  Close,  on  the 
look-out  for  a  shop  where  I  should  be 
likely  to  get  an  exchange  of  rigging,  when, 
seeing  a  street  of  almost  perpendicular 
stairs,  on  each  side  of  v;hich  were  dealers  in 
old  clothes,  shoes,  and  such  like,  I  ascend- 
ed it,  saying  to  myself — '  This  is  my  shop.' 
I  entered  one  of  the  cells,  shops,  or  call 
them  what  you  like,  the  prcprie tress  of 
which  had  already  been  at  her  morning 
libations.  She  received  me  with  a  low 
curtsey,  and  as  sweet  a  smile  as  her  deep 
rosy  face  was  capable  of  expressing.  On 
making  known  my  proposal,  the  smile 
vanished  from  her  face  quicker  than  the 
sun  is  hidden  by  a  cloud  in  a  hurricane. 
She  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot,  as  a 
sergeant  would  examine  a  recruit,  and 
turning  me  unceremoniously  round,  in- 
quired— '  And  how  much  wilt  thou  gie  me 
t'  boot?' 

Her  whole  stock  of  old  clothes,  shoes, 
marine  stores,  and  other  et  ceteras,  were 
not  worth  five  pounds,  while  my  coat 
alone  had  cost  three,  not  three  weeks  be- 
fore. 

'  Nothing,'  I  replied. 

'  Nothing  !  thou  scoomy  robber  o'  the 
dead  !'  cried  my  fair  dealer  in  second- 
hand garments.  '  Dost  think  I  steal  my 
gudes.?  Nothing! — Be  off!'  I  was  re- 
tiring from  the  tempest,  when  she  grasped 
me  by  the  tails  of  the  coat,  adding — 
'  Coom  back  ;  let  me  syee  what  I  can  de 
wi'  thee.' 

She  then  spread  out  a  patched  blue 
jacket,  an  old  Guernsey  frock,  and  a  pair 
of  canvass  trousers. 

'  Now,  these  will  fit  ye  t'  a  tee,'  con- 
tinued she,  '  or  I'm  a  Dutchman !  But, 
upon  my  word,  thou  shud  gie  me  summut 
t'  boot,  my  canny  lad.' 

The  wide  aperture  serving  fo.r  a  win- 
dow, was  without  frame  or  glass,  and  the 
folding-door  was  so  hung  around  with  the 
principal  stock  of  the  shop,  and  barricad- 


-^ 


THE  ONE-ARMED   TAR. 


155 


oed  with  boots,  shoes,  and  such  like,  that 
it  could  not  be  shut  till  night ;  and,  on 
my  inquiring  for  an  apartment  to  change 
my  dress — 

'  Jemmy  Johnson !'  exclaimed  she,  burst- 
ing into  laughter,  '  that's  a  gud  un  ! — 
where  did  ye  get  yur  modesty  ?  Did  ye 
steal  the  claes,  that  ye  are  afraid  to  be 
seen  ?  My  fyeth  !  1  dinna  knaw  but  the 
constaples  may  be  here  for  them  before 
night  yet !  1  had  better  mind  what  I'm 
deein',  else  I'll  lose  baith  gudes  and  cha- 
racter.' 

Making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  I  equip- 
ped myself  as  quickly  as  possible  ;  and, 
with  a  hurried  step,  hastened  to  the  quay. 
Without  stopping,  I  proceeded  to  North 
Shields,  where  I  went  on  board  a  collier, 
and  inquired  for  the  skipper.  I  was  di- 
rected down  to  the  cabin,  and  there  I 
found  sitting  a  jolly,  fear-nothing,  merry 
little  fellow,  penning  a  love  epistle  to  his 
owner's  daughter.  On  applying  to  him 
for  a  berth — 

'  Why,  I  don't  know  but  I  may  gie  thee 
one,'  said  he  ;  '  thou's  a  gud-looking 
young  chap,  like  mysel.  Was  ye  ever  in 
the  coal  trade  afore  ?^  '  No,'  answered  I. 
'  I  might  hae  seen  that  by  the  whiteness 
o'  thy  hands,'  said  he.  '  Where  did  ye 
sar  your  time  .^' 

I  told  him  I  had  been  in  the  American 
trade. 

'  Well :'  continued  he,  '  I  canna  engage 
ye  by  the  run,  but  by  the  month  ;  and  I'se 
no  gaun  to  ask  ye  if  ye  can  hand,  reef,  and 
steer,  and  splice  a  rope,  and  them  land- 
lubberish  sort  o'  questions ;  but  only,  I 
maun  tell  ye,  when  ye  are  at  the  helm,  if 
the  watch  sing  out,  "  Ship  a-head  !"  dinna 
ye  mind  a  pin ;  but,  if  the  other  doesn't 
ship  about,  run  right  athwart  the  lubber's 
hawse,  and  learn  him  better  manners  : 
that's  wur  way  o'  deein'.  Let  him  knaw 
it  was  his  duty  to  stand  clear  o'  a  fire- 
ship. But,  I  say,  are  ye  a  gud  writer  .?' 

'  Rather  good,'  said  I. 

'  Shiver  me,'  said  he,  ^  then  yur  just 
the  chap  for  me  !     I  want  a  bit  letter  here 


for  a  sweetheart  o'  mine,  man  ;  but,  smash 
me  !  I  can't  flourish  it  off  at  all.  Try  thy 
fist  at  it,  mate.  Maybe  ye  can  dee  a  bit 
at  the  inditing,  tee — for,  ye  see,  she's 
been  at  the  boarding-school  ;  and,  drat 
me,  though  I  can  manage  the  spelling 
pretty  hobbling,  wi'  looking  at  the  dic- 
tioner  for  the  words,  yet  I  knaw  nought 
about  their  grammar.  Now,  I  say,  if  ye 
understand  it,  gie  her  a  gud  deal  o'  gram- 
mar in't.  That's  the  way  to  dee  their 
business  !  Conscience  !  had  my  faither 
keept  me  another  year  at  the  school,  I 
would  married  a  duchess.' 

I  now  entered  upon  the  honorable  office 
of  confidential  secretary  to  the  skipper  of  a 
collier.  On  finishing  the  letter,  1  read  it 
to  him  ;  and,  on  hearing  it,  he  danced 
round  the  cabin  in  ecstasy,  exclaimino- — 
'  Blow  me,  if  that  wunna  dee,  nought  will. 
I  say,  if  ye  turn  out  as  gud  a  seaman  as 
ye  are  a  scholar,  I  will  make  ye  my  mate, 
and  that's  all.' 

I  thus  became  a  favorite  with  the  skip- 
per from  the  first ;  and  not  being  a  bad- 
natured  fellow — though  I  say  it  myself — 
I  soon  became  a  favorite  with  the  crew 
also.  I  sailed  in  the  collier  durino;  three 
years,  and,  in  that  time,  I  had  obtained 
the  forgiveness  of  my  mother — but  the 
countenance  of  my  grandfather  never. 
He  cut  me  ofi"  as  a  prodigal. 

But  there  was  one  night  that  about  half- 
a-dozen  of  us  were  upon  the  lark,  as  we 
called  it — battling  the  watchmen,  and  see- 
ing life  in  London,  and,  upon  the  whole, 
making  more  mirth  than  mischief,  when, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  we  ran  foul  of  a 
press-gang  upon  Tower  Hill.  '  What 
cheer,  my  hearties  .''  cried  the  Lufi"  who 
headed  the  gang. 

Some  of  our  party  took  to  their  heels, 
but  I  stood  still ;  for  I  didn't  care  a  toss- 
up  of  a  copper  about  the  matter.  I  was 
just  as  willing  to  serve  the  king  as  another 
man,  if  he  would  pay  me  for  it.  So  I 
surrendered  at  discretion,  and  the  lieu- 
tenant called  me  a  '  fine  fellow'  for  so 
doing.     '  Ah,   you   old  shark  !'   thinks  I, 


156 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


^  your  purser's  grin  won't  gammon  Tom 
Moffat.' 

One  of  my  mates  wbo  attempted  to  run 
was  brought  back  ;  and,  from  my  heart  1 
was  sorry  for  him,  for  he  had  a  wife  and 
four  little  ones  ;  and  I  suppose  they  might 
sink  or  swim,  live  or  starve,  for  all  that 
the  service  into  which  he  was  impressed 
would  see,  say,  or  care,  about  the  matter. 
Confound  me  !  after  all,  impressment  is 
too  bad.  It's  a  black  shame  to  the  navy. 
It  has  broken  more  hearts  than  ever  it 
made  heroes.  Why  drag  away  a  man, 
like  a  dog  at  a  cart  tail,  against  his  will  ? 
Again  I  say,  it  is  a  shame  all  over  !  Why 
not  give  better  pay,  and  clear  the  decks 
for  promotion.  Then  they  would  get 
men — good  men,  willing  men — and  the 
navy  would  be  what  it  ought  to  be.  I 
can't  away  with  impressment. 

However,  I  was  taken  on  board  the 
tender,  in  the  river,  and,  in  three  or  four 
days,  joined  a  seventy-four  off  Ports- 
mouth. I  liked  the  service  well  enough, 
for  our  Captain  was  the  very  model  of 
what  an  officer  ought  to  be.  He  was  none 
of  your  fresh-water,  courtly  puppies,  who 
are  sent  to  officer  the  navy  because  their 
fathers  or  their  mothers  are  doing  dirty 
work  for  the  government  people  on  shore. 
He  was  none  of  your  butterflies,  recom- 
mended by  a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  and 
promoted  over  the  heads  of  better  men, 
because  their  relations  have  Court  influ- 
ence. This  system  is  as  bad  as  impress- 
ment, every  whit.  It  takes  away  both 
heart  and  hope  from  a  man.  Is  it  not 
hard  for  a  brave  fellow,  who  has  been  a 
lieutenant  for  ten  years,  and  been  in  twice 
ten  actions,  and  behaved  nobly  in  all,  to 
have  to  lift  his  hat  to  a  puppy  to-day  a-s 
his  superior  officer,  who  was  a  middy  be- 
neath him  yesterday  ?  I  say  it  is  a  shame. 
Fair  play  is  a  jewel ;  and  there  should  be 
no  promotion  but  what  service  and  merit 
procure.  But  I  do  say  that  my  old  com- 
mander was  a  man  every  inch  of  him. 
He  is  getting  well  up  the  list  now,  and  I 
hope  to  live  to  see  him  an  admiral. 


I  had  a  little  library  on  board  the  col- 
lier; and,  amongst  my  books,  which  my 
old  skipper  brought  on  board  the  tender 
to  me  himself,  was  a  copy  of  the  Iliad — 
not  Pope's  translation,  but  the  orginal. 
It  was  my  favorite  book.  My  shipmates 
marvelled  at  it,  they  regarded  me  as  a 
sort  of  prodigy,  and  swore  I  would  be  a 
post-captain  some  day ;  and  they  were 
wont  to  look  over  my  shoulder  as  I  read, 
and  point  with  their  finger  to  a  particular 
word  or  letter,  and  inquire — '  Tom,  what 
does  that  mean  ?' — or,  '  what  does  that 
stand  for  .^' — and  replying,  when  I  an- 
swered them — '  Blow  me,  but  that's 
funny  !' 

At  length  they  began  to  call  me  '  Greek 
Tom  !'  and  the  name  coming  to  the  Cap- 
tain's ears,  he  inquired  the  meaning  of  it ; 
and  upon  being  informed,  he  sent  for  me 
aft ;  and  says  he — '  Moffat,  what's  this  I 
hear  of  you  ? — you  a  Greek  scholar,  eh  P 
'  Yes,  your  honor,'  said  I. 

'  The  deuce  you  are  !'  said  he.  And 
he  began  to  put  some  questions  to  me, 
which  he  found  I  was  more  able  to  answer 
than  he  was  to  ask. 

'  Well,  my  good  fellaw,'  he  continued, 
'  you  are  out  of  your  proper  sphere  at 
present — that's  all  that  I  can  say.'  And 
he  began  to  ask  me  about  my  history  and 
relations  ;  and  I  told  him  everything,  not 
even  omitting  my  trip  to  America,  and 
the  loss  of  my  grandfather's  watch. 
'  Well,  I  must  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,' 
said  he.  And  at  first  he  made  me  a  sort 
of  schoolmaster  on  board,  and  afterwards 
his  clerk  or  secretary.  He  treated  me 
like  a  broth-er. 

We  had  been  in  two  or  three  actions, 
and  had  had  a  fair  ru5i  of  prizes,  when  we 
were  sent  irpon  the  American  station. 
We  were  lying  off  Newburyport,  which  is 
about  thirty  miles  from  Boston,  and  I  went 
ashore  for  letters.  I  reached  the  post- 
office,  and,  as  I  tapped  at  the  window,  and 
the  tin  pane  was  withdrawn — eyes  and 
limbs  ! — whose  face — I  say,  whose  face 
d'3^e  think  I  should  see,  but  that  of  my 


THE  ONE-ARMED  TAR. 


157 


own  sweet  and  never-forgotten  Margaret 
Lindsay  !  It  was  like  a  pistol-sliot  in  my 
heart — I  was  more  dead  than  alive  ;  and 
sbe — why,  she  fell  back  with  a  scream  ; 
and  her  father  rushed  into  the  office,  and 
again  to  the  door,  to  see  what  had  alarmed 
his  daughter.  He  beheld  me  as  much 
alarmed  as  her,  but  he  knew  me  in  a 
twinkling.  He  took  my  hand,  and  led 
me  into  the  house.  What  passed  I  won't 
tell  you.  I  found  Margaret  was  not  mar- 
ried, but  she  was  more  beautiful  than 
ever.  We  didn't  speak  much,  but  our 
eyes  said  a  thousand  things. 

On  going  on  board,  I  told  my  com- 
mander all  that  happened.  He  was,  in- 
deed, a  good  soul,  and  a  considerate  one. 
He  saw  which  way  the  land  lay  with  me  ; 
and  as  we  were  cruising  upon  the  station, 
and  Newburyport  was  a  sort  of  rendez- 
vous, he  gave-  me  permission  to  remain  a 
month  on  shore.  I  blessed  him  in  my 
heart,  and  I  could  have  embraced  his 
knees. 

My  mother  had  been  dead  for  several 
years — my  pay  was  more  than  I  required 
— I  had  nobody  to  assist  out  of  my  prize- 
money  ;  so  that  I  had  saved  a  trifle.  I 
went  ashore,  therefore,  to  spend  a  month 
with  Margaret,  with  my  pockets  pretty 
comfortably  lined.  Why,  the  month  was 
like  a  dream — it  was  like  sailino-  round  a 

o 

romantic  coast  in  fine  weather.  But,  be- 
fore three  weeks  of  it  had  passed,  I  pre- 
vailed on  Margaret  to  accompany  me  to 
the  church,  and  we  became  man  and  wife ; 
and  her  father  offered  no  objections. 

I  found  it  hard  to  part  with  her  ;  and, 
at  her  entreaty,  I  would  have  given  up 
the  sea — but  then  I  was  in  prospect  of 
being  made  sailing-master — and  that  was 
what  I  call  having  my  bread  baked  for 
life. 

But — not  to  spin  my  yarn  too  long  or 
too  fine — some  months  after  my  marriage, 
we  were  ordered  upon  another  station  ; 
and,  a  little  before  the  orders  arrived,  a 
letter  from  my  wife  informed  me  that  I 
was  about  to  become  a  father.     I  lonsced 


to  return  to  her,  to  fling  my  arms  around 
her  neck,  and  to  kiss  the  cheek  of  our 
little  one.  But  fate  had  ordered  it  other- 
wise. We  left  the  station,  and  we  attack- 
ed one  of  the  French  islands  in  the  West 
Indies.  Two  boats'  crews  of  us  went 
ashore  to  storm  their  batteries.  We  had 
already  made  a  sort  of  breach,  and  I  was 
resolved  to  be  one  of  the  first  to  mount 
it — for  I  was  determined  to  obtain  my 
promotion  to  the  rank  of  sailing-master  if 
anything  in  my  power  could  do  it.  I  was 
the  first,  and  I  believe  the  only  one.  I 
was  surrounded,  wounded,  made  prisoner, 
and,  for  seven  years  I  was  shut  up  in  a 
French  prison,  without  hearing  of  either 
wife  or  child,  and  very  little  of  my  coun- 
try, or  how  the  game  went  on. 

At  length  a  change  of  prisoners  took 
place,  and  I -was  one  of  them.  On  the 
first  day  of  my  liberty,  I  wrote  to  my 
wife,  and  I  wrote  also  to  my  old  com- 
mander. Within  six  months,  I  received 
an  appointment  as  sailing-master  ;  but 
months  and  months  passed  on,  and  I  heard 
not  a  syllable  concerning  my  wife.  It 
made  me  miserable,  and  my  promotion 
couldn't  cheer  me.  I  left  no  stone  un- 
turned to  discover  where  she  was,  or 
whether  she  were  dead  or  living  ;  but  it 
was  of  no  effect.  Nothing  could  I  hear 
concerning  her  ;  and  many  a  tear  have  I 
shed  on  the  deep  sea,  and  at  the  dead  of 
night,  for  her  sake. 

Such  was  the  state  of  suspense  I  was  in 
for  eleven  years  after  my  promotion  as 
sailing-master.  About  that  time,  our  ves- 
sel had  a  turn-up  with  a  French  ship  of 
the  line,  and  a  frigate  ;  and,  at  the  very 
close  of  the  action,  when,  one  of  them,  in 
fact,  had  struck  her  colors,  a  shot  carried 
away  my  right  arm.  But,  as  I  told  you, 
I  have  a  pension  for  it.  But  it  soon  heal- 
ed, and  I  quitted  the  service.  I  went  to 
America,  and  to  Newburyport,  to  inquire 
after  my  wife,  my  child  (if  I  had  one), 
and  her  parents.  And  there,  all  that  I 
could  learn  was — that  her  father  had  died 
fifteen  years  ago,  and  that  my  wife,  with 


158 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


an  infant  daughter,  had  gone  to  England. 
I  re-crossed  the  Atlantic  in  the  first  vessel 
I  could  find.  I  determined  to  search  for 
her  through  every  town  and  village  in  the 
three  kingdoms.  On  landing,  1  found  that 
my  old  commander  was  also  on  shore. 
He  felt  for  me,  and  he  did  everything  in 
his  power  to  assist  me  ;  and  we  got  para- 
graphs, setting  forth  all  the  particulars, 
inserted  into  all  the  newspapers,  and  they 
were  copied  into  the  papers  throughout 
the  country.     What  could  I  do  more  ? 

Well,  about  two  months  after  I  had 
been  in  England,  a  dejected,  but  beauti- 
ful young  creature,  with  a  child  in  her 
arms,  came  to  my  lodgings  and  inquired 
for  me. 

Heaven  and  earth  !  how  I  started  ! — 
how  I  trembled  ! — how  my  heart  throb- 
bed, when  I  gazed  upon  her  countenance, 
for  it  bore  the  engraven  lineaments  of  my 
wife.  Scarce  could  I  speak  to  her.  A 
tide  of  feelings  swelled  in  my  bosom,  as 
though  my  heart  would  burst.  I  thought 
— I  feared  a  thousand  things  in  a  moment. 

She  wept ;  she  told  me  that  she  had 
heard  of  my  paragraph  in  the  newspapers. 
That  the  circumstances  related  seemed  to 
connect  her  with  me — that  her  father's 
name  was  Moffat — that  he  had  married 
her  mother  at  Newburyport — and  other 
things  she  stated  which  the  newspapers 
mentioned  not.  '  God  bless  thee,  my 
child!  my  lost  one!'  cried  I.  And  I 
flung  my  arms  around  the  neck  of  the 
poor,  weeping,  and  forlorn  being.  Her 
cheeks  bespoke  want,  and  her  eyes  misery. 
I  ordered  wine.  I  seated  her  on  a  sofa 
beside  me.  I  took  her  child  in  my  arm 
and  I  kissed  it ;  but  I  saw  the  agony  that 
was  heaving  in  my  daughter's  breast,  and 
1  feared  to  ask  her  concerning  its  father. 
I  saw  that  all  was  not  right.  '  And  where 
is  thy  mother,  love  .?'  said  I — '  Oh  !  does 
she  live  .?' 

'Yes!  yes! — she  lives! — she  lives!' 
sobbed  my  poor  child,  and  placed  her 
hands  before  her  face  and  wept  bitterly. 
*  She   lives  ! — she   lives  !'    she  repeated ; 


^  but  I  cannot  meet  my  dear  mother 
again.' 

'  My  Margaret,  then,  lives  !'  said  I ; 
'  thank  Heaven  !  But  weep  not,  my  own 
child — my  sweet  one,  do  not  weep.  I  am 
your  father.  I  will  protect  you.  Tell  me 
your  story  ;  and  by  Heaven  !  my  girl,  if 
you  have  been  injm-ed,  I  will  avenge  your 
wrongs.' 

But  she  wept  more  bitterly.  I  at  length 
learned  that  my  Margaret  resided  in 
Scotland,  and  that  my  daughter,  against 
her  mother's  will,  had,  while  a  mere  girl, 
married  a  thoughtless  young  man,  with 
whom  she  had  come  to  London,  and  who 
had  now  all  but  forsaken  her. 

I  desired  to  know  where  I  might  see 
him,  without  his  knowing  who  I  was  ;  and, 
receiving  the  information  I  sought,  I  found 
him  with  a  dozen  others,  thoughtless  as 
himself,  at  a  billiard  table.  One-armed 
and  left-handed  as  I  was,  I  played  with 
the  best  of  them  ;  and,  without  discover- 
ing my  name,  I  endeavored  to  ingratiate 
myself  into  the  good  opinion  of  my  hope- 
ful son-in-law  ;  and  I  succeeded.  I  found 
him  more  thoughtless  than  depraved.  He 
was  not  beyond  reformation  ;  and  I  asked 
him  home  to  sup  with  me,  and  the  invita- 
tion was  accepted. 

There  was  a  frankness  in  his  manner 
that  gave  me  hope  of  him.  During  sup- 
per, I  endeavored  to  sail  round  him, 
and  to  cast  the  anchor  of  contrition  in 
his  heart.  Without  directly  stating  my 
object,  or  giving  him  reason  to  suspect 
what  my  intentions  were,  '  I  spoke  dag- 
gers' to  his  conscience, '  but  I  used  none;' 
and,  when  I  saw  that  I  had  brought  him 
to  the  right  point,  like  King  David  be- 
fore Naman,  to  pass  his  own  condemna- 
tion, I  rang  the  bell,  and  his  wife  and 
child  entered  the  room.  But  I  extended 
to  him  my  solita^ry  hand  in  forgiveness, 
and  gave  him  a  father's  greeting.  ]\Iy 
scheme  succeeded ;  and,  from  that  day 
until  this,  he  has  been  a  husband  of  whom 
my  daughter  has  had  no  cause  to  be 
ashamed. 


THE  REFORMED. 


159 


But  the  next  day  wc  all  took  our  pas- 
sage for  Scotland,  where  I  was  to  meet 
my  long-lost  Margaret.  Every  mile  of 
our  passage  seemed  a  league,  every  hour 
a  day.  But  we  landed  at  Leith  ;  and, 
without  stopping  there  an  hour,  I  hired  a 
coach,  and  we  proceeded  to  Roxburghshire, 
where  she  resided.  It  was  mid-day  ;  the 
coach  drew  up  at  the  door.  My  daugh- 
ter and  her  child  were  first  handed  out, 
then  followed  her  husband,  and  I  heard 
a  scream  of  joy  as  my  dear  wife  beheld 
her  child.  But  she  had  just  reached  the 
door,  with  open  arms,  to  welcome  her, 


when  I  too  stepped  upon  the   street.     I 
hurried  forward — 

^  Margaret !'  I  cried  ;  '  my  Margaret !" 
'  Thomas  !  —  my   husband  !    my   hus- 
band !'  she  exclaimed,   and   she  flew  to 
meet  me. 

We  had  been  parted  for  more  than 
nineteen  years,  but  we  have  never  been 
separated  an  hour  from  that  day  until 
this.  We  are  contented  as  the  summer 
day  is  long — and,  once  for  all,  I  say,  I  am 
as  happy  as  any  two-handed  man  in  his 
Majesty's  dominions." 


THE    REFORMED. 


In  the  year  1744,  a  young  man,  of  good 
personal    appearance,     but    indifferently 
dressed,  stepped  on  board  a  vessel  at  Leith 
bound  for  Cadiz,  and  inquired  if  the  cap- 
tain would  take  him  out  as  a  passenger. 
The  latter  eyeing  him  for  a  moment  with 
a  scrutinizing  look,  said  he  had  no  objec- 
tion, provided  he  paid  his  passage-money 
in    advance.     To  this  proposal  the  young 
man  at  once  agreed ;    and  having  ascer- 
tained  that  the  vessel  would  sail  in  an 
hour,  added,  that  he  would  return  at  the 
expiry  of  that  time   and  then   settle  for 
his  passage.     Punctual  to  time,  he,  in  an 
hour  afterwards,  again  appeared    on  the 
deck  of  the  Flora,  which  was  the  name  of 
the  vessel  now  about  to  sail  for  Spain,  and 
requested  the  captain,  in  a  hurried  man- 
ner, to  conduct  him  below ;  he  there  paid 
the  former,  in  guineas,  the  amount  of  his 
passage -money.     Having  received  his  mo- 
ney, the  captain  again  hastened  on  deck, 
to  superintend  the   various   preparations 
for  getting  the  vessel  under  weigh.     His 
passenger,  however,  did  not  follow  him '; 
he  remained  below ;  and  although  there 


were  many  inducements  to  have  urged  him 
on  deck,  and  amongst  them  a  curiosity  to 
see  what  was  going  on,  there  he  continued. 
He  either  had  none  of  this  curiosity,  or  he 
had  some  secret  reason  for  remaining  in  his 
present  situation  ;  and  from  his  manner  al- 
together, this  rather  seemed  to  be  the  case. 
He  had  no  luggage — none  whatever ;  not 
even  a  change  of  linen,  or,  indeed,  of  any 
thing  else.     His  looks,  too,  were  troubled, 
and  full  of  an  indefinite  apprehension.  His 
tone  of  voice  was  subdued  and  flurried,  as 
if  by  some   strong  internal  agitation.     If 
any  one  had  marked  him,  as  he  now  sat  a- 
lone  in  a  corner  of  the  cabin  of  the  Flora, 
they  would  have  seen,  besides  these  symp- 
toms of  a  mind  ill  at  ease,  a  pale  and  hag- 
gard countenance,  frequent  and  sudden 
looks  of  alarm  on  any  unusual  noise  being 
made  on  deck,  and  a  feeling  of  impatience 
and  uneasiness  which  evidently  bore  refer- 
ence to  the  motions  of  the  vessel,  and  told 
of  an  anxiety  for  her  departure.    This  was 
a  source  of  pain,  however,  which  was  soon 
to  terminate.     The  vessel  was  fluno-  loose 
from  the  quay,  her  canvass  was  spread  to 


160 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


the  breeze,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  she  had 
glided  out  of  the  harbor,  when,  having  gain- 
ed sufficient  sea-room,  her  bow  was  turned 
down  the  Frith,  and  she  bore  away  on  her 
voyao-e.  It  was  now,  for  the  first  time,  that 
the  solitary  occupant  of  the  cabin  came 
on  deck.  But  he  did  not  do  this  even 
yet  all  at  once.  He  stole  slowly  up  the 
companion  ladder,  and  peered  cautiously 
around,  before  venturing  to  emerge  entire- 
ly. Seeing,  however,  that  the  vessel  was 
fairly  at  sea,  he  stepped  on  the  deck,  and 
exhibited  a  very  marked  change  of  coun- 
tenance. A  load  of  uneasiness  seemed  to 
have  been  removed  from  his  mind  ;  and  his 
looks,  before  strongly  expressive  of  terror 
and  alarm,  were  now  cheerful  and  confi- 
dent. The  unfortunate  passenger,  however 
for  unfortunate  he  was,  that  was  evi- 
dent, of  whatever  nature  were  his  sorrows 
— was  not  long  permitted  to  enjoy  his  new 
and  pleasurable  feelings. 

"  There's  a  boat  making  after  us,"  ex- 
claimed the  captain  ;  and  immediately  af- 
terwards he  issued  orders  to  the  men  for- 
ward to  prepare  for  bringing  the  vessel  to. 
"  Where  is  she  .^"  inquired  the  passen- 
ger. (He  was  the  only  one  in  the  ship.) 
"  Where  is  she  .?"  he  said,  with  a  look  ex- 
pressive of  renewed  apprehension,  and 
turning  deadly  pale  as  he  spoke. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  the  captain,  point- 
ino-  to  a  small  boat  that  was  evidently  di- 
recting her  route  towards  them. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  for  an 
instant,  then,  without  saying  a  word  in  re- 
ply, or  making  any  remark,  slunk  away 
down  again  into  the  cabin,  where,  if  any 
one  should  now  have  followed  him,  and 
seen  the  dreadful  agitation  with  which  his 
whole  frame  was  shaking,  his  haggard  coun- 
tenance, and  white  and  quivering  lip,  they 
would  have  little  doubt  that  a  load  of  un- 
atoned  guilt  lay  heavily  upon  him  ;  that  he 
had  rendered  himself  amenable  to  the  laws 
of  man  as  well  as  God,  by  the  perpetra- 
tion of  some  dark  and  heinous  crime. 
Their  former  suspicions  of  this  would  have 
been  confirmed,  and  they  would  have  seen 


that  the  wretched  man  was  in  terror  of  the 
arm  of  justice  overtaking  him,  and  that  he 
dreaded  that  the  boat  which  was  now  ap- 
proaching contained  those  who  would  car- 
ry him  within  its  reach.  In  the  meantime 
the  yawl  advanced — it  came  alongside — 
the  young  man  heard  voices — his  heart 
sunk  within  him — he  threw  himself  back 
and  gasped  for  breath,  and  shook  in  every 
limb,  as  if  seized  with  a  universal  palsy. 
Oh,  that  moment  of  horror  and  despair  ! 
Worlds  could  not  compensate  it — ages  of 
felicity  would  be  dearly  bought  with  it.  It 
was  dreadful.  Yet,  after  all,  these  were 
but  the  fears  of  a  guilty  conscience,  the 
terrors  of  an  excited  imagination,  associa- 
ted with  the  consciousness  of  crime  ;  for 
no  one  came  near  the  solitary  and  terror- 
stricken  passenger — none  disturbed  him. 
The  boat  that  had  come  alongside  shoved 
off  in  a  few  minutes,  with  its  crew,  with- 
out any  communication  of  any  kind  reach- 
ing him.  He  heard  the  "  Good-bye  !"  of 
the  captain  to  the  boat's  company.  He 
heard  their  oars  strike  the  water  and  grad- 
ually grow  faint  in  the  distance.  Joyful, 
transporting  sounds  to  him  ! 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  he  ex- 
claimed, fervently  leaping  to  his  feet  in  an 
ecstasy  of  happiness,  and,  in  the  joyous 
distraction  of  the  moment,  beating  his 
flushed  forehead  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
''  I  have  escaped,  I  have  escaped  !  Oh, 
horrors !  to  be  taken,  to  be  brought  to  trial, 
to  be  hanged  on  a  gibbet !  Yes,  walk  pin- 
ioned up  the  ladder,  led  on  the  scafibld, 
and  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  a  pitying  mul- 
titude— that  dreadful  sea  of  human  faces  ! 
Oh,  horror,  horror,  horror  !  But  Pve  es- 
caped ! — I've  escaped  !"  And  the  wretch- 
ed youth  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  "  I've 
escaped  through  Thy  boundless  mercy, 
Almighty  Father  !  and  it  shall  be  the  earn- 
est endeavor,  the  sole  object,  of  my  future 
life,  to  atone  to  Thee  and  to  society  for 
the  grievous  offence  of  which  I  have  been 
guilty." 

Such  were  the  communings,  of  dark  and 
fearful  import,  of  the  solitary  passenger  in 


THE   REFORMED. 


161 


the  cabin  of  the  Flora,  on  the  occasion  of 
the  visit  ah-eadj  described  ;  but  no  one 
saw  or  heard  ausrht  of  these  commimings, 
save  Him  to  whom  they  were  in  part  ad- 
dressed. 

After  the  lapse  of  about  half  an  hour — 
during  which  time  the  young  man  of  whom 
we  are  speaking,  having  regained,  as  he 
believed,  sufficient  confidence  and  com- 
posure to  appear  before  the  captain  of  the 
vessel  without  exciting  any  suspicion  of  the 
feelings  by  which  he  had  been  lately  so 
agitated — he  ascended  the  cabin  stair,  and 
came,  though  still  not  without  some  hesi- 
tation, on  deck.  The  young  man,  how- 
ever, had  not  so  much  to  fear  from  the 
captain's  penetration  as  he  dreaded,  this 
being  a  quality  with  which  the  latter  was 
but  very  moderately  gifted.  In  truth,  he 
neither  sought  to  know,  nor  cared  to  know, 
anvthino;  at  all  about  his  passeno;er.  The 
lad  had  paid  his  money,  was  quiet  and  civil 
in  his  demeanor,  and  put  up  cheerfully 
with  whatever  fare  was  put  before  him  ; 
and  this  was  quite  enough  for  him.  He 
cared' nothing  about  the  rest.  It  was, 
therefore,  with  the  same  indifference  and 
apathy — not,  however,  by  any  means 
amounting  to  unkindness — that  the  cap- 
tain of  the  Flora,  at  the  end  of  about  six 
weeks,  landed  his  passenger  on  the  Mole 
at  Cadiz,  knowing  as  little  about  him  when 
he  parted  with  him  there,  as  he  did  when 
he  came  on  board  of  him  in  the  harbor  of 
Leith.  Neither  had  he  ever  inquired 
whither  he  intended  going  after  he  got 
ashore,  or  what  he  intended  being  about. 
All  that  he  did  and  said  at  parting  was  to 
take  the  young  man  by  the  hand,  shake  it 
cordially,  and  wish  him  "  luck." 

Having  nothing  farther  to  do  with  the 
captain  of  the  Flora,  we  shall  now  follow 
the  footsteps  of  his  passenger,  and  see 
whither  they  were  bent,  and  what  were 
the  intentions  that  directed  them. 

On  gaining  the  town,  he  might  have 
been  seen  gazing,  as  he  went  along,  on  the 
various  signs  that  were  exhibited  over  the 
doors  of  stores,  hotels,  &c. ,  and  to  these 

VOT,.   TT. 


alone  his  attention  seemed  chiefly  directed. 
He  was  in  quest  of  quarters  ;  and  these  he 
at  length  found  in  the  house  of  a  Scotch- 
man, of  the  name  of  Andrew  Scott,  whose 
national  patronymic  he  saw  blazoned  above 
his  door,  and  which  at  once  determined 
his  choice. 

On  entering  the  house  and  making  him- 
self known  as  a  countryman,  he  was  kindly 
received  by  the  landlord,  who  immediately 
placed  before  him  the  best  that  both  his 
larder  and  cellar  could  produce,  for  which 
he  would  take  no  other  payment  than  such 
news  from  Scotland  as  his  guest  could 
give.  Pleased  with  the  lad's  manner  and 
appearance,  and  judging  from  his  dress 
that  his  circumstances  were  not  in  a  very 
flourishing  condition,  the  landlord,  after 
they  had  sat  and  talked  themselves  into 
something  approaching  to  familiarity,  asked 
his  guest  what  were  his  views  in  coming 
to  Cadiz,  whether  he  had  any  friends 
there,  &c. 

The  lad  replied,  that  of  the  latter  he  had 
none,  and  that,  as  to  views,  they  were  in- 
definite. He  had  just  come  out  on  chance, 
he  said,  to  see  whether  he  could  not  get  a 
situation  as  a  clerk,  or  storekeeper,  or 
something  of  that  kind. 

"Dear  me,  man!''  replied  his  kind- 
hearted  host,  "but  that  was  rash  o'  ye — 
to  leave  yer  ain  country  and  come  here, 
trusting  to  so  slender  a  stay  as  chance. 
Hae  ye  ony  letters  o'  introduction,  o'  ony 
kind,  to  onybody  .?"  inquired  Andrew,  in 
a  despairing  tone,  excited  by  the  interest 
he  felt  in  the  young  man. 

The  latter  replied  that  he  had  no  letter 
of  any  kind  to  any  one. 

"  'Od,  man,  it's  a  bad  business,  I  doot," 
said  his  host ;  "  but  let  me  see" — and  he 
put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  thought 
for  a  moment.  "  Aj,  I'll  tell  ye  what  ye 
may  do :  ye  may  ca'  on  Telford  &  Bogle, 
the  great  wine-merchants  ;  they  are  baith 
Scotsmen,  thouQ-h  Mr.  Bogle's  no  here  the 
noo  He's  gane  hame,  and  I  dinna  think 
he'll  ever  come  back  again;  for  he's  sair 
broken  doun  in  his  health.     I  say  ye  may 


1G2 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


ca'  on  them— that's  on  Mr.  Telford — and 
just  plainly  state  yer  case  to  him,  and 
there's  nae  sayin  what  he  may  do  for  ye, 
seein  ye 're  a  countryman,  although  I  maun 
say  I  hae  nae  great  houps  o'  yer  succeed- 
in,  seein  that  ye  want  recommendations  : 
but  there  can  be  nae  harm  whatever  in 
tryin.  What's  your  name,  lad  .'^"  added 
Andrew,  abruptly. 

A  slio'ht  flush  suffused  the  countenance 
of  his  guest,  and  he  answered,  though  not 
without  some  delay  and  confusion — 

"  James  Blackburn." 

"  Weel,  James,"  continued  his  host, 
"  I  think  you  had  better  wait  on  Mr.  Tel- 
ford, as  I  was  sayin.  Til  conduct  ye  to 
his  store,  and  I  think  the  sooner  we  go 
the  better." 

To  this  proposal  James — the  name,  add- 
in  o-,  as  occasion  may  require,  his  sirname, 
by  which  we  must  henceforth  designate  the 
passenger  per  the  Flora — readily  assent- 
ed ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  two  set 
out  for  the  wine-vaults  of  Messrs.  Telford 
&  Bogle.  On  arriving  there,  however, 
they  were  disappointed  to  find  only  a  clerk 
— Mr.  Telford  having  just  gone  away  to 
his  country-house,  about  a  mile  out  of 
town.  Under  these  circumstances,  James' 
case  was  stated  to  the  person  they  found, 
by  the  former's  landlord,  who  acted  as 
spokesman  for  him,  and  his  desire  to  get 
into  employment  mentioned.  The  clerk 
said,  in  reply,  that  he  did  not  think  there 
was  any  chance  of  the  applicant's  getting 
an  eno-agement  with  them  :  but  recom- 
mended  to  him  to  go  out  directly  to  Mr. 
Telford,  and  see  that  gentleman  himself 
on  the  subject.  To  this  the  young  man 
readily  agreed  ;  and,  as  it  was  inconvenient 
for  his  landlord  to  accompany  him,  he  was 
furnished  with  a  sort  of  introductory  line 
to  Mr.  Telford,  by  the  clerk.  This  line 
merely  stated  that  the  bearer  was  a  native 
of  Scotland,  who  had  come  out  in  quest  of 
employment  as  a  clerk.  With  this  docu- 
ment the  young  man  set  out,  having  been 
previously  directed  in  the  route  he  should 
take  by  his  host,  who  further  desired  him 


I  to  let  him  know  the  result  of  his  applica- 
tion so  soon  as  he  returned.  With  this 
friendly  request  he  readily  promised  com- 
pliance, and  proceeded  on  his  way. 

On  arriving  at  the  superb  villa  of  Mr. 
Telford,  Blackburn,  on  asking  for  that 
gentleman,  was  ushered  into  his  presence. 

Having  delivered  his  note  of  introduc- 
tion— 

"  You  are  from  Scotland,  young  man  .'" 
said  Mr.  Telford,  after  he  had  perused  it, 
"  and  you  want  employment  .^" 

Blackburn  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Where  are  your  letters  of  recom- 
mendation .^" 

"  I  have  none,  sir." 

"  What !  Did  you  come  here  without 
any  letters  of  recommendation.^"  exclaim- 
ed Mr.  Telford,  in  surprise.  "  Have  you 
any  testimonials  as  to  character,  then — 
any  document  whatever,  to  warrant  confi- 
dence in  you .-" 

Blackburn  said  he  had  none — none  what- 
ever. 

"  That  is  most  extraordinary,"  replied 
Mr.  Telford.  "  How,  in  all  the  world, 
young  man,  could  you  think  of  coming  to 
a  foreign  country,  in  quest  of  employment, 
without  a  scrap  of  testimonial  or  recom- 
mendation with  you  ?  You  have  really 
drawn  largely  on  chance.  What  is  the 
meanino;  of  it .'" 

The  young  man  modestly  replied,  that 
he  had  never  been  in  any  employment  be- 
fore, and  that,  therefore,  he  could  obtain 
no  recommendation  from  any  persons 
standing  in  that  relation  to  him  ;  and  that 
his  friends  were  too  obscure,  and  in  too 
humble  a  walk  in  life,  to  render  their  tes- 
timonials of  any  avail. 

"  But  your  clergyman,"  said  Mr.  Tel- 
ford,— "  could  you  not  have  got  a  testi-  , 
monial  as  to  character  from  him  .''"  ' 

On  the  mention  of  this  person,  his 
"  clergyman,"  the*  young  man  became  as 
pale  as  death  ;  a  general  tremor  came  over 
him,  and  he  felt  so  confused  and  giddy 
that  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  make 
any  reply.     At  length,  he  stammered  out 


THE   REFORMED. 


163 


the  simple  declaration,  tliat  he  had  never 
thought  of  applying  to  him. 

Mr.  Telford  remarked  the  young  man's 
sudden  agitation ;  but  he  attributed  it  to 
a  degree  of  nervousness,  caused  by  the  pe- 
culiarity of  his  situation,  which  he  felt 
must  be  one  of  intense  anxiety  ;  and,  put- 
ting this  construction  on  it,  it  rather  for- 
warded than  retarded  Blackburn's  views, 
by  exciting  the  sympathy  of  Mr.  Telford. 

"  Well,  young  man,"  said  that  gentle- 
man, after  he  had  silently  thought  -for  a 
few  moments,  "  I  certainly  do  think  it 
very  strange,  very  odd^  that  you  should 
have  come  out  here,  in  quest  of  employ- 
ment, without  any  letters  of  recommenda- 
tion or  testimonials  as  to  character  ;  yet, 
as  you  are  a  countryman,  and,  I  dare  say" 
— and  here  he  glanced  at  Blackburn's  ex- 
terior, which,  as  we  have  already  informed 
the  reader,  was  in  but  a  very  indifferent  con- 
dition— "  not  overly  well  provided  against 
disappointment,  especially  in  a  foreign 
land,  I  will  see  what  I  can  do  for  you. 
Meet  me  at  my  counting-house  to-morrow, 
at  ten  o'clock.  Now,  James,"  (he  had 
previously  learnt  his  name)  "^  let  me  add,'' 
continued  Mr.  Telford,  "  and  I  do  so  with 
the  view  of  inciting  you  to  diligence  and 
attention,  that,  in  finding  some  employ- 
ment for  you,  without  any  recommenda- 
tion or  character,  I  do  so  partly  out  of 
sympathy  for  your  situation,  and  partly 
because  I  have  had  so  many  scamps  with 
recommendations,  and  those  of  the  very 
strongest,  that  I  am  willing  to  make  an 
experiment  on  the  services  of  one  who  has 
none.  I  tell  you  this  candidly,  James, 
and  hope  it  will  have  that  influence  on 
your  conduct  which  has  been  my  motive 
for  mentioning  it  to  you." 

Mr.  Telford  next  asked  Blackburn  to 
show  him  a  specimen  of  his  hand-writing. 
He  did  so.  His  employer  was  highly 
pleased  with  it — as,  in  truth,  he  well  might, 
for  it  was  a  remarkably  fine  one. 

On  the  next  day  Blackburu:  met  Mr. 
Telford,  at  his  counting-house,  agreeably 
to    appointment,    and    was   immediately 


placed  at  a  desk,  and  set  to  work.  The 
first  specimens  of  his  qualifications  for  the 
counting-house  were  found  perfectly  satis- 
factory, and  promised  permanency  to  his 
situation.  This  followed,  and  was  subse- 
quently secured  by  a  regular  agreement, 
which  put  Blackburn  in  possession  of  a 
competent  salary. 

At  the  end  of  about  twelve  months,  du- 
ring which  time  the  young  man  had  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  unremitting  atten- 
tion to  his  duty,  by  uncommon  business 
talents,  and  by  the  most  exemplary  con- 
duct, the  head  clerk  of  the  establishment 
died  of  a  vi,rul8nt  fever  that  was  then  de- 
vastating Cadiz  ;  a  similar  visitation  having 
carried  off  other  two  clerks  about  the  time 
Blackburn  entered  Mr.  Telford's  employ- 
ment. At  the  death  of  the  head  clerk,  as 
mentioned,  the  former,  who  had  already 
secured  the  highest  opinion  of  his  employ- 
er, was  appointed  to  his  situation.  On  this 
occasion  Mr.  Telford  called  him  into  his 
private  room,  and,  having  shut  the  door, 
told  him  of  his  intention  to  promote  him 
to  the  vacant  situation.  Having  made 
this  communication,  he  desired  him  to  sit 
down. 

"  Now,  James,"  said  Mr.  Telford,  "you 
see  the  confidence  I  put  in  you,  by  pla- 
cino'  the  entire  superintendence  of  my 
establishment  in  your  hands,  and  you  will 
not  think  it  unreasonable  if  I  expect  simi- 
lar confidence  on  your  part.  You  have 
never  told  me  anything  of  your  history, 
neither  have  I  asked  you.  I  have  hitherto 
forborne,  from  motives  of  delicacy  towards 
you ;  but,  now  that  you  are  about  to  be 
placed  in  so  responsible  a  situation  as  that 
of  head  clerk  of  our  firm,  I  do  think  I 
have  some  right  to  know  a  little  more  of 
your  history  than  I  am  yet  acquainted 
with.  I  trust  you  will  see,  James,  that 
this  is  not  an  idle  or  impertinent,  but 
perfectly  reasonable  curiosity." 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  the 
feelings  of  Blackburn  on  this  address 
being  made  to  him.  That  they  were 
harrowing  in  the  last  degree,  was  evident 


164 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


from  the  sudden  ashy  paleness  which 
overspread  his  countenance,  and  the  vio- 
lent tremor  with  which  his  frame  was 
agitated.  Mr.  Telford  marked  those 
signs  of  internal  suffering,  together  with 
the  hesitation  that  accompanied  them,  and 
said,  though  rather  peevishly,  and  in  a 
tone  that  indicated  somethino-  like  chao;rin 
— it  might  be  displeasure — 

*'  I  would  not  pain  you,  James — I  do 
not  ask  you  to  give  me  your  history  under 
any  threat— you  need  not  tell  it  unless 
you  like  ;  but  I  think  you  might  have 
more  confidence  in  me." 

Bursting  into  tears,  the  young  man  said, 
"  I    will,    sir — I   will   tell    you    a//,  at 
whatever  risk,"    And,  on  regaining  a  little 
composure,  he  began,  and  stated  that  he 
was  the  son  of  a   vintner    in  the  Grass- 
market    of   Edinburgh  ;    that  his  mother 
had  died  while  he  was  yet  an  infant  ;  that 
his  father  had  always  had  a  hard  struggle 
with  the  world,  being  in  straitened  circum- 
stances,   and   having  but  little  business ; 
that,  notwithstanding   this,  he    had  given 
him,  who  was  his  only  child,  a  liberal  edu- 
cation, at  the  expense  of  great  suffering 
and  privation  to  himself;    that,  as  he  grew 
up,  he  became  acquainted  with  a  gang  of 
idle,  dissolute  lads,  in  whose  company  he 
spent  that  time    which  should  have  been 
devoted  to  his    educational  improvement, 
or    in  assisting  his    father  ;  that  his  evil 
propensities  grew  upon  him  with  his  years, 
until   he   at   lensjth  deserted  his  father's 
house  altogether,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
a  life  of  idleness  and  wickedness,  coming 
only  home  occasionally,  to  seek  the  means 
of  carrying  on  his  infamous  career ;  that, 
in  the  meantime,  his  father  died,  and  that 
the  state  of  total  destitution  in  which  this 
event  left  him,  gradually   opened  his  eyes 
to  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  his  conduct ; 
that,  on  attaining  a  full  sense  of   this,  he 
determined  to  reform,  and  to  lead  for  the 
future,    such   a    life    as    would  in  some 
measure,  atone  for  his  past  misdemeanors  ; 
that  he  found  the  first  step  towards  this 
was  to  betake  himself  to  some  honest  cal- 


ling— but  having  none  to  recommend  him, 
and  being  but  too  well  known  in  his  native 
city,  as  a  lad  of  wild  and  loose  habits,  he 
could  find  no  employment ;  that,  in  this 
desperate  situation,  having  neither  friend 
nor  relation  in  Edinburgh,  he  determined 
on  quitting  the  city,  and  seeking  to  better 
himself  somewhere  else  ;  that,  happening, 
while  in  this  mood,  to  stroll  down  to  Leith, 
he  saw  a  ticket  on  the  vessel  by  which  he 
had  come  out,  announcing  that  she  was 
bound  for  Cadiz  ;  and  that  he  on  the  in- 
stant determined  to  go  with  her,  and  trust 
to  chance  for  the  rest,  seeing  that  he 
could  not  possibly  be  worse  off  abroad  than 
he  was  at  home. 

Such,  in  substance,  was  the  story  which 
Blackburn  told  his  employer  ;  and,  so  far 
as  it  went,  it  was  perfectly  true  in  every 
particular.  It  was  the  truth — nothing 
but  the  truth ;  but  it  was  not  the  whole 
truth.  When  Blackburn  said  he  would 
tell  a//,  he  either  said  so  with  a  mental 
reservation,  or  his  courage  forsook  him  in 
the  course  of  his  narration  ;  for  he  did 
not  tell  all.  There  was  one  passage  in  his 
life,  one  damning  incident,  which  he  did 
not  relate.  What  that  was,  will  appear 
in  the  sequel. 

It  was  some  time  after  the  young  man 
had  concluded,  before  Mr.  Telford  made 
any  reply  to,  or  any  remark  on  what  had 
just  been  related  to  him.  At  length, 
however,  he  said  with  a  smile  : 

"  You  have  been,  James,  it  would  ap- 
pear, from  your  own  account,  a  sad  boy 
in  your  younger  years.  I  hope,  however 
— indeed  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  from  the 
experience  I  have  had  of  you — that  you 
will  make  it  all  up  yet,  and  exhibit,  in 
your  future  conduct,  more  than  enough  to 
compensate  for  the  past.  In  the  mean- 
time, let  me  assure  you  that  what  you 
have  told  me,  has  not  in  the  least  lessened 
you  in  my  opinion,  or  shaken  my  confi- 
dence in  you.  On  the  contrary,  your  can- 
dor, in  stating  the  worst  of  yourself,  has 
increased  it.  Go  and  assume  your  new 
duties,  and  believe  that  yom*  story  is  per- 


THE   REFORMED. 


165 


fectly  safe   in  my  keeping.      None   shall 
know  anything  of  it." 

Here  this  interview,  so  interesting  to  the 
parties  concerned,  terminated.  Blackburn 
repaired  to  his  station  in  the  counting- 
house,  and  Mr.  Telford  shortly  afterwards 
went  off  to  his  country  house. 

The  position  of  Blackburn  seemed  now 
to  be  a  very  enviable  one — and,  so  far  as 
circumstances  went,  it  truly  was  so  :  but, 
associated  with  these,  there  wa^  a  misery, 
a  torture  of  mind,  which  forbade  all  happi- 
ness, which  poisoned  all  the  sources  of 
enjoyment — nay,  even  the  springs  of  life 
themselves.  In  his  new  capacity,  it  was 
Blackburn's  peculiar  duty  to  superintend 
the  shipment  for  Britain  of  all  wines  ex- 
ported thither  by  the  house  to  which  he 
belonged — a  duty  to  which  he  always 
evinced  the  utmost  repugnance,  although 
he  took  great  care  that  no  expression  of 
tliis  feeling  should  betray  it.  But  whence 
did  this  repugnance  proceed  ?  What  was 
the  cause  of  it  ?  It  proceeded  from  an 
unwillino-ness  to  be  brouo-ht  into  contact 
with  any  persons  from  his  native  country  ; 
and  any  one  who  could  have  marked  the 
agitation  and  misery  which  he  appeared  to 
endure  on  these  occasions,  would,  let  his 
guilt  be  what  it  might,  have  sincerely 
pitied  him.  But  it  was  when  a  vessel  ar- 
arrived,  especially  one  from  Scotland,  that 
bis  mental  sufferings  were  greatest.  This 
he  dreaded  most.  For  long  after  his 
settlement  in  Cadiz,  he  grew  pale  on  the 
announcement  of  any  ship's  arrival,  and 
never  seemed  to  breathe  freely  until  it  had 
again  jDut  to  sea. 

But  all  this,  as  in  a  former  instance, 
was  the  result  merely  of  a  disturbed  mind  ; 
for  no  vessel  brought  any  evil  tidings  to 
him,  nor  did  the  slightest  circumstance 
occur,  externally,  to  disturb  his  tranquil- 
lity. In  the  meantime,  years  rolled  on, 
and  each,  as  it  passed,  added  to  Black- 
burn's reputation  as  a  steady,  honorable, 
and  expert  man  of  business.  Each  year, 
too,  added  to  his  consequence  and  impor- 
tance in  the  firm  with  which  he  was  con- 


nected. His  control  over  its  affairs  was 
unlimited — almost  undivided ;  for  Mr. 
Telford,  the  only  partner  on  the  spot,  sel- 
dom interfered — so  great  was  his  confi- 
dence in  the  ability  and  integrity  of  his 
chief  clerk,  and  so  highly  satisfied  was  he 
with  everything  he  did.  His  salary,  too, 
was  proportioned  to  his  merits.  It  was 
handsome — much  beyond  that  of  any 
other  person  in  a  similar  situation  in  Ca- 
diz. These  years,  too,  that  had  passed  on, 
had  restored,  in  great  part,  that  peace  of 
mind  which  had  been  so  much  wanting  to 
his  happiness  in  former  times.  He  now 
no  lono'er  lived  under  the  terror  of  recoo-- 
uition,  which  had  haunted  him  in  previous 
years ;  or,  if  he  did,  it  was  but  rarely,  of 
short  continuance,  and  of  a  less  formida- 
ble character  than  was  its  wont.  Time, 
in  short,  the  great  anodyne  for  all  diseases 
of  the  mind,  had  smoothed  down,  nearly 
obliterated,  those  feelings  which  had  once 
so  grievously  tortured  him;  and  a  long 
immunity  had  dulled  his  apprehensions  of 
the  consequences  of  that  deed  which  had 
excited  them. 

It  was  about  this  period — that  is,  some 
eight  or  ten  years  after  Blackburn's  set- 
tlement in  Cadiz — that  the  remaining 
partner  of  the  firm,  Mr.  Telford,  began 
to  entertain  thouo-hts  of  returning:  to  his 
native  country.  He  had  fallen  into  a  state 
of  bad  health,  and  lonofed  to  breathe  the 
air  of  his  father-land.  These  thoughts 
and  wishes  gained  strength  as  his  health 
decayed,  until  they  at  length  urged  him 
to  the  fixed  determination  of  returnino"  to 
Scotland.  Having  come  to  this  resolution, 
he  held  a  conference  with  his  clerk,  told 
him  of  his  intentions,  and  added  that  he 
meant  to  leave  him  the  entire  charge  of 
the  business  and  interests  of  the  firm  in 
Cadiz,  until  he  should  see  his  partner,  Mr. 
Bogle,  then  in  Scotland,  when,  he  said, 
he  had  no  doubt  he  would  obtain  that  gen- 
tleman's consent  to  his  being  confirmed 
their  agent  in  Spain,  or  rather  sole  mana- 
ger of  their  immense  establishment  there. 

'^  I  must  return  to  Scotland,  Mr.  Black 


166 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


burn,"  said  Mr.  Telford,  ^' and  that  im- 
mediately, else  I  may  never  see  my  native 
land.  Yet  I  do  not  go  with  any  very  san- 
guine hopes  of  recovery — I  feel  too  far 
gone  for  that  j  but  I  am  desirous  to  lay 
my  bones  beside  those  of  my  fathers,  in 
the  little,  lonely  churchyard  of  my  native 
village.  I  think,  too,  I  could  die  without 
reluctance  or  regret,  if  I  was  blessed  with 
one  other  sight  of  the  dear  heath  clad  hills 
of  Scotland.  It  is  almost  all  I  now  wish 
for." 

Thus  spoke  the  dying  merchant ;  for 
he  was  dying — that  was  made  sufficiently 
evident  by  his  pallid  countenance  and 
emaciated  frame  ;  and  thus  was  Blackburn 
raised  another  step  on  the  ladder  of  for- 
tune. 

In  less  than  three  weeks  after  this  con- 
versation took  place,  Mr.  Telford  broke 
up  his  domestic  establishment,  and  em- 
barked for  Scotland  ;  leaving  his  superb 
villa  with  its  furniture,  to  be  occupied  by 
his  representative,  Mr.  Blackburn. 

In  due  time  after  the  departure  of  the 
former,  the  latter  received  a  joint  letter 
from  him  and  his  partner,  Tvlr.  Bogle,  ap- 
pointing and  confirming  him  their  sole 
agent  at  Cadiz,  with  power  to  act  in  every 
case  as  he  judged  best  for  their  interest. 
To  this  was  subjoined  the  agreeable  inti- 
mation of  a  large  addition  to  his  salary, 
and  the  still  more  agreeable  tidings,  that 
he  was  admitted  a  partner  in  the  concern 
of  Messrs.  Telford  &  Bogle,  to  the  extent 
of  one  fifth. 

Blackburn  now  stood  in  a  very  elevated 
position.  He  was  a  person  of  note,  an 
important  man  "  on  'Change,"  and  other- 
wise of  the  highest  respectability.  But 
his  good  fortune  did  not  end  here.  In 
little  more  than  a  year  afterwards,  Mr. 
Telford,  the  principal  of  the  firm,  died. 
On  this  event  taking  place,  Mr.  Bogle, 
who  was  now  an  old  man  and  in  infirm 
health,  expressed,  in  a  letter  which  he  ad- 
dressed to  Mr.  Blackburn,  a  desire  to 
withdraw  from  the  firm  altosrether,  as  he 
felt  himself  wholly  unable  to  take  any  fur- 


ther active  part  in  its  concerns,  or  indeed 
to  attend  to  business  of  any  kind ;  and 
concluded  by  making  an  offer  of  the  whole 
stock  and  interests  of  the  firm  to  his  cor- 
respondent, on  such  terms  as  the  laiter 
could  not  but  consider  highly  advantage- 
ous. With  this  ofi'er  Blackburn  at  once 
closed ;  and  the  necessary  interchange  of 
documents  on  the  subject  having  taken 
place,  Mr.  Blackburn  commenced  business 
on  his  own  account,  and  with  a  success 
that  promised  soon  to  conduct  him  to  in- 
dependence. 

Having  brought  the  history  of  our  hero 
to  this  point,  we  there  leave  him,  and  re- 
sume our  narrative  after  an  interval  of  ten 
years,  with  a  change  also  of  the  scene  of 
the  subsequent  occurrences. 

At  the  end  of  the  period  named,  or  to- 
wards the  close  of  the  summer  of  1764,  a 
vessel  from  Cadiz,  loaded  with  wine,  ar- 
rived at  the  port  of  Leith.  On  board  of 
this  vessel  was  a  gentleman,  the  proprietor 
of  the  cargo.  This  gentleman  was  Mr. 
Blackburn.  He  had  realized,  during  the 
interval  which  we  have  passed  over,  a  con- 
siderable fortune  ;  but,  while  increasing 
his  means,  he  had  been  losing  his  health, 
and  this,  latterly,  so  rapidly  that  he  had 
determined  on  quitting  the  country  before 
he  should  be  so  far  enfeebled  as  to  render 
recovery  hopeless.  Having  come  to  this 
resolution,  he  made  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments for  carrying  it  into  execution,  and 
finally  embarked  for  his  native  land.  In 
doing  this,  it  was  not  his  intention  to 
give  up  business,  but  merely  to  change 
the  scene  of  his  exertions.  He  resolved 
on  commencing  business  in  Edinburgh,  his 
native  city,  as  a  wine-merchant ;  and 
hence  the  reason  of  his  brinarino-  with  him 
the  cargo  of  wine  of  which  we  have  spoken. 

On  the  wine  being  landed  on  the  quay, 
Mr.  Blackburn  might  have  been  seen  go- 
ing amongst  the  casks  or  butts,  and,  after 
tasting  many,  carefully  selecting  one.  This 
he  ordered  to  be  rolled  out  from  amongst 
the  others,  and,  with  his  own  hands,  nailed 
a  card  on  it,  bearing  the  address  of  "  The 


THE  REFORMED. 


167 


Rev.  Dr.  Marshall,  Edinburgh."  This 
done,  he  dispatched  it,  by  a  cart,  to  its 
destination.  Conformably  to  his  orders, 
the  carter  drove  the  pipe  of  wine  up  to 
the  worthy  doctor's  door,  and,  summoning 
out  his  housekeeper — for  the  doctor  was 
a  widower — told  her  that  it  was  for  her 
master,  and  requested  to  know  where  he 
should  put  it. 

'^  A  pipe  o'  wine  ! — a  hail  pipe  o'  wine, 
for  the  doctor  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brackin- 
ridge — for  such  was  the  housekeeper's 
name — in  great  surprise.  "  Preserve  us, 
that's  an  awfu'  quantity!  The  doctor 
never  used  to  get  in  aboon  three  dizen  at 
a  time.  What  in  a'  the  yearth  could 
hae  puttin't  in  his  head  to  order  a  pipe  ! 
That'll  last  him  twenty  years,  if  he  grows 
nae  drouthier  than  he  used  to  be.  But 
are  ye  sure,  honest  man,''  continued  Mrs. 
Brackinridore,  "  that  there's  nae  mistak  in 
the  business .?" 

"  Sure  aneuch,"  replied  the  man.  "  The 
gentleman  that  aucht  it,  directed  it  wi'  his 
aiu  hands." 

"But  I'm  no  sure  o't,"  rejoined  the 
cautious  housekeeper.  "  Wait  there  till 
I  go  and  tell  the  doctor  about  it."  And 
she  hastened  up  to  his  study. 

On  entering  the  apartment — 

"  Save  us,  doctor  !"  she  said,  "  here's 
a  man  wi'  a  pipe  o'  wine  on  a  cart  at  the 
door — a  hail  pipe — and  he  says  it's  for 
you." 

"  A  pipe  o'  wine  for  me,  Mrs.  Brackin- 
ridge  !"  replied  the  doctor,  no  less  sur- 
prised at  the  circumstance  than  his  house- 
keeper. "  It's  impossible  !  There  must 
be  some  mistake  in  it !" 

"  I  thocht  that,  doctor,  and  I  said  it 
too ;  but  the  man  insists  it's  a'  richt 
aneuch  ;  an'  if  that  be  the  case,  ye  ken, 
we  may  just  as  weel  tak  it  in  at  aince. 
My  certy !  we're  no  gaun  to  turn  awa  a 
pipe  o'  wine  frae  the  door  withoot  kennin 
what  for.  It's  no  every  day  a  win'  fa' 
like  this  comes  oor  way,  an'  I  warrant  it's 
guid  gear." 

"  I  dare  say  it  may,  Mrs.  Brackinridge," 


replied  the  good  doctor,  smiling ;  "  but  I 
must  know  something  more  of  it  before  I 
can  take  possession  of  it.  There  must  be 
a  mistake  in  it.  Be  so  good  as  send  the 
man  up  to  me.'' 

The  man  was  introduced. 

"  Who  sent  you,"  said  the  doctor  to 
him,  "  with  this  pipe  of  wine  to  me  .'" 

"  A  gentleman,  sir,  on  the  shore  o' 
Leith,  that's  landin  a  cargo  o'  wine  frae 
Cadiz." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  .^" 

"  Are  you  perfectly  sure  he  desired  you 
to  brino;  it  to  me — to  Dr.  Marshall .?" 

"  Perfectly  sure  o'  that,  sir.  He  pat 
on  the  direction  wi'  his  ain  hands,  and 
asked  me  three  times  owre  if  I  kent  ye, 
and  kent  whar  ye  lived." 

"  It  is  very  strange — most  extraordina- 
ry," replied  the  doctor ;  "  still  I  cannot 
help  thinking  there  is  some  mistake  in  it ; 
but,  since  you  are  so  positive  as  to  your 
instructions  regarding  the  wine,  you  may 
put  it  off,  and  I'll  take  charge  of  it.  Have 
I  anything  to  pay  you  V 

"Naething,  sir — the  gentleman  paid 
me,  and  paid  me  handsomely." 

The  pipe  of  wine  was  rolled  ojBF  the 
cart,  and  deposited  in  a  cellar  of  the  doc- 
tor's ;  but,  under  a  strong  conviction  that 
there  must  be  some  mistake  in  the  matter, 
here  he  meant  that  it  should  lie  untouch- 
ed, until  some  further  light  should  be 
thrown  on  it ;  and  he  had  no  doubt  that  a 
short  time  would  do  this,  and  that  the  real 
owner  would  soon  appear."  On  the  day 
followino-  that  on  which  the  occurrence 
just  related  took  place,  a  gentleman  called 
at  Dr.  Marshall's,  and  inquired  if  he  was 
within.  He  was  answered  in  the  affirma- 
tive. "  Could  I  see  him  V  He  was  ush- 
ered into  the  doctor's  study.  The  doctor, 
seeing  in  his  visiter  a  remarkably  well- 
dressed  and  gentlemanlike  person,  rose 
from  his  chair,  and,  with  the  kind  affiibility 
of  his  nature,  requested  him  to  be  seated. 
The  stranger  sat  down.  A  prefatory  con- 
versation took  place  on  common  and  indif- 


168 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ferent  topics ;  the  doctor  being  of  too 
amiable  and  polite  a  nature  to  ask  his 
visitor  in  direct  terms  the  purpose  of  his 
call.  For  this  he  waited  his  own  good 
time,  and  this  the  more  readily  that  he 
found  the  conversation  of  the  stranger 
singularly  agreeable  and  intelligent.  At 
length — 

"  I  should  think,  sir,"  said  the  doctor 
with  a  smile,  and  lookuag  closely  in  the 
face  of  his  visitor,  "  that  you  have  been  in 
foreign  parts  lately.  You  wear  the  hue  of 
a  warmer  climate  than  ours." 

"  I  believe  I  do,  sir,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger, smiling,  in  turn  ;  "  and  there  is  little 
wonder  I  should,  seeing  that  I  have  been 
for  twenty  years  abroad,  and  have  return- 
ed but  the  other  day." 

"  I  conjectured  as  much,"  said  the  wor- 
thy divine.  "  In  what  part  abroad  were 
you,  sir,  if  I  may  ask  .^" 

"  Spain,  sir— Cadiz,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger, who,  the  reader  will  very  likely  have 
conjectured,  was  Mr.  Blackburn.  It  was  he. 
"Ah!  indeed!"  said  the  doctor — and 
here  a  pause  took  place  in  the  conversa- 
tion. During  this  pause  the  doctor's  vi- 
sitor seemed  struggling  with  some  internal 
emotion,  as  if  gathering  resolution  to  say 
or  do  something  of  an  unpleasant  nature. 
And  this  was  the  case.  Suddenly  rising 
from  his  seat,  and  approaching  Dr.  Mar- 
shall— 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remem- 
ber of  being  attacked  on  Leith  Walk, 
about  twenty  years  ago,  by  a  young  man, 
and  robbed  of  twenty  guineas  .?" 

"Remember  it!"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 


— "  I  do,  indeed,  very  well.  It  is  impos- 
sible 1  should  forget  it.  But  how,  sir, 
come  you  to  know  anything  of  that  affair  ? 
I  never  mentioned  it  to  a  livino^  beino*.  J 
prayed  for  the  unhappy  youth ;  but  I 
would  not  be  instrumental  in  procurincr 
the  shedding  of  a  fellovv-creature's  blood; 
and  therefore  it  was  that  I  mentioned  the 
occurrence  to  no  one,  and  I  thought  that 
it  was  known  to  none  but  to  God  and  our- 
selves— the  injurer  and  the  injured.  How, 
sir,  may  I  ask  you,  did  the  circumstance 
come  to  your  knowledge  ?  Do  you  know 
who  the  robber  was  ?" 

"Doctor  Marshall,"  said  Mr.  Black- 
burn, with  great  emotion,  "you  see  that 
robber  before  you. — /was  the  man  I" 
/  "  You,  sir  ! — you  the  man  !"  exclaimed 
the  worthy  doctor,  with  a  look  that  would 
l^e  but  feebly  characterised  as  one  of  sur- 
prise.    "  Impossible  !  impossible  !" 

"  Nay,  sir,  it  is  but  too  true.  It  was  I 
that  robbed  you ;  and  a  miserable  man 
have  I  been  since,  although  the  gifts  of 
fortune  have  not  been  denied  me ;  but 
they  have  hitherto  been  bestowed  in  vain, 
and  in  vain  still  will  they  have ,  been  be- 
stowed, if  I  do  not  obtain  your  forgive- 
ness. Here  is  the  money  I  robbed  you  of, 
and  the  pipe  of  wine  I  sent  yon  must  be 
accepted  of  for  interest." 

The  repentant  oGender  was  on  his  knees. 
The  good  minister  lifted  him  up  and  grant- 
ed his  forgiveness.  Mr.  Blackburn  be- 
came a  worthy  member  of  his  congrega- 
tion, and  an  intimacy  existed  between  the 
two  till  they  were  separated  by  death. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


169 


THE    BROKEN    HEAHT. 


A    TALE    OF    THE    REBELLION. 


Early  in  the  November  of  1745,  the 
news    reached    Canibridsie     that    Charles 
Stuart,  at  the  head  of  his  harder  ind  devo- 
ted Highlanders,  had  crossed  the  Borders 
and  taken  possession  of  Carlisle.     The  in- 
habitants gazed  upon  each  other  with  ter- 
ror, for  the  swords  of  the  clansmen  had 
triumphed  over  all  opposition  ;  they  were 
regarded,  also,  by  the  multitude,  as  savages, 
and  by  the  more   ignorant  as  cannibals. 
But  there  were  others  who  rejoiced  in  the 
success  of  the  young  Adventurer,  and  who, 
dangerous  as  it  was  to  confess  their  joy, 
took  but  small  pains  to  conceal  it.     A- 
mongst  these  was  James  Dawson,  the  son 
of  a  gentleman  in  the  north  of  Lancashire, 
and  then  a  student  at  St.  John's  College. 
That  night  he  invited  a  party  of  friends  to 
sup  with  him,  who  entertained  sentiments 
similar  to  his  own.     The  cloth  was  with- 
drawn, and  he  rose  and  gave,  as  the  toast 
of  the   evening — "  Prince    Charles — and 
success  to  himP^     His  guests,  fired  with 
his  own  enthusiasm,  rose  and  received  the 
toast  with  cheers.  The  bottle  went  round 
— the  young  men   drank  deep,  and  other 
toasts  of  a  similar  nature  followed.      The 
song  succeeded  the  toast,  and  James  Daw- 
sen  sang  the  following,  which  seemed  to  be 
the  composition  of  the  day  : — 

"  Free  o"er  the  Borders  the  Tartan  is  streaming, 
The  dirk  is  unsheathed,  and  the  claymore  is  gleaming. 
The  Prince  and  his  clansmen  in  triumph  advance, 
Nor  needs  he  the  long-promised  succours  of  France. 
From  the  Cumberland    mountains  and    Westmoreland 

lake, 
Each  brave  man  shall   snatch  up  a  sword  for  his  sake  ; 
And  the  •  Lancashire  Witch  '  on  her  bosom  shall  wear 
The  snow-white  cockade  by  her  lover  placed  there." 

But  while  he  yet  sang,  and  as  he  comple- 
ted but  the  first  verse,  two  constables  and 
three  or  four  soldiers  burst  into  the  room, 
and  denounced  them  as  traitors  and  as 
their  prisoners. 


"  Down  with  them  !"  exclaimed  James 
Dawson,  springing  forward,  and  snatching 
down  a  sword  which  was  suspended  over 
the  mantelpiece.  The  students  vigorously 
resisted  the  attempt  to  make  them  prison- 
ers, and  several  of  them,  with  their  enter- 
tainer, escaped. 

He  concealed  himself  for  a  short  time, 
when,  his  horse  being  brought,  he  took  the 
road  towards  Manchester,  in  order  to  join 
the  ranks  of  the  Adventurer.  It  was  about 
midday,  on  the  29th,  when  he  reached  the 
town    which  is  now  the  emporium  of  the 
manufacturing    world.      On    proceeding 
down  Market  Street,  he  perceived  a  con- 
fused crowd,  some  uttering  threats,  and 
others   with    consternation    expressed   on 
their    countenance  ;  and,  in  the  midst  of 
the   multitude,  was    Sergeant  Dickson,  a 
young  woman,  and  a  drummer  boy,  beat- 
ing up  for  recruits.     The    white  cockade 
streamed  from  the  hat  of  the  sergeant ;  the 
populace  vented  their   indignation  against 
him,  but  no  man  dared  to  seize  him,  for  he 
continued  to  turn  round  and  round  with  a 
blunderbuss  in  his  hand,  facing  the  crowd 
on  all  sides,  and   threatening  to  shoot  the 
first  man  that  approached,  who  was  not 
ready  to  serve  the  Prince,  and  to  mount  the 
white  cockade.     The  young  woman  carried 
a  supply  of  the  ribbons  in  her  hand,  and 
ever    and   anon   waved  them  in  triumph, 
exclaiming — "  Charlie  yet."  Some  dozen 
recruits  already  followed  at  the  heels  of 
the  sergeant.     James  Dawson  spurred  his 
horse  through  the  crowd. 

"  Give  me  one  of  your  favors,"  said  he, 
addressing  the  sergeant. 

"  Ay,  a  dozen,    your  honor,"    replied 
Dickson 

He  received  the  ribbon,  and  tied  it  to 
his    breast,    and   placed  another     at   his 


170 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


horse's  head.  His  conduct  had  an  effect 
upon  the  multitude  ;  numbers  flocked  a- 
round  the  sei'geant,  his  favors  became  ex- 
hausted ;  and  when  the  Prince  and  the 
army  entered  the  town  in  the  evening,  he 
brought  before  him  an  hundred  and  eighty 
men,  which  he  had  that  day  enlisted. 

The  little  band  so  raised  was  formed  in- 
to what  was  called  the  Manchester  regi- 
ment, of  which  the  gallant  Townly  was 
made  Colonel,  and  James  Dawson  one  of 
the  Captains. 

Our  business  at  present  is  not  with  the 
movements  of  Charles  Edward,  nor  need 
we  describe  his  darino:  march  towards  Der- 
by,  which  struck  terror  throughout  all 
England,  and  for  a  time  seemed  to  shake 
the  throne  and  its  dynasty  ;  nor  dwell  up- 
on the  particulars  of  his  masterly  retreat 
towards  Scotland — suflfice  it  to  say,  that 
on  the  19th  of  December,  the  Highland 
army  again  entered  Carlisle. 

On  the  following  morning  they  evacu- 
ated it ;  but  the  Manchester  regiment, 
which  was  now  composed  of  about  three 
hundred  men,  was  left  as  a  garrison  to  de- 
fend the  town,  against  the  entire  army  of 
proud  Cumberland.  They  were  devoted 
as  a  sacrifice,  that  the  Prince  and  the  main 
army  might  be  saved.  The  dauntless 
Townly,  and  the  young  and  gallant  Daw- 
son, were  not  ignorant  of  the  desperateness 
and  the  hopelessness  of  their  situation  ; 
but  they  strove  to  impart  their  own  hero- 
ism to  the  garrison,  and  to  defend  the 
town  to  the  last.  On  the  morning  of  the 
21st  the  entire  army  of  the  Duke  of  Cum- 
berland arrived  before  Carlisle,  and  took 
possession  of  the  fortifications  that  com- 
manded it.  He  commanded  the  garrison 
to  surrender,  and  they  answered  him  by  a 
discharge  of  musketry.  They  had  with- 
stood a  siege  of  ten  days,  during  which 
time  Cumberland  had  erected  batteries, 
and  procured  cannon  from  Whitehaven : 
before  their  firing  the  decaying  zmd  ne- 
glected walls  of  the  city  gave  way  ;  to 
hold  out  another  day  was  impossible,  and 
there  was  no  resource  left  for  the  devoted 


band,  but  to  surrender,  or  perish.  On  the 
30th,  a  white  flag  was  hoisted  on  the  ram- 
parts. Cn  its  being  perceived,  the  can- 
non ceased  to  play  upon  the  town,  and  a 
messenger  was  sent  to  the  Duke  of  Cum- 
berland, to  inquire  what  terms  he  would 
grant  to  the  garrison. 

"Tell  them,"  he  replied,  haughtily, 
"  I  offer  no  terms  but  these — that  they 
shall  not  be  put  to  the  sword,  but  they 
shall  be  reserved  for  his  Majesty  to  deal 
with  them  as  he  may  think  proper." 

There  was  no  alternative,  and  these 
doubtful  and  evasive  terms  were  accepted. 
The  garrison  were  disarmed,  and  under  a 
numerous  guard  placed  in  the  cathedral. 

James  Dawson  and  seventeen  others 
were  conveyed  to  London,  and  cast  into 
prison  to  await  the  will  of  his  INlajesty. 
Till  now  his  parents  were  ignorant  of  the 
fate  of  their  son,  though  they  had  heard 
of  his  being  compelled  to  flee  from  the 
University,  and  feared  that  he  had  joined 
the  standard  of  the  Prince.  Too  soon 
their  worst  fears  were  realized,  and  the 
truth  revealed  to  them.  But  there  was 
another  who  trembled  for  him,  whose 
heart  felt  as  keenly  as  a  parent's — she  who 
was  to  have  been  his  wife,  to  whom  his 
hand  was  plighted,  and  his  heart  given. 
Fanny  Lester  was  a  young  and  gentle 
beino;,  and  she  had  known  James  Dawson 
from  their  childhood.  Knowledge  ripen- 
ed to  affection,  and  their  hearts  were 
twined  together.  On  the  day  on  which 
she  was  made  acquainted  with  his  impris- 
onment, she  hastened  to  London  to  com- 
fort him — to  cheer  his  gloomy  solitude — 
at  the  foot  of  the  throne  to  sue  for  his  par- 
don. 

She  arrived  at  the  metropolis — she  was 
conducted  to  the  prison-house,  and  admit- 
ted. On  entering  the  gloomy  apartment 
in  which  he  was  confined,  she  screamed 
aloud,  she  raised  her  hands,  and  springing 
forward,  fell  upon  his  neck  and  wept. 

"  My  own  Fanny  !"  he  exclaimed,  "you 
here  ! — weep  not  my  sweet  one — come, 
be  comforted — there  is  hope — every  hope 


1HE  BROKEN  HEART. 


171 


— I  shall  not  die — my  own  Fanny  be  com- 
forted." 

""  Yes  ; — yes,  there  is  hope — the  King 
will  pardon  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "  he  will 
spare  my  James — 1  will  implore  your  life 
at  his  feet!" 

"  Nay,  nay,  love — say  not  the  King," 
interrupted  the  young  enthusiast  for  the 
house  of  Stuart ;  "  it  will  be  but  imprison- 
ment till  all  is  over — the  Elector  cannot 
seek  my  life." 

He  strove  long  and  earnestly  to  persuade, 
to  assure  her,  that  his  life  was  not  in  dan- 
ger— that  he  would  be  saved — and  what 
she  wished,  she  believed.  The  jailer  en- 
tered, and  informed  them  it  was  tiine  that 
she  should  depart,  ,and  again  sinking 
her  head  upon  his  breast,  she  wept  "-good 
night." 

But  each  day  she  revisited  him,  and 
they  spoke  of  his  deliverance  together. 
At  times,  too,  she  told  him  with  tears  of 
the  efforts  she  made  to  obtain  his  pardon 
— of  her  attempts  to  gain  admission  to  the 
presence  of  the  King — of  the  repulses  she 
met  with — of  her  applications  to  the  nobili- 
ty connected  with  the  court — of  the  insult 
and  inhumanity  she  met  with  from  some 
— the  compassion  she  experienced  from 
others — the  interest  they  took  in  his 
fate,  and  the  hopes  and  the  promises  which 
they  held  out.  Upon  those  hopes  and 
those  promises  she  fondly  dwelt.  She 
looked  into  his  eyes  to  perceive  the  hope 
they  kindled  there,  and  as  joy  beamed 
from  them,  she  half  forgot  that  his  Life 
hung  upon  the  word  of  a  man. 

But  his  parents  came  to  visit  him  ;  hers 
followed  her,  and  they  joined  their  efforts 
to  hers,  and  anxiously,  daily,  almost  hour- 
ly, they  exerted  their  energies  to  obtain 
his  pardon.  His  father  possessed  an  in- 
fluence in  electioneering  matters  in  Lan- 
cashire, and  hers  could  exercise  the  same  in 
an  adjoining  county.  That  influence  was 
now  urged,  the  members  they  had  support- 
ed were  importuned.  They  promised  to  em- 
ploy their  best  exertions.  Whatever  the 
feelings  or  principles  of  the  elder  Dawson 


might  be,  he  had  never  avowed  disaffection 
openly — he  had  never  evinced  a  leaning 
to  the  family  of  Stuart — he  had  support- 
ed the  government  of  the  day ;  and  the 
father  of  Fanny  Lester  was  an  upholder  of 
the  house  of  Hanover.  The  influence  of 
all  their  relatives,  and  of  all  their  friends, 
was  brought  into  action  ;  peers  and  com- 
moners were  supplicated,  and  they  pledged 
their  intercession.  Men  high  in  office 
took  an  interest  in  the  fate  of  James  Daw- 
son, or  professed  to  take  it ;  promises, 
half  official,  were  held  out — and  when  his 
youth,  the  short  time  that  he  had  been  en- 
gaged in  the  rebellion,  and  the  situation 
tliat  he  held  in  the  army  of  the  Adventu- 
rer were  considered,  no  one  doubted  but 
that  his  pardon  was  certain — that  he  would 
not  be  brought  to  trial.  Even  his  parents 
felt  assured — but  the  word  of  the  King  was 
not  passed. 

They  began  to  look  forward  to  the  day 
of  his  deliverance  with  impatience,  but 
still  with  certainty.  Their  was  but  one 
heart  that  feared,  and  it  throbbed  in  the 
bosom  of  poor  Fanny.  She  would  start 
from  her  sleep,  crying — "  Save  him  ! — 
save  him  !"  as  she  fancied  she  beheld  them 
dragging  him  to  execution.  In  order  to 
soothe  her,  her  parents  and  his,  in  the 
confidence  that  pardon  would  be  extended 
to  him,  agreed  that  the  day  of  his  libera- 
tion should  be  the  day  of  their  bridal.  She 
knew  their  affection,  and  her  heart  strug- 
gled with  her  fears  to  believe  the  "  flatter- 
ing tale." 

James  tried  also  to  cheer  her — he  be- 
lieved that  his  life  would  be  spared — he 
endeavored  to  smile  and  to  be  happy. 

"  Fear  not,  my  own  Fanny,"  he  would 
say  ;  "  your  apprehensions  are  idle.  The 
Elector  " 

And  here  his  father  would  interfere. 
"  Speak  not  so,  my  son,"  said  the  old  man 
earnestly,  "  speak  not  against  princes  in 
your  bed- chamber,  for  a  bird  of  the  air  can 
carry  the  tidings.  Your  life  is  in  the 
hands  of  a  King — of  a  merciful  one,  and 
it  is  safe — only  speak  not  thus  ! — do  not, 


172 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


as  you  love  me — as  you  love  our  Fanny, 
do  not." 

Then  would  tbey  chase  away  her  tears, 
and  speak  of  the  arrangements  for  the  bri- 
dal; and  Fanny  would  smile  pensively 
while  James  held  her  hand  in  his,  and,  as 
he  gazed  on  her  finger  he  raised  it  to  his 
lips,  as  though  he  took  the  measure  of  the 
ring. 

But,  "  hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart 
sick  ;"  and  though  they  still  retained  their 
confidence  that  he  would  be  pardoned, 
yet  their  anxiety  had  increased,  and  Fan- 
ny's heart  seemed  unable  longer  to  contain 
its  agony  and  suspense.  More  than  six 
months  had  passed,  but  still  no  pardon 
came  for  James  Dawson.  The  fury  of  the 
civil  war  was  spent — the  royal  Adventurer 
had  escaped — the  vengeance  of  the  sword 
was  satisfied,  and  the  law  of  the  conquer- 
ors, and  the  scafiblds  of  the  law,  called 
for  the  blood  of  those  whom  the  sword  had 
saved.  The  soldier  laid  down  his  weapon, 
and  the  executioner  took  up  his.  On  the 
leaders  of  the  Manchester  regiment  the 
vengeance  of  the  blood-thirsty  law  first 
fell.  It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  14th  of 
July,  1746,  James  Dawson  sat  in  his  pri- 
son, Fanny  sat  by  his  side  with  her  hand 
in  his,  and  his  parents  were  present  also, 
when  the  jailer  entered,  and  ordered  him 
to  prepare  to  hold  himself  in  readiness  for 
his  trial,  in  the  court-house  at  St.  Mar- 
garet's, Southwark,  on  the  following  day. 
His  father  groaned — his  mother  exclaimed 
*'  my  son  !" — but  Fanny  sat  motionless. 
No  tear  was  in  her  eye — no  muscle  in  her 
countenance  moved.  Her  fingers  grasped 
his  with  a  firmer  pressure — but  she  evinc- 
ed no  other  symptom  of  having  heard  the 
mandate  that  was  delivered.  They  rose 
to  depart,  and  a  low,  deep  sigh  issued  from 
her  bosom  :  but  she  showed  no  sio-n  of 
violent  grief — her  feelings  were  already 
exhausted — her  heart  could  bear  no  more. 

On  the  following  day  eighteen  victims, 
with  the  gallant  Townly  at  their  head, 
were  brought  forth  for  trial  before  a  grand 


lury. 


Amongst 


them,  and  as  one  of  the 


chief,  James  Dawson.  Fanny  had  insisted 
on  being  present.  vShe  heard  the  word 
guilty  pronounced  with  a  yet  deeper  apa- 
thy than  she  had  evinced  at  the  announce- 
ment of  his  trial.  She  folded  her  hands 
upon  her  bosom,  her  lips  moved  as  if  in 
prayer,  but  she  shed  not  a  single  tear,  she 
breathed  not  a  single  sigh.  She  arose, 
she  beckoned  to  her  attendants,  and  ac- 
companied them  from  the  court-house. 

Still  his  friends  entertained  the  hope 
that  the  Pardon  Power  might  be  moved — 
they  redoubled  their  exertions — they  in- 
creased their  importunities — they  were 
willing  to  make  any  sacrifice  so  that  his  life 
might  be  but  saved — and  even  then,  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  they  hoped  against  hope. 
But  Fanny  yielded  not  to  the  vain  thought. 
Day  after  day  she  sat  by  her  lover's  side, 
and  she,  in  her  turn,  became  his  comfort- 
er. She  no  longer  spoke  of  their  bridal — 
but  she  spoke  of  eternity ;  she  spoke  of 
their  meeting  where  the  ambition,  the  ri- 
valry, and  the  power  of  princes  should  be 
able  to  cast  no  cloud  over  the  happiness  of 
the  soul. 

Fourteen  days  had  passed,  and  during 
that  he  betrayed  no  sign  of  terror  ;  she 
evinced  none  of  a  woman's  weakness.  She 
seemed  to  have  mastered  her  griefs,  and 
her  soul  was  prepared  to  meet  them.  Yet, 
save  only  when  she  spoke  to  him,  her  soul 
appeared  entranced,  and  her  body  lifeless. 
On  the  29th  of  July  an  order  was  brought 
for  the  execution  of  the  victims  on  the  fol- 
lowing day.  James  Dawson  bowed  his 
head  to  the  officer  who  delivered  the  war- 
rant, and  calmly  answered — "  I  am  pre- 
pared." 

The  cries  of  his  mother  ran^  throush 
the  prison-house.  She  tore  her  hair — she 
sank  upon  the  floor — she  entreated  Heav- 
en to  spare  her  child.  His  father  groan- 
ed, he  held  the  hand  of  his  son  in  his,  and 
the  tears  gushed  down  his  furrowed  cheeks. 
Fanny  alone  was  silent — she  alone  was 
tranquil.  No  throe  of  agony  swelled  her 
bosom, flushed  in  her  countenance, or  burn- 
ed in  her  eye.     She  was  calm,  speechless, 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


173 


resigned.  He  pressed  her  to  his  ibosom, 
as  they  took  their  last  farewell. 

"  Adieu  ! — adieu  ! — my  own  !"he  cried 
— "  my  Fanny — farewell ! — an  eternal 
farewell !" 

"  Nay,  nay,"  she  replied,  ''  say  not  eter- 
nal— we  shall  meet  again.  'Tis  a  short 
farewell — I  feel  it  ! — I  feel  it.  Adieu 
love  ! — adieu  !  Die  firmly.  We  shall 
meet  soon." 

Next  morning  the  prisoners  were  to  be 
draojofed  on  sledges  to  Kensino-ton  Common, 
whicTi  was  the  place  appointed  for  their 
execution.  In  the  first  sledge  was  the  ex- 
ecutioner, sitting  over  his  pinioned  vic- 
tims with  a  di^awn  sword  in  his  hand.  No 
priest — no  minister  of  religion  attended 
them ;  and  around  the  sledge  followed 
thousands,  some  few  expressing  sympa- 
thy, but  the  majority  following  from  curios- 
ity, and  others  venting  their  execrations 
against  all  traitors.  In  the  midst  of  the 
multitude  was  a  hackney  coach,  following 
the  sledges,  and  in  it  was  the  gentle  Fanny 
Lester,  accompanied  by  a  relative  and  a 
female  friend.  They  had  endeavored  to 
persuade  her  from  the  fearful  trial ;  but 
she  was  calm,  resolute,  and  not  to  be 
moved,  and  they  yielded  to  her  wish.  The 
coach  drew  up  within  thirty  yards  of  the 
scaffold  ;  Fanny  pulled  down  the  window, 
and  leaning  over  it,  she  beheld  the  piles 
of  fagots  lighted  around  the  scaffold — 
she  saw  the  flames  ascend,  and  the  soldiers 
form  a  circle  round  them.  She  saw  the 
victims  leave  the  sledge  ;  she  looked  upon 
him  whom  her  heart  loved  as  he  mounted 
the  place  of  death,  and  his  step  was  fi.rin, 


his  countenance  unmoved.  She  saw  him 
join  in  prayer  with  his  companions,  and 
her  eye  was  fixed  on  him'  as  hs  flung  papers 
and  his  hat  among  the  multitude.  She 
saw  the  fatal  signal  given,  and  the  drop 
fall — she  heard  the  horrid  shout,  the  yell 
that  burst  from  the  multitude,  but  not  a 
muscle  of  her  frame  moved.  She  gazed 
calmly,  as  though  it  had  been  on  a  bridal 
ceremony.  She  beheld  the  executioner 
begin  the  barbarities  which  the  law  awards 
to  treason — the  clothes  were  torn  from  the 
victims  ;  one  by  one  they  were  cut  down, 
and  the  finisher  of  the  law,  with  the  horrid 
knife  in  his  hand,  proceeded  to  lay  open 
their  bosoms,  and  taking  out  their  hearts, 
flung  them  on  the  fagots  that  blazed  around 

CD  O 

the  scaffold.  The  last  spectacle  of  bar- 
barity was  James  Dawson ;  and  when 
the  executioner  had  plunged  the  knife  in 
his  breast,  he  raised  his  heart  in  his  hand, 
and  holding  it  a  moment  before  the  hor- 
ror-stricken  and  disgusted  multitude,  he 
cast  it  into  the  flames 
flung  it  from  him, 
George!"  Fanny  beheld  this — her  eyes 
became  blind— she  heard  not  the  shout  of 
the  multitude  ;  she  drew  back  her  head 
into  the  coajh  ;  it  dropped  upon  the  shoul- 
der of  her  companion  ;  "  My  dear  !  I  fol- 
low thee ! — I  follow  thee  !"  she  exclaimed, 
clasping  her  hands  together  ;  "  sweet  Je- 
sus !  receive  both  our  souls  together  !" 
They  attempted  to  raise  her  head,  to  sup- 
port her  in  their  arms,  but  she  sank  back 
lifeless ;  her  spirit  had  accompanied  him 
it  loved ;  she  died  of  stifled  agony  and  a 
broken  heart. 


,   exclaiming,  as  he 
"  God   save     King 


174 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


THE    HYPOCHONDHIAC. 


However  deeply  hidden  from  our  limited 
views  may  be  the  proximate  principles  of 
the  connexion  between  the  body  and  the 
mind  of  man,  we  have  presented  to  us 
every  day  the  most  undoubted  proofs — and 
melancholy,  in  many  instances,  they  are — 
of  that  connexion  being  of  so  intimate  a 
nature,  and  depending  upon  such  fine  and 
subtle  jnedia,  that  the  ordinary  affections 
of  the  two  are  reciprocated  with  the  great- 
est regularity  and  precision,  while  their 
derano-ements,  diseases,  and  extraordinary 
excitements,  produce  mutual  effects  which 
are  not  only  disastrous  and  terrible,  but  so 
varied  and  unexpected  that  they  mock  all 
our  anticipations  of  the  results  of  their 
exciting  causes.  For  all  those  changes 
which  affect  the  entireness  of  the  mind,  we 
are  naturally  led  to  look  to  diseases  and 
injuries  affecting  the  brain  itself;  while, 
for  those  again  which  mark  a  decrease  of 
its  energies,  we  may  resort  to  the  ample 
field  of  bodily  ailments,  the  most  of  which 
— and  there  are  thousands  that  "  flesh  is 
heir  to" — extend  their  " tear  and  wear " 
to  the  seat  of  thought  and  feeling ;  and, 
though  they  cannot  break,  weaken  and 
wear  out  the  noble  powers  whose  arrogated 
superiority  is  sometimes  doomed  to  this 
humiliation. 

Yet  there  are  occasional  diseases  of  the 
body  (not  to  our  senses  organically  affect- 
ing the  brain)  which  produce  changes  on 
the  faculties  of  the  mind  different  from  the 
general  mental  weakness  incident  to  most 
states  of  protracted  bodily  suffering.  Cer- 
tain affections  of  the  lungs,  for  instance, 
while  they  reduce  the  body  to  the  state  of 
a  living  skeleton,  supply  such  an  addition 
to  the  oil  of  the  "lamp  of  hope,"  that  the 
deluded  victim  sees  its  bright  coruscations 
through  the  eye  that  is  in  the  act  of  being 
fixed  and  glazed  by  death.  In  some  scor- 
butic affections,  again,  the  mind  increases 


in  strength  in  proportion  as  the  body  ad- 
vances to  a  state  of  putrescency  ;  as  if  the 
soul,  rejoicing  in  its  victory  over  the  flesh, 
that  had  strugorled  with  it  and  mastered  it, 

CO  7 

mocked  the  vain  dreams  of  the  infidel  ma- 
terialist, by  making  its  last  act  its  bright- 
est, while  that  of  the  body  is  its  weakest. 
In  that  great  viscus  or  laboratory  of  bile, 
the  liver,  there,  however,  often  occurs  a 
disease,  named  by  the  ancients,  from  the 
seat  of  its  primary  action,  hypochondriasis^ 
which  exercises  an  influence  over  the  mind 
beyond  all  the  powers  of  the  most  painful 
and  fatal  diseases  that  do  not  affect  the 
brain  itself.  This  action,  like  that  of  the 
diseased  lungs,  is  almost  always  of  one 
particular  kind ;  and  it  is  curious  to  con- 
template the  difference  between  the  effects 
of  the  two  diseased  viscera — the  one, 
namely,  the  diseased  lungs,  producing 
hope  and  confidence  ;  and  the  other,  the 
diseased  liver,  filling  the  mind  with  fear 
and  apprehension.  It  is  no  part  of  my 
purpose  to  speculate  on  these  extraordi- 
nary facts ;  otherwise  I  might  enter  on  the 
fine  question,  which  has  been  so  strangely 
overlooked  by  metaphysicians — namely, 
What  is  the  principle  of  the  connexion 
between  those  feelings  of  hope  and  fear 
produced  by  metaphysical  excitement,  and 
the  ideas  of  the  particular  objects  of  the 
feelings  which  always  accompany  them  ? 
The  trembling  hypochondriac  has  for  ever 
in  his  nervous  eye  his  peculiar  object  of 
terror,  either  real  or  imaginary  ;  and  just 
in  proportion  as  his  terror  is  without  foun- 
dation, does  he  adhere  to  the  imaginary 
cause  of  it  with  greater  asperity  and  de- 
termination, resisting,  with  the  greatest 
pertinacity,  every  effort  to  make  him  be- 
lieve the  fact  that  he  dreams  of  imaginary 
ills,  and  that  even  the  bright  star  of 
worldly  prosperity  is  in  the  ascendant  and 
shinincr  so  bris-ht  that  no  one  who  is  not 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


175 


blmd  or  unwilling  to  see  can  escape  its 
light. 

The  objects  of  the  hypochondriac's  fears 
are  as  numerous  and  extraordinary  as  the 
whims  and  caprices  of  the  most  pregnant 
fancy — comprehending  the  case  of  the 
Dutchman,  who,  thinking  himself  a  pea 
of  grain,  was  under  continual  fear  of  being 
picked  up  by  birds  ;  that  of  the  residenter 
at  Elgin,  who,  conceiving  himself  to  be 
a  sack  of  chaff,  was  in  hourly  terror  of 
being  sat  upon  and  smothered  by  his 
visitors  ;  that  of  an  individual  of  Edin- 
burgh, who  was  under  the  greatest  alarm 
at  the  sight  of  a  cloud,  lest  it  should  fall 
upon  him  and  kill  him  ;  and  that  of  the 
familiar  "  man  of  glass  " — all  of  which 
are  apt  to  excite  in  us  a  smile,  in  little 
accordance  with  the  misery  of  the  unhap- 
py victims  ; — yet  the  most  ordinary  form 
of,  the. hypochondriac's  apprehension  is  a 
sick,  melancholy  despondency  and  despair, 
resulting  from,  or  producing  an  imaginary 
embarrassment  of  his  'pecuniary  affairs; 
he  sees,  in  the  womb  of  futurity,  all  the 
dreadful  forms  which  poverty,  clothed  with 
rags  and  gnawed  with  hunger,  assumes  in 
the  lives  of  unfortunate  men  ;  and  is  im- 
pressed with  the  conviction,  which  all  his 
own  or  his  friends'  efforts  cannot  subdue, 
that  such  a  fate — privation,  contempt, 
disgrace,  the  scorn  of  the  world,  and  death 
by  starvation  under  a  hedge,  or  in  a  ditch 
by  the  way-side — awaits  him  inevitably  at 
no  distant  day. 

Of  all  the  cases  that  have  come  under 
my  personal  observation — and  there  have 
been  many,  more  or  less  marked  with  stri- 
king  peculiarities — that   of  Mr.  H , 

the  West  India  merchant,  is  the  most  re- 
markable. The  malady  we  are  now  con- 
sidering seldom  takes  a  turn  so  obstinate 
and  calamitous  as  in  this  case  ;  yet  such 
is  the  great  tendency  of  people  in  a  mer- 
cantile country  like  ours  (where  competi- 
tion and  the  strife  of  personal  interests 
assume  often  the  strength  of  strong  pas- 
sions, and  where  a  failure  is  looked  upon, 
not  undeservedly,  as   a   gigantic  evil)  to 


sink  into  fits  of  moping  melancholy,  and 
assume  false  and  distorted  views  of  theii 
condition,  that  few  will  fail  to  find,  in  the 
details  of  this  remarkable  case,  some  fea- 
tures, though  on  a  large  scale,  of  their 
own  situations,  at  times  when  they  are 
under  the  domination  of  the  dark  genius 
of  despondency— the  attendant  of  all  those 
who  are  fated  to  struggle  through  a  hard 
world. 

When  I  was  first  called  to  Mr.  H ,  I 

was  ushered  into  a  house  of  great  size  and 
splendor,  suited  to  the  style  of  life  of  a 
successful    West   India  merchant.     In  an 

outer   room   I  saw    Mrs.  H ,    a   lady 

somewhat  advanced  in  life,  who  happily 
combined  the  manners  of  a  gentlewoman 
with  the  kindness  and  frankness  which 
pride  too  often  displaces  from  the  hearts 
and  faces  of  the  rich,  to  make  room  for 
the  haughtiness  which  is  deemed  the 
badge  of  the  great.  By  her  side,  sat  a 
young  woman  about  twenty  years  of  age 
(whom,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  she 
called  Angelina),  her  daughter,  possessed 
of  what,  to  the  eye  of  the  greater  part  of 
mankind,  would  have  appeared  extraordi- 
nary beauty,  but  which,  to  my  professional 
observation,  was  only  the  extreme  deli- 
cacy, the  pure  hyacinthine  tint,  the  clear 
transparent  skin,  and  the  fair  auburn  hair 
of  the  victim  of  a  strumous  habit,  which 
she  had  received  by  hereditary  right  from 
her  mother,  who  presented  the  same  bril- 
liant but  fallacious  appearances  of  the 
characteristics  of  a  beautiful  blond.  The 
vivacity  and  sensibility  so  often  found  in 
young  women  of  her  peculiar  constitution, 
were  also  apparent ;  suggesting  to  my 
mind,  as  they  must  do  to  every  person  who 
has  any  claims  to  feeling,  the  regret  that 
qualities  so  exquisite  should  so  often  be 
found  associated  with,  if  not  resulting 
from,  an  unnatural  state  of  the  system  of 

the  body.    Mr.  H was,  they  informed 

me,  ailing  in  a  very  slight  degree  ;  but 
my  inquiries  were  incapable  of  extracting 
the  precise  nature  of  his  complaint ;  the 
old   lady  insisting  upon  its  being  nothing 


176 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


but  an  attack  of  spleen,  and  tlie  young 
on^,  in  her  peculiar,  sprightly  way,  urging, 
with  a  smiling  countenance,  that  her  fa- 
ther's disease  was  pure  ill- nature — a  com- 
plaint which  she  feared  no  doctor  could 
cure.  I  tried  to  undeceive  her,  and  told 
her  that  we  possessed  some  secrets,  one  of 
which  was  the  power  of  making  men  laugh 
as  well  as  dance  ;  but  I  was  soon  told,  by 
the  old  lady,  that  her  daughter  Angelina 
was  not  behind  me  in  that  respect  ;  for 
that  she  not  only  possessed  that  power, 
but  exercised  it  every  hour  of  the  day — a 
compliment,  she  thought,  to  the  victim  of 
high-toned  nerves,  but  in  my  opinion,  the 
description  of  a  misfortune. 

I  found  Mr.  H^ sitting  in  his  bed- 
room, which   was  purposely  darkened,  by 
half-closed  shutters,   to  a  dismal   gloom. 
He  was    in   his   morning   gown,  with  his 
head   enveloped  in  large  rolls  of  flannel, 
and  his  feet,  encased  in  a  pair  of  yellow 
Morocco  slippers,   placed   on  a  footstool 
before  a  large  fire,  into  which  he  seemed  to 
be  looking  with  that  intent  gaze  which  the 
winter   comforter   often  charms  from  the 
victims  of  ennui.     As  he  turned  his  face 
upon   me   when    I  entered,  I  got  read  to 
me  at  once  the  enigmatical  accounts  of  his 
wife  and   daughter,  in  the  yellow  bilious 
tinge  which  covered  all  the  white  part  of 
his  eyes,   and  imparted    to  the  pupil  that 
heavy,  lethargic,  and  sleepy  look   which 
accompanies,    as   a    sure    companion,   all 
cases  of  morbid  melancholy,  arising  from 
diseased  state  of   the  liver ;  but,  in  many 
instances,  alternates   with  sudden  expres- 
sions of  apprehension  and  fear,  as  if  the 
patient  dreaded  the  approach  of  personal 
danger.     His  jaws  were  elongated  by  the 
pressure  of  despondency,  whose'  influence 
could  be  also  traced  in  the  flaccid  muscles, 
hanging  eye-brows,  drooping  head,  and  all 
the  other  well-known  symptoms  of  a  de- 
pressed and  clouded  mind,  into  which  the 
radiant  bow  of  hope  has  been  unable  to  send 
any  of  its  many-colored  rays.    I  observed, 
at  first,  no  indications  of  the  morbid,  hare- 
eyed    look   of  terror   and   apprehension 


which,  in  patients  of  this  class,  I  always 
search  for  with  great  solicitude,  as  being 
a  sisrn  of  somethina;  much  more  serious 
than  what  the  vulgar  understand  by  hypo- 
chondria ;  and  indicatinor  that  advance- 
ment  of  the  progress  of  the  real  malady, 
when  it  lays  its  dreadful  grasp  on  some  of 
the  faculties  of  the  mind.  But  I  was 
assured,  from  the  other  advanced  symp- 
toms exhibited  to  me,  that  there  was  great 
danger  of  the  disease  of  the  patient  reach- 
ing, if  it  had  not  already  reached,  that  un- 
happy climax  ;  and  my  attention  behoved 
to  be  directed  to  further  indications  of  a 
more  decided  character,  generally  elicited 
by  a  conversation,  wherein  the  patient  falls 
naturally  into  the  train  of  thought  sug- 
gested by  the  state  of  his  feelings,  and  best 
calculated  for  rousing  them,  forcing  out 
the  expression  of  his  sentiments,  whether 
morbid  or  natural,  and  showing  the  true 
state  of  his  disease. 

I  was  surprised  at  hearing  him  state, 
somewhat  sullenly,  that  he  had  not  sent 
for  me ;  but  I  mentally  recurred  to  the 
conversation  I  had  with  his  wife  and 
daughter,  and  surmounted  this  difficulty, 
at  the  expense  of  my  pride,  by  stating, 
jocularly,  that  the  solicitude  of  an  afi"ec- 
tionate  consort  was,  through  the  love  and 
gratitude  of  a  good  husband,  a  sufficient 
authority  for  the  attendance  of  a  doctor — 
a  remark  which  was  responded  to  by  a 
splenetic  growl,  accompanied  by  the  hasty 
choleric  statement  (disproved  by  his  gown 
and  flannels)  that  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  him.  But  his  natural  polite- 
ness, overcome  for  a  moment  by  his  dis- 
ease, vindicated  its  authority,  and  pro- 
duced an  expression  of  regret  that  he  had 
allowed  his  changed  temper,  as  he  called 
it,  to  '  hurry  him  into  rudeness  ;  a  fault 
which  he  was  never  guilty  of  until  latter- 
ly, that  some  cloud  having  come  over  his 
mind,  had  obscured  his  perceptions  of  eti- 
quette, as  well  as  destroyed  the  contented 
and  happy  tone  of  mind  he  used  to  enjoy 
in  the  midst  of  his  prosperity.  I  was 
easily  appeased,  and  soon  got  him  engaged 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


177 


in  conversation,  avoiding  all  direct  allu- 
sion to  his  ailment— wbicli,  in  so  far  as  it 
regarded  its  true  character,  was  clearly  a 
secret  to  himself — and  followinjr  him  into 
those  trains  of  thought  which  seemed  to 
produce  the  strongest  interest  in  him, 
though  of  little  importance  to  myself. 

Breaking  off,  with  the  greatest  abrupt- 
ness, from  a  subject  started  by  himself, 
he  pronounced,  in  a  dolorous  tone  of 
voice,  accompanied  with  a  deep-drawn 
sigh  that  heaved  all  his  chest,  the  name 
of  an  old  school  companion  of  his ;  throw- 
ing upon  me,  as  he  ejaculated,  "  Pqor 
George  !  poor  George  I"  one  of  those  tim- 
id looks,  which,  during  my  long  practice, 
I  have  never  mistaken  for  a  true  symptom 
of  the  real  hypochondria.  His  words  be- 
trayed mere  sympathy  for  the  fate  of  George 

B ;  but   his  eyes    spoke   a  language 

different  from  that  of  sorrow ;  dartino; 
forth,  as  they  now  seemed  to  eschew  a 
supposed  incorporated  presence,  looks  of 
terror,  mixed  with  supplicatory  glances  of 
pity,  while  occasional  shivers  ran  over  his 
body,  like  the  effects  of  sudden  dashes  of 
cold  water  on  the  bare  skin.  This  moral 
ague  remained  for  some,  his  eye  still  alter- 
nating between  the  expressions  of  terror 
and  pity — now  fixed  on  me,  now  on  empty 
space,  and  now  averted  from  an  ideal 
object ;  and  ejaculations,  "  God  preserve 
me  from  such  a  fate  !"  bursting  from  him 
in  deep  groans.  I  saw  in  all  this,  the  re- 
vealed workings  of  the  dreadful  disease  I 
have  met  in  so  many  forms  ;  and  waited 
patiently  until  the  exacerbation  of  terror 
had  passed,  that  I  might  probe  the  cause 
of  the  apprehension  of  his  imaginary  evil, 
with  a  view  to  an  endeavor  to  divest  it  of 
its   supposed  danger.     He  calmed,  and  1 

inquired  who  this  man  George  B was, 

whose  fate  called  from  him  such  intense 
expressions  of  pity. 

"  Who  is  he  !"  exclaimed  he,  in  a 
voice  cracked  and  unnatural,  while  the 
same  expression  of  pity  and  terror  occu- 
pied his  face — "  who  does  not  know 
George  B ,  the  West  India  merchant, 

VOL.  ir.  12 


who  has  fallen  with  the  quickness  of  a 
tumbling  balloon  voyager,  from  the  heights 
of  grandeur,  riches,  and  fame,  to  beggary, 
rags,  and  hunger  }  Heavens  !  what  a 
sight  met  these  eyes  on  Sunday  week,  as 
I  took  my  last  airing  by  Nicholas'  Park  ! — 
I  have  not  yet  recovered  from  it.  George 
B — — ,  the    proud,   and  aristocratic,  the 

haughty    George   B ,   sitting    by   the 

road  side  supplicating  alms  ! — ay,  he  con- 
descended to  beg  from  one  to  whom  he 
had  once  lent  two  thousand  pounds  !" 

He  paused,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the 
imaginary  object  of  his  vision,  while  a  tear, 
a  tribute  to  the  pity  which  for  a  moment 
had  expelled  from  his  mind  the  terror, 
bedewed  the  orb,  now  strained  to  the  ut- 
most, as  if  he  struggled  for  a  better  sight 
of  the  victim  of  misfortune, 

"  We  began   the   world  together,"  he 
continued,  in  a  more  subdued  tone  ;  ^'  but 
he  distanced  me  in  the  race  of  prosperity. 
By  one  shipment  of  tobacco — in  that  old 
ship  the   Emerald,  which,  after    he   sold 
her,  sunk  near  the  Malaccas — he  cleared 
seven   thousand    pounds ;    and,    by    two 
voyages  of  the  Dolphin,  he  made  as  much 
more.     Fortune    rained  gold  on  him,  till 
he  would  scarcely    stoop  to    pick   it  up. 
Disdaining   the  vulgar  gift  of   dowries  he 
married  a  beauty.      On  great  occasions  he 
put  two  more  horses  than  were  used  hj 
the  ordinary  slow-paced  children  of  for- 
tune, to  drag  him  in  state,  or  imitate  the 
quickness    of  his  own   prosperity.     Yet, 
no  one  called  this  dizzy  extravagance  ;  for 
every  one    thought  he  could  stand  higher 
flights  ;  but  sir,"  (pausing,  exhibiting  in- 
dications of  great  distress,  and    throwing 
on  me  timid  looks,)   "  he  did  not  insure 
the  ximphitritc,  though   she  was  scarcely 
sea-worthy,  and  he   had  thirty   thousand 
pounds  between  her  rotten  timbers.  Well 
does   the   wise  man  say,    '  the  rich  man's 
wealth    is   his   strong    city.'     The  confi- 
dence  of  wealth   made    him   despise   the 
winds  and  the  waves ;  but  they,  in  their 
turn,  despised  the  Amphitrite,  and  dashed 
her  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  of  Staten  Island. 


178 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


Yet  was  not  his  confidence  abated :  though 
he  had  read  what  has  been  written,  '  He 
that  is  surety  for  a  stranger  shall  smart  for 
it,'  he  became  surety  for  me  who  paid  my 
bond  ;  and  for  others  who  did  not  pay  their 
bond.  The  smiles  of  fortune  were  changed 
to  frowns.  I  tremble  when  I  think  how 
fearfully  we  merchants  are  subjected  to  the 
mutable  tyranny  of  that  subtle  and  cruel 
goddess.  The  gold  that  rained  on  him 
disappeared,  his  creditors  hated  him,  his 
debtors  despised  him,  his  friends  deserted 
him,  and  she,  his  beautiful  wife,  who  had 
come  to  him  without  a  dowry,  went  with- 
out a  jointure — ^ay,  and  without  regret. 
Oh  !   why  was   I  not  spared  the  sight  of 

that  apparition — Ge<)rge  B ,  with  no 

shoes  on  his  feet ;  a  ragged  napkin  bound 
round  his  temples  ;  a  coat  through  which 
the  cold  winter  winds  blew  ;  hungry,  cold, 
wretched,  miserable — begging  from  me — 
from  me — a  penny  to  assuage  the  pangs  of 
starvation  !" 

He  shuddered  as  he  pronounced  the  last 
of  these  words ;  pressing  his  arms  to  his 
sides,  clasping  firmly  his  hands,  and  grind- 
ing his  teeth,  in  an  apparent  effort  to  re- 
sist or  bear  an  exacerbation  of  terror  that 
shook  him  to  the  centre,  and  wrung  from 
him,  in  spite  of  himself,  the  prayer — "  O 
God,  avert  from  me  this  fate  !"  But  he 
got  no  confidence  from  heaven ;  for  all 
this  suffering  was  succeeded  by  the  same 
expression  of  terror  I  had  already  detect- 
ed. Looking  at  me  askance,  he  volunta- 
rily, yet  timidly  construed  and  explained 
these  extraordinary  symptoms  by  a  single 
remark. 

"  Is  it  not  possible,"  said  he — "  I  mean 
is  it  not"  (pausing  and  looking  fearfully), 
"is  it  not  likely — probable — that  I  may 
yet  beg  ?" 

It  will  not  be  easy  for  me  to  forget  the 
look  that  accompanied  these  words,  though 
I  have  seen  the  terror-stricken  orb  of  the 
hypochondriac  in  its  most  nervous  parox- 
ysm. The  mystery  was  now  explained  ; 
and,  having  detected  the  patient's  disease, 
I   framed   my   answer  in  such  a  form  as 


might  have  some  chance  (although  I  knew 
its  extent  was  small)  of  allaying  his  fear. 

"  So  far  as  I  can  judge,"  replied  I, 
''  scarcely  anything  can  be  pronounced 
more  improbable  than  that  you  should  be 
brought  to  that  condition.  You  forget  en- 
tirely that  you  yourself  have  accounted  for 

George  B 's  misfortunes.     He  made 

money  too  easily ;  and,  having  too  much 
of  it,  he  despised  it.  You  know  what  the 
proverb  says — '  Hast  thou  found  honey  : 
eat  so  much  as  is  suiB&cient  for  thee,  lest 
thou  be  filled  therewith,  and  vomit  it.' 
Your  friend  vomited  his  wealth.  Why 
engaged  he  in  suretyship — an  imprudence 
railed  against  from  the  days  of  Solomon, 
whose  saying,  applicable  to  it,  you  have 
yourself  quoted  .?  '■  The  Lord  is  the  ma- 
ker of  the  rich  and  the  poor  ;'  but  the  rich 
man  unmakes  himself.  Even  when  your 
friend  saw  danger  approaching,  he  did  not 
'  hide  himself;'  but,  like  the  simpleton, 
^  passed  on  and  was  punished.'  If  a  man 
bring  himself  to  ruin  by  imprudence,  an- 
other may  surely  avoid  that  ruin,  by  that 
virtue  which  comprehends  all  others — 
prudence — divine  prudence. 

As  I  spoke,  he  eyed  me  incredulously. 
My  reference  to  holy  writ  seemed  to  touch 
a  chord  that  startled  him  and  increased 
his  distress.  With  that  triumphant  cun- 
ning which  his  unfortunate  class  use  in  the 
supposed  detection  of  schemes  to  allay 
their  fear,  he  cried  out  in  great  agita- 
tion— 

"  Ha!  you  avoid  the  great,  the  import- 
ant sentence — and  I  know  why  you  avoid 
it ;  but  you  cannot  deceive  me  by  trying 
to  make  me  believe  it  is  not  in  the  holy 
book  ;  for  I  dream  of  it — it  haunts  me  day 
and  night — and  why  should  I  not  believe 
the  words  of  inspiration  }  Hear  them — 
'  Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow ;  thou 
knowest  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth  ; 
for  riches  take  wings  and  fly  away  as  an 
eagle  towards  heaven.'  These,  sir,  are 
the  fearful  words ;  and  we  have,  besides, 
the  experience  of  the  world  to  teach  us 
that  rich  men  become  beggars — dreadful 


THE   HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


179 


fiitc  ! — beggars,   sir,   in    spite   of  all    the 
prudence   and  wisdom  of  Solomon  !" 

"  Yes,"  replied  I ;  "  but  the  confidence 
of  a  prudent  man,  in  the  stability  of  his 
fortune,  is  not  to  be  shaken  by  the  experi- 
ence of  the  fate  of  the  imprudent  man  who 
has  thrown  his  liehes  to  the  winds.  Jf  you 
had  not  insured  the  Mermaid,  which,  from 
hearing  of  her  launch  some  time  ago,  I 
understand  is  one  of  your  valuable  vessels, 
you  might  have  dreaded  the  fate  that  re- 
sulted from  not  insuring  the  Amphitrite." 

"  And  I  have  not  insured  the  Mermaid P'' 
screamed  he,  with  a  voice  that  pierced  tbe 
tympanum  of  my  ears  like  a  sharp  instru- 
ment.— ^^  I  have  not  insured  the  Mermaid^'''* 
he  repeated,  with  a  kind  of  yell,  as  he  fell 
back  on  his  chair,  with  his  face  covered  by 
his  ao-ue-struck  hands. 

I  was  unprepared  for  this  sudden  burst  ; 
for  I  had  hazarded  the  remark,  trustino-to 
this  generally  esteemed,  prudent  and 
somewhat  close-handed  man  havino-  fol- 
lowed  the  practice  of  cautious  merchants, 
in  insurino;  a  new  and  untried  vessel.  The 
agitation  into  which  I  had  involuntarily 
thrown  him  prevented  me  from  looking 
calmly  at  the  true  and  limited  import  of 
my  simple  remark,  which,  without  a  su- 
peraddition  of  some  secret  cause  of  ap- 
prehension, never  could  have  produced 
such  a  terrible  effect,  even  on  a  hypo- 
chondriac. As  he  still  lay  strusfo-lino;  with 
his  appulse  of  apprehension,  I  hastened  to 
remove  the  cause  of  alarm,  in  the  only 
way  which  seemed  clear  and  certain. 

"  You  may  s/i// insure  the  Mermaid," 
said  ],  "  wherever  she  is.  No  office  will 
refuse  to  undertake  the  risk  of  a  sea-wor- 
thy ship  that  has  not  exceeded  her  time." 

Taking  his  trembling  hands  from  off  his 
face,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  me  with  that  wild 
look  which  shows  that  terror  is,  for  a 
moment,  under  the  self-excruciatina:  dom- 
ination  of  despair. 

"  When  the  helm  is  sunk  in  the  quick- 
sands of  Newfoundland,"  he  cried,  in  a 
heart-piercing-tone,  '^  and  the  mizzen  is 
whirling  in  the  eddies  of  the  Gulf-Stream, 


what  less  would  the  premium  be  than 
cent,  per  cent.  V 

He  wrung  his  hands  as  he  ejaculated 
these  words,  and  fixed  his  eye  intensely 
on  some  ideal  object,  as  if  he  had  seen  the 
doomed  vessel  that  held  a  great  part  of 
his,  treasures  torn  to  pieces  by  the  ravages 
of  the  storm — the  rudder  in  the  act  of 
being  imbedded  in  the  quicksands — and 
the  masts  drifting  along,  the  sport  of  the 
wind  and  waves.  He  remained  in  that 
position,  for  some  time,  drawing  deep 
sighs,  and  apparently  unconscious  of  my 
presence.  I  was  much  perplexed.  1  had 
got  no  intellio;ence  of  the  loss  of  the  Mer- 
maid — an  event  which,  from  her  great 
size,  would  have  produced  some  noise  ; 
and  the  conduct  of  his  wife  and  daughter 
was  inconsistent  with  the  knowledge  of  a 
loss  that  might  bring  them  to  beggary.  At 
the  same  time  I  was  not  so  well  assured 
of  the  absolute  extent  of  the  patient's 
disease,  as  to  be  able  to  conclude,  upon 
the  instant,  that  he  merely  imagined  the 
loss  of  the  vessel.  He  may  have  got 
secret  intelligence  of  the  disaster;  and, 
strong  as  the  paroxysm  was  that  had  sha- 
ken him  in  the  manner  I  had  witnessed, 
its  intensity  would  have  been  no  overact- 
ing of  the  true,  natural^  healthy  agony  of 
truth — such  truth — operating  on  a  sound 
mind.  In  this  uncertainty,  I  was  at  a 
loss  what  to  do  or  what  to  say.  The  un- 
happy man  still  sat  under  the  influence  of 
the  dreadful  charm  with  which  truth  or 
disease  had  invested  the  creation  of  his 
fancy,  on  which  his  mind  and  gaze  were 
intently  fixed.  To  have  questioned  him, 
or  argued  with  him  farther,  would,  on 
either  of  my  suppositions,  have  been  im- 
proper, and  to  have  called  in  Mrs.  H 

would  have  produced  alarm,  either  for  the 
soundess  of  her  husband's  mind  or  the 
safety  of  the  vessel.  My  only  course 
seemed  to  be,  to  change,  in  the  meantime, 
the  conversation — if  indeed  it  was  possible 
to  engage  his  mind  on  any  other  topic — 
and  wait  until  I  got  information  that  would 
enable  me  to  act  with  greater  decision. 


180 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


"  There  is  a  sudden  fall  in  the  exchange 
between  this  country  and  Russia,"  said  I, 
endeavoring  to  catch  his  eye. 

''  Ha  I  it  will  not  do,  sir,"  he  replied, 
looking  at  me  suspiciously  and  fearfully — 
"  you  are  not  able,  by  this  sleight,  to  con- 
ceal from  me  that  dreadful  truth.  That 
may  be  one  of  your  modes  of  cure  ;  but 
can  you  put  together  the  floating  pieces  of 
the  wreck  of  the  Mermaid  ?  Unless  you 
can  do  that  you  cannot  mend  my.broken 
mind.  This  attempted  imposition,  though 
well  intended,  increases  my  agony,  already 
insufferable  :  why  don't  you  do  as  George 

B 's  friends  persisted  in  doing,  after 

the  Amphitrite^s  loss  was  blazed  at  Lloyd's 
— why  don't  you  boldly  say  at  once,  that 
the  ship  is  not  lost  ?  That  is  the  common 
worldly  way  of  excruciation.  But  you 
cannot,  you  cannot — the  thing  is  too  clear 
for  that,  your  courage  is  not  sufficient, 
and  my  penetration  too  keen.  Would  to 
Heaven  1  had,  at  this  moment,  the  luxury 
of  one  faint,  desperate  doubt  !" 

"  I  have  not  heard  any  intelligence  of 
such  a  loss,"  said  I,  forced  to  continue  the 
subject. 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,  sir,"  replied  he 
— "that  is  a  gentler  way  of  performing 
the  operation  of  bandaging  the  eyes,  that 
one  may  not  see  the  death  that  is  carried 
on  the  point  of  the  amputating  knife.   But 
it  cannot  thus  be  concealed  ;   for  it  is  felt 
through   every   nerve    and   muscle,  and, 
mounting  to  the   brain  which  it  maddens, 
is  independent  of  the  eyes,"  (pausing  and 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper.)   "  When 
a  truth  is  beyond  cavil  and  suspicion,  be- 
lieve me  it  is  best  to  let  it   alone  — there 
is  a  certain   stage  of  a   disease  when  the 
certainty  of  death  itself  is  no  longer  con- 
cealed from  the   patient.     The  man  that 
would  attempt  to  make  me  believe  that 
the  Mermaid  is  not  lost,  I  would  consider 
my  enemy  as  well  as  an  impostor.     Sym- 
pathy  is  best   exerted  in  endeavoring  to 
enable  us  to  support  evils  that  can  neither 
be  concealed  nor  averted.    I  say  endeavor- 
ing, for  my  evil  is  insupportable.     I  can- 


not face  beggary  :  yet  whither  can  I  fly 
for  relief.'*  Mercy  !  Heaven  !  mercy  !  on 
the  beggared  bankrupt,  who  cannot  live 
by  the  wayside,  and  yet  cannot  die  there  ! 
Horrible  destiny  !" 

His  feelings  were  now,  by  the  workings 
of  his  mind,  which  I  had  unfortunately 
stimulated,  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
mortal  suffering.  He  continued  repeating 
the  words  "  horrible  destiny,"  as  the  fear- 
ful images  of  want  and  beggary  he  con- 
jured up  stood  revealed  before  him,  like 
impersonations.  His  eye  still  sought  the 
ideal  creations,  as  if  they  had  been  reali- 
ties existing  beside  him,  and  operating  on 
him  by  the  power  of  a  charm  ;  yet  at  in- 
tervals he  seemed  to  recoil  from  them  with 
horror,  and  fixed  on  me  a  look  expressive 
of  the  supplication  of  pity.  In  my  igno- 
rance of  the  true  state  of  his  affairs,  I  was 
doing  the  man  injury.  I  could  not  with 
safety  risk  another  remark  ;  for  everything 
I  had  yet  said  had  aggravated  the  terrors 
to  which  he  was  clearly  enslaved.  Start- 
ing up  as  I  suddenly  recollected  an  en- 
gagement, I  hurriedly  took  my  departure, 
obliged  to  leave  him  still  in  the  grasp  of 
the  holotonic  that  convulsed  his  whole 
frame. 

On  reaching  the  ante-room,  into  which 
I  had  been  first  introduced,  I  found  Mrs. 

H and  Angelina,  alono;  with  a  genteel 

young  man  named  ^  Augustus  A ,  who 

seemed  to  be  on  terms  of  great  intimacy 
with  the  family,  and  whose  eloquent  ocu- 
lar conversation  with  the  young  lady,  led 
me  to  suspect  that  the  intimacy  would  one 
day  be  changed  into  relationship.  As  I 
entered,  the  sprightly,  volatile  girl  came 
running  forward,  and,  taking  me  by  the 
hand,  asked  me  if  her  father,  by  my 
means,  had  yet  recovered  his  usual  good 
nature.  She  wished,  above  all  things,  he 
should  cet  some  of  that  secret  medicine  I 
had  mentioned  (and  of  the  nature  of  which 
Augustus  had  informed  her),  that  would 
make  him  dance — a  remark  she  accompa- 
nied with  a  side  look  of  great  significance 
to  her  lover,  who  rejoined  smartly,  that 


THE  FIYPOCHONDRIAC. 


181 


there  mis-lit  soon  be  occasion  for  the  old 
gentleman  using  his  limbs  in  that  graceful 
exercise.     The  buoyancy  of  the  sprightly 
young  lady  was  checked  by  a  blush  which 
added  a  supplement  to  my  information.    I 
accompanied  the  mother  to  another  apart- 
ment, where  I  learned  from  her  that  the 
object  she  had  particularly  in  view,  in  re- 
questing  my   professional    assistance    for 
her  husband,  was  his  restoration  to  a  bet- 
ter   temper,    the    change    of    which   she 
thought   depended   on  a  state  of  the  sto- 
mach, capable   in   all  likelihood  of  being 
removed  or  ameliorated  ;  but,  that  restora- 
tion, she  continued,  behoved  to  be  quick, 
for  a  marriage   had  for   some   time  been 
fixed  between  her  daughter  and  the  young 
man  I  had  seen,  and   she  had   some  fears 
that,  in  his  present  gloomy  state  of  mind, 
he  would  be  unwillins;  to  sio-n  the  contract 
whereby,   as  he   had  already  agreed,  ten 
thousand  pounds  was  to  be  given  as  a  dow- 
ry.    I  heard   the   old  lady  out,  and  then 
endeavored  to  ascertain,  by  oblique  ques- 
tions, whether  she  was  aware  of  the  extra- 
ordinary state  of  mind   and  feelings   into 
which  her  husband  had  fallen,  and,  above 
all,  whether  she  had  heard  any  unfavorable 
accounts  of  the  Mermaid,  or  of  his  finances 
generally.     Her  answers  and  manner  indi- 
cated no  knowledge  of  any  misfortune,  nor 
indeed  of  any  fear  of  misfortune,  enter- 
tained by  her  husband.    All  she  knew  was, 
that  he  had  got  into  a  gloomy  and  ill-na- 
tured condition  of  mind,  which  she   said 
was   entirely  unjustified  by  any  change  in 
his  worldly  condition.     By  the  Mermaid, 
she  added,  a  powerful  vessel,  which  he  had 
(from  his  usual  narrow  spirit)  trusted  to 
the  sea  without  insurance,  he  was  almost 
certain  to  realize  a  very  large   addition  to 
his  fortune.    1  was  surprised  at  these  state- 
ments; but  considered  it  prudent,  in  the 
meantime,  to  make  no  disclosure   which 
might  tend  to  alarm   the   family,  who,  in 
consequence  of  the  approach  of  the  daugh- 
ter's marriage,  were  clearly  all  in  a  state  of 
confidence   and  happiness,  qualified  very 


slightly  by  a  supposed  fit  of  the  spleen  in 
the  father,  which  would  leave  him  before 
the  important  day  of  the  union. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  I  satis- 
fied myself,  by  inquiries  among  merchants, 
and  without  raising  any  suspicions,  that  no 
unfavorable  accounts  had  been  received  of 
the  Mermaid,  which  had  touched  at  Ma- 
deira, where  she  had  been  heard  of  on  her 

passage   out  to   Jamaica.     Mr.    H 's 

credit  was  everywhere  reckoned  unexcep- 
tionable, though  his  close-handedness  and 
firmness  in  bargain-making  were  not  so 
generally  admired.  I  was  now  satisfied 
my  patient  was  a  true  victim  of  the  real 
malady  of  hypochondriacism ;  and  that, 
by  brooding  over  the  misfortunes  of  George 

B and  the  danger  he  ran   from  not 

insuring  his  valuable  vessel,  he  had  con- 
tracted  pseudoblepsis  imaginaria,  or  an 
imaginary  vision  of  objects,  which  often 
attends  the  orio;inal  disease,  as  one  of  its 
very  worst  characteristics.  I  called  again 
upon  him  next  day  about  the  same  hour, 
and  found  him  in  the  same  position  he  oc- 
cupied the  day  before,  sitting  in  the  dark 
room,  and  looking;  into  the  heart  of  the 
fire,  as  if  the  object  of  his  morbid  vision 
were  to  be  found  there.  He  did  not  hear 
the  opening  of  the  door ;  but  the  sound 
of  my  voice  produced  a  start,  and  a  sud- 
den, timid,  oblique  cast  of  the  eye,  which 
satisfied  me  he  was  still  under  the  same 
melancholy  delusion. 

"  Have  you  seen  George  B to-day  .^" 

he  said,  hurriedly,  and,  as  if  afraid  to  hear 
the  answer  he  requested.  "  Poor  man  ! 
poor  man  ! — I  saw  him  from  that  window 
an  hour   ao-o.     How  little    does  he  know 

O 

that  I  am  so  near  his  awful  condition  !'' 

It  was  impossible  he  could  have  seen 
the  dreaded  victim  of  the  fate  he  himself 
anticipated,  from  that  window :  it  was  a 
mere  mirage  of  monomania. 

"I  have  not  seen  him,"  answered  I; 
"  but  I  have  ascertained  that  your  vessel 
the  Mermaid  was  noted  at  Madeira,  and 
no  one  has  heard  unfavorable  accounts  of 


182 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


her ;  so  she  mubt  be  presumed  to  be  safe. 
You  have  allowed  a  fancy  to  master  your 
perception  of  truth." 

"The  old  medicine  again  I"  he  ex- 
claimed, with  a  sarcastic  grin  and  tone, 
evidently  excruciating  to  himself.  "  So 
did  I  act  the  leech  to  my  poor  friend, 
when,  with  Lloyd's  List  in  my  hand,  I 
told  him  that  the  Amphitrite  was  not  lost. 
So  do  we  all  endeavor  to  cheat  the  un- 
fortunate." 

"  Well,"  replied  I,  "  show  me  Lloyd's 
List  for  the  loss  of  the  Mermaid,  and  I 
will  renounce  my  scepticism." 

"  We  are  not  generally  anxious,"  re- 
plied he,  "  to  convince  people  of  the  truth 
and  reality  of  a  misfortune  that  must 
bring  us  to  beggary.  It  is  enough  that  I 
read  that  dreadful  paragraph  myself.  I 
could  not  stand  a  reperusal  of  it.  I  threw 
the  fatal  paper  from  me  ;  but  the  words, 
the  words  to  a  letter,  are  marked  as  by  a 
burning  iron  on  my  brain.  I  trace  them 
everywhere  :  on  that  wall,  in  that  fire,  in 
the  air,  I  see  them ;  and,  0  God !  they 
need  no  Daniel  to  construe  the  doom  of 
my  ruin — my  condemnation  to  that  state 

in  which  I  may,  with  poor  George  B , 

weep  over  a  divided  crust,  begged  from 
the  reluctant  hand  of  charity!" 

"  Would  you  have  any  objections  to  let 
me  peruse  the  paragraph  V  said  L 

"  What  need,  what  need,"  he  cried, 
emphatically,  "  of  a  paltry  array  of  the 
impressions  of  types,  where  the  brain  is 
burned  by  the  flaming  characters  .-*  I  know 
nothing  of  the  dreadful  memorial.  I 
threw  it  from  me  in  despair.  Cease  this 
silly  scepticism,  resorted  to  to  show  an 
affected  hypercritical  examination  of  evi- 
dence. See  you  that  book  .?" — (laying 
his  hand  on  a  Bible  that  lay  on  the  table, 
and  speaking  slow  and  solemnly) — "  do 
you  doubt  holy  writ  ?" 

As  he  pronounced  these  words  empha- 
tically, he  threw  on  me  a  look  of  the  tri- 
umph of  despair  over  the  effort  to  pierce 
the  darkness  of  his  mind  by  the  last  strug- 
gling beam  of  hope.     Having  appealed  to 


the  Bible  as  an  analogous  example  of  the 
certainty  of  the  probation  of  the  loss  of 
the  Mermaid,  he  could  go  no  further,  and 
fell  back  on  his  chair,  with  his  face  again 
covered  by  his  palsied  hands  ;  but  I  re- 
tained my  hopes  of  still  shaking  him,  by 
forcing  him  to  descend  to  the  particulars 
of  the  disaster. 

"  When  and  where  was  the  Mermaid 
lost?"  said  L 

This  question,  which  begged  particu- 
lars, and  assumed  the  loss,  curdled  his 
blood — he  shuddered  all  over ;  but, 
though  his  courage  was  at  fault,  his  fancy 
was  prepared : — 

"  On  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,"  he 
replied,  "  on  the  stormy  night  of  the  15th 
of  November  ;  she  was  driven  so  far  north 
by  stress  of  weather.  Thus  has  perished 
the  greater  part  of  my  fortune.  Other 
small  disasters  complete  my  ruin" — start- 
ing up  suddenly  and  looking  wildly  around. 
"But,  sir,  you  must  mention  this  to  no 
one,  not  even  to  my  wife — an  execution 
in  my  house  to-morrow  would  be  the  re- 
sult of  the  discovery.  She  cannot  stand 
it ;  and  I  must  not  kill  her  yet ;  though 
death  will,  I  hope,  ultimately  relieve  her 
from  the  necessity  of  begging  with  me  by 
the  way-side..  Promise,  promise,  on  this 
holy  book,  that  you  will  not  divulge  my 
secret !" 

I  hesitated  thus  to  confirm  his  disease. 

"  Do  you  refuse  me  this  simple  re- 
quest .^"  he  continued,  falling  on  his  knees 
and  seizing  my  legs,  while  his  wild,  de- 
spair-stricken eye  sought,  with  piteous 
look,  my  face.  "  Is  it  thus  you  repay  my 
confidence }  The  confessions  of  a  pa- 
tient are  sacred :  shall  mine  be  made  an 
exception  ^  Then,  may  the  Lord  have 
mercy  on  me  and  mine  ! — for  we  are  all 
undone — my  tender,  doating  wife — my 
Ano-elina  on  the  eve  of  marriao;e — all  hurl- 
ed  in  one  instant  from  the  height  of  afflu- 
ence to  ruin." 

"  I  will  divulge  nothing,"  said  T,  rais- 
ing his  weak  and  emaciated  body  as  I 
would  have  done  that  of  a  child  ;  "  but  if 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


183 


the  disaster  is  in  Lloyd's,  my  secrecy  can 
be  of  small  importance." 

"  True,  true,"  he  replied,  as  he  again 
sank  on  his  chair — "  I  forgot.  Nothing 
can  now  save  me.  It  must  be  all  over 
the  town.     What  do  the  people  say  of  it  ? 

Do  ihejpity  me  as  I  pity  George  B ? 

Ha  ! — then — then  am  I  indeed  to  be  pitied, 
for  being  pitied  !  How  often,  cruel  pow- 
ers !  have  I  prayed  thee  to  avert  from  me 
that  wretched  boon,  as  the  last,  the  great- 
est of  all  worldly  evils  !" 

My  influence  over  the  convulsive  throes 
that  followed  these  words  was  nothing. 
The  only  relief  lay  in  the  exhaustion  of 
nature's  diseased  strens-th.  With  an  or- 
dinary  victim  of  real  evil,  many  expedi- 
ents may  be  fallen  upon  to  introduce 
glimpses  of  consolation  through  crevices 
of  the  mind ;  but  it  is  a  peculiar  feature 
of  hypochondria  that  the  imagined  object 
of  terror  engrosses  in  its  power  all  the 
mental  forces — judgment,  imagination, 
and  feeling — leaving  no  faculty  through 
which  a  medicinal  virtue  can  be  commu- 
nicated to  the  diseased  and  burning  brain. 
Aware,  as  my  professional  knowledge 
made  me,  of  the  invincible  nature  of  the 
false  belief  engendered  by  this  disease,  I 
resolved  upon  not  persisting  in  an  attempt, 
by  mere  argument,  to  force  it  to  give 
place  to  a  truer  conviction.  Through  the 
physical  powers,  an  impression,  in  the  first 
instance,  could,  with  the  greatest  chance 
of  success,  be  made  on  the  diseased  mind  ; 
and  when  the  unfortunate  man  recovered 
from  his  fit,  I  endeavored  to  convince  him 
that  he  was  unwell  in  body  and  required 
medicine.  He  scarcely  deigned  to  reply 
to  me  on  a  subject  so  far  beneath  his  at- 
tention, engrossed  as  it  was  with  an  evil 
of  so  gigantic  a  kind ;  and  solemnly  and 
sarcastically  required  me  to  send  him  a 
dose  of  arsenic.  I  laid  on  the  table  what 
I  thought  would  benefit  him,  along  with 
the  necessary  directions,  and  left  him  still 
groaning  under  the  agony  of  his  imagined 
infliction. 

In  the  passage,  I  met  the  gay  and  hila- 


my 


rious  Angelina,  who  again  inquired,  laugh- 
ing, when  her  father  would  be  in  a  condi- 
tion to  dance — unaware  of  my  private 
knowledge  of  what  gave  a  humor  to  this 
turn  of  her  natural  vivacity.  A  servant, 
in   the  meantime,  whispered    that    Mrs. 

H waited  for  me  in  an  adjoining  room. 

I  hastened  to  her,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
found  her  extended  on  a  couch,  bathed  in 
tears,  and  apparently  under  the  infliction 
of  some  intense  sorrow, 

"  Oh,  why  have  you  concealed  this  dis- 
aster from  me  .?"  she  cried,  as  I  advanced. 

"  What  disaster,  madam .?"  said  I. 

"The  loss  of  the  Mermaid,"  replied 
she,  crying  and  sobbing  bitterly. 

"  Is  it  true,  then  .?"  said  I,  starting  with 
astonishment. 

"  Who  should  know  better  than 
husband.?"  said  she. 

I  was  instantly  relieved  by  her  answer. 
On  inquiry,  I  found  that  the  servant  had 
overheard  a  part  of  the  conversation  be- 
tween me  and  Mr.  H ,  and  commu- 
nicated it  to  her  mistress.  I  explained 
everything  to  her,  and  she  was  satisfied 
on  this  great  subject  of  alarm ;  but  she 
had  still  a  difficulty  to  struggle  with.  The 
marriage  of  her  daughter  drew  near,  and 
how  would  her  husband  be  got  prevailed 
upon  to  fulfil  his  obligation  to  pay  the 
dowry  of  ten  thousand  pounds,  if  he  con- 
tinued under  the  dark  cloud  of  mental 
delusion  whose  inspissated  gloom  stran- 
gled the  very  rays  of  the  instinctive  per- 
ception of  primary  and  elemental  truths  ? 
I  acknowledged  that  there  was  great  diffi- 
culty in  the  case,  and  suggested  that  the 
marriage  might  take  place  in  the  mean- 
time, and  the  obligation  for  the  tocher  left 
to  be  got  signed  afterwards,  when  the 
Mermaid  came  home.  This  plan  did  not, 
however,  please  ;  and  I  suspected,  though 
she  had  too  much  delicacy  to  admit  it, 
that  the  obligation  for  the  cash  was  held 
a  kind  of  sine  qua  non  by  the  bridegroom. 
I,  therefore,  promised  to  consider  serious- 
ly of  some  means  of  relieving  her  from 
the   extraordinary  position  in  which  she 


184 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


and  her  family  were  placed ;  and,  in  the 
meantime,  recommended  to  her'to  use  her 
own  exertions  in  getting  her  husband  to 
take  the  medicines  I  had  ordered ;  leav- 
ing- to  her  own  discretion,  to  break  to  him 
the  subject  of  his  terrors,  or  keep  it,  in 
the  meantime,  within  her  own  bosom,  as 
she  conceived  most  prudent ;  but  enjoin- 
ing, in  any  view,  to  preserve  inviolate  my 
honor  with  the  invalid,  over  whom  my 
power  could  be  only  co-extensive  with  the 
faith  he  reposed  in  me. 

Next   day   I   had   another  communing 

with  Mrs.  H ,  who  informed  me  that, 

on  the  previous  night,  she  had  witnessed 
the  most  dreadful  scene  she  had  ever  ex- 
perienced during  her  life.      Mr.    H , 

unable  longer  to  restrain  himself,  had, 
with  tears  of  lamentation,  told  her  she 
must  prepare  herself  for  becoming  a  beg- 
gar ;  that  the  Mermaid  was  lost,  and  his 
brother  William,  for  whom  he  had  become 
surety  to  the  extent  of  fifteen  thousand 
pounds,  had  suddenly  failed,  whereby  he 
would  have  that  money  to  pay.  Her  efforts 
to  undeceive  him  had  produced  an  absolute 
phrcnzy ;  he  tore  the  bandages  from  his 
temples,  uttered  loud  screams  of  agony, 
sank  suddenly  into  fits  of  gloomy  silence, 
then  passed  into  paroxysms  of  weeping,  and 
fell  on  her  neck,  sobbing  like  a  child.  His 
condition  since  had  only  been  a  continua- 
tion of  this  misery.  She  did  not  know  what 
to  do  ;  because,  if  she  were  to  promulgate 
his  condition,  with  a  view  to  getting  friends 
and  acquaintances  to  come  and  endeavor 
to  undeceive  him,  she  might  injure  his 
mercantile  interests  and  credit,  and  pro- 
duce that  very  ruin  he  so  much  dreaded. 
In  the  meantime,  the  day  of  the  marriage 
approached  apace  ;  and  she  now  candidly 
confessed  that,  if  there  was  any  demur 
about  advancing  the  tocher,  the  bride- 
groom might  refuse  to  perform  his  part 
of  the  engagement,  whereby  her  fragile 
daughter  might  lose  her  life,  and  at  all 
events  her  happiness  for  ever.  I  told  her 
I  had  not  yet  come  to  any  satisfactory 
conclusion ;  but  recommended  to  her  to 


send  to  all  the  friends  of  the  seamen  on 
board  the  Mermaid,  to  ascertain  if  any 
letters  had  come  to  them,  and,  if  possible, 
to  get  hold  of  them. 

In  the  evening,  a  message  came  to  me 

from  Mrs.  H ,  informing  me  that    she 

had  ascertained  that  no  letters  had  yet  ar- 
rived from  any  of  the  seamen  of  the  Mer- 
maid. I  revolved  all  the  peculiarities  and 
difficulties  of  this  extraordinary  case  in 
my  mind  during  the  night,  and  bethought 
myself  of  the  excusable  expedient  of  re- 
moving the  fatal  deception  of  the  patient 
by  a  humane,  an  innocent  imposition — to 
destroy  falsehood  by  falsehood,  and  there- 
by elicit  truth.  My  plan  was  to  get  re- 
printed a  metropolitan  newspaper,  con- 
taining a  superinduced  entry,  as  if  from 
Lloyd's,  of  the  arrival  of  the  Mermaid  at 
her  place  of  destination,  and  to  lay  this 
paper  within  the  reach  of  the  deluded  in- 
valid.    I  communicated  this  plan  to  Mrs. 

H ,  who  approved  of  it ;  and,  on  the 

same  day,  gave  instructions  to  a  printer, 
in  whom  I  could  repose  confidence,  to  put 
his  part  of  the  scheme  into  execution.  He 
entered  cordially  into  the  device,  and, 
next  forenoon,  sent  me  a  proof  of  the  pa- 
per and  the  fictitious  entry,  which  I  im- 
mediately revised  and  returned  to  him, with 
directions  to  send  me  the  perfect  copy  in 
the  evening.  About  seven  o'clock,  ac- 
cordingly, a  young  man  brought  me  a 
paper,  stating  that  his  master  had  been 
oblicced  to  leave  town  in  the  afternoon  ; 
but  that  I  might  rely  upon  the  accuracy 
of  the  copy,  which  had  been  carefully 
thrown  off  by  his  foreman.     I  immediately 

carried  it  to  Mrs.  H ,  who  undertook 

to  lay  it  in  such  a  position  as  would  se- 
cure the  eye  of  her  husband.  The  mat- 
rimonial contract,  she  said,  required  to  be 
signed  on  the  16th,  two  days  after,  ac- 
cording to  the  agreement  of  the  parties ; 
and,  owins:  to  the  state  of  her  husband, 
she  had  resolved  upon  the  marriage  being 
celebrated  afterwards  privately.  She  be- 
seeched  me  strongly  to  attend  and  witness 
the    contract,  whereby    I  might  have    an 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


185 


opportunity  of  facilitating  the  completion 
of  this  most  delicate  and  dangerous  nego- 
tiation. 

On  the  day  and  hour  appointed,  I  at- 
tended accordingly.  The  scene  presented 
to  me,  as  I  entered  the  sick  man's  cham- 
ber, was  extraordinary  and  striking.  The 
window  shutters  were  still  half  closed, 
and  the  room  nearly  dark.  Augustus 
A and  Angelina  were  sitting  oppo- 
site to  each  other  at  the  aperture  of  the 
window  ;  their  faces,  on  which  the  light 
shone  by  the  side  of  deep  shadows,  exhi- 
biting that  mixture  of  love,  joy,  fear,  and 
solicitude,  which  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  their  situation  could  not  fail  to 
produce  in  hearts  whose  sympathies  were 
moved  by-  the  elastic  springs  of  an  affec- 
tion which  had  not  been  crossed,  and 
hopes  that  never  had  been  blighted.  The 
mother  sat  silently  looking  at  her  husband, 
who,  rolled  up  in  the  manner  already  de- 
scribed, sat  immerged  in  a  mood  of  gloomy 
despair,  his  head  leaning  on  his  breast, 
his  eyebrows  knit,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
fire,  his  mouth  sealed  with  a  sullen,  ob- 
stinate silence,  and  everything  indicating 
either  that  he  was  unconscious  of  what 
was  to  be  enacted  in  his  presence,  or  de- 
termined not  to  take  a  friendly  part  in  it. 
I  seated  myself  opposite  to  him,  and  was 
saluted  by  a  half  scowling,  half  timid 
look,  which,  having  scanned  me  hurriedly, 
souo'ht  ao-ain  the  fire.  The  meetins;  of 
friends  collected  to  witness  a  coffin-liftino; 
of  a  dear  relative,  could  not  have  pre- 
sented a  more  funereal,  gloomy,  and  dis- 
mal aspect — the  shadows  being  relieved, 
in  the  one  case,  by  the  lurid  smile  of  ex- 
pectant heirs,  and  in  the  other,  by  the 
struggling  gleam  of  the  doubtful  joy  of 
the  bride2:room  and  bride.  At  leno-th,  the 
man  of  the  law  came  with  the  important 
document ;  and,  having  his  bustling,  offi- 
cious importance  and  familiarity  blasted 
by  the  sullen  growl  of  the  hypochondriac, 
sat  down  in  disappointment  and  irresolu- 
tion. After  words  of  ceremony,  ap- 
proaching to  the  sombreness  of  the  pre- 


liminaries of  a  service  over  the  dead,  the 
deed  was  read,  purporting,  in  the  usual 
terms,  that  the  two  parties  had  agreed  to 
accept  of  each  other  for  lawful  spouses, 
and  that,  in  consideration  of  a  jointure  of 
five  hundred  pounds  a-year,  the  father  of 
the  bride  had  agreed  to  advance  the  sum 
of  ten  thousand  pounds  as  the  tocher  of 
his  daughter.  When  the  deed  was  read, 
all  was  silent.  The  bridegioom  adhibited 
his  name  first,  and  the  bride,  suffused  with 
blushes  and  "  smiling  inwardly,"  followed 
his  example.  It  was  now  placed  before 
the  father,  and  the  lawyer  held  out  to  him 
the  pen,  fraught,  after  a  dipping  and  a 
redipping,  with  the  nicely  adjusted  quota 
of  ink,  for  the  purpose  of  his  signing  his 
name. 

.  The  company  sat  for  a  few  minutes  si- 
lently looking  at  the  attitude  of  the  man 
of  the  law,  who  still  held  out  the  pen  to 
the  invalid.  A  loud,  horrible,  fiendish 
cackle  of  a  laugh  wrung  spasmodically 
from  the  dry  throat  of  the  hypochondriac, 
rang  through  the  apartment,  and  filled 
every  face  with  consternation  and  terror. 
I  do  not  recollect  of  ever  havins;  heard  a 
sound  so  unearthly,  so  much  beyond  all 
powers  of  description — a  noise  so  com- 
pounded of  all  the  elements  of  discord- 
ancy. It  seemed  the  accumulated  ex- 
pression of  all  his  griefs,  terrors,  and  mi- 
sery. Thrusting  his  hand,  with  a  flutter- 
ing, trembling  precipitude,  into  the  pocket 
of  his  gown,  he  dragged  forth  the  news- 
paper containing  the  fictitious  announce- 
ment of  the  arrival  of  the  Mermaid,  and 
waved  it  triumphantly  over  his  head. 

"It  is  not  enough,"  he  cried,  still 
throwing  the  paper  backwards  and  for- 
wards like  a  pendant,  "that  a  poor 
wretch,  doomed  to  beggary  and  starvation, 
should  have  this  fate  to  stru^o-le  with,  un- 
aided  by  the  co-operation  or  soothed  by 
the  sympathy  of  relatives  and  friends  ! 
No  !  there  must  be  added — by  the  agency 
of  the  Devil,  acting  through  the  cruel  re- 
finements of  a  wife's  treachery,  a  doctor's 
cunnino;,  and  a  daufjhter's  selfishness — the 


186 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


injury  and  insult  of  a  degrading  decep- 
tion— an  imposition,  a  cheat.  Though 
reduced  to  beggary,  1  am  not  yet,  thank 
God  !  deserted  by  my  perception  of  truth, 
and  my  love  of  honesty  and  fair  dealing. 
^  The  Mermaid  has  arrived^'  "  (looking  at 
the  paper,  and  repeating  his  screech 
laugh)  ^^ '■  safe — all  well!^  And  who 
tells  us   this  glorious  news  ?     No  other 

than  Mr.  Gilbert  S ■,  Printer  in 

Street  of  our  own  town  of 


-,  whose 
name  is  placed  here  "  (pointing  to  the 
print)  "  to  this  London  paper,  as  a  gua- 
rantee, a  pledge  of  the  truth  of  his  infor- 
mation. Excellent  cheat !  Noble  device  ! 
Ingenious  trickery  !  How  worthy  of  the 
juo-ij:lers,  and  the  poor,  wretched,  misera- 
ble beggar  attempted  to  be  juggled  !" 

I  seized  the  paper,  which,  as  he  fell 
back  screaming  out  his  hysterical  laugh, 
he  threw  from  him.  Heavens  !  what  was 
my  surprise  to  find  it  indeed  true  that  Mr. 
S — — 's  foreman,  to  whom  the  secret  had 
not  been  communicated,  had,  in  his  mas- 
ter's absence,  placed  according  to  the 
custom  of  printers  in  ordinary  matters,  his 
master's  name  at  the  foot  of  the  London 
newspaper  !  I  had  ruined  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings ;  all  the  consequences  of  this 
broken  off  marriage  were  on  my  head.  I 
had  even  riveted  in  this  poor  man's  mind 
the  certainty  of  the  loss  of  the  Mermaid  ; 
shame,  regret,  and  self-crimination  stung 
me  like  adders  ;  and  such  was  the  inten- 
sity of  my  sufi'ering,  and  the  darkness, 
doubt,  and  confusion  of  mind  into  which  I 
was  thrown,  that  I  was  scarcely  conscious 
of  the  extraordinary  scene  still  acting 
around  me.  I  was  called  to  a  more  atten- 
tive observation   by  the   question   of  the 

man  of  the  law,  addressed  to  Mr.  H , 

whether  he  intended  to  sign  the  document, 
as  an  engagement  called  him  away. 

"  No  !"  resounded  in  my  still  confused 
ears — "  why  should  a  poor  beggar,  not 
worth  one  penny  in  the  world,  sign  a  bond 
for  ten  thousand  pounds  ^  By  and  by,  I 
will  be  grateful  for  a  penny  to  buy  me  a 
crust  of  bread." 


The  thunderstruck  writer,  to  whom  an 

account  was  due  by  Mr.  H ,  recoiled 

at  a  statement  so  extraordinary  ;  the  bride- 
groom, unjustifiably- afraid   that  some  im- 
proper use  might  be  made  of  his  signature, 
darted  forward,  seized  the   mariiage  con- 
tract, and,  hurrying  out  of  the   door,  flew 
from  a    beggared   bride.     My  ears  were 
now   stung  by    the    screams   of  the   two 
women,  the  mother  and  the  daughter,  who 
both  fainted  on  the  floor,  and  the  occasion- 
al bursts  of  the  hypochondriac's   sardonic 
laugh  mixing  with  the  wails  of  distress  of 
the  wretched  females.     Alarmed  by  the 
noise,  the   servants  of   the  house    rushed 
into  the  room,  to  administer  assistance  to 
those  whose  cries  seemed  so  urgently  to 
demand  it ;  and   I  contributed  my  endea- 
vors to  the   restoration    of  the    sufierers. 
The  mother  recovered  in  a  short  time,  and 
soon  saw  the  full  extent  of  the  misery 
that  surrounded  her  ;  but,  being  a  strong- 
minded  woman,  she  defied  a  repetition  of 
the  syncope — an  efibrt  in  which  the  fragile 
and  volatile  daughter  was  not  so   success- 
ful ;  for  she  no  sooner  revived  from  one 
swoon    than    she    fell,    screaming,    into 
another  ;  sent  back,  by  the  dreadful  con- 
sciousness of  her  condition,  into  this  state 
of  heaven-sent,  humane  oblivion  of  misery. 
While  tending   these   sufferers,  I  threw  a 
glance  occasionally  at  him  who   suff"ered, 
from  the  mere  power  of  a  deluded  imagi- 
nation, a   thousand  times  more  than  those 
whose  tender  constitution  of  body  limited 
the  infliction  of  agony — him  who  could  not 
faint  and  could  not  weep,  but  who   could 
yet    laugh    that    dreadful    laugh   of  the 
miserable,  which  no  man  can  forget  who 
once  hears  it  as  I  have  heard  it,  but  cannot 
describe    it.     His  head  was    now  swung 
over  the  side  of  the  chair,  as  if  he  had 
lost  all  power  of  upholding  it ;  his  bosom 
heaved  with  convulsive   throes  ;  his   arms 
sawed  the  air  ;  his  feet  shuflSied  along  the 
floor,  and  groans,  mixed  with  that  horrid 
spasmodic  cackle,  burst  from  him,  piercing 
the  ear  like  the  yells  of  a  demon.     Having 
consigned  the  women   to   the  care  of  the 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


187 


servants,  I  left  hurriedly  this  scene,  the 
moral  cause  of  which  I  could  be  of  no  ser- 
vice in  endeavoring  to  relieve.  However 
familiar  I  had  become  with  scenes  of  dis- 
tress, the  new  and  peculiar  features  of  the 
one  I  have  here  attempted  to  describe, 
scared  away  the  apathy  of  custom  and 
habit,  and  seized  my  feelings  and  interest 
more  powerfully  and  painfully  than  I  can 
be  able  to  express  by  the  narrative  I  have 
here  given. 

Next  forenoon,  I  called  on  Mrs.  H , 

and  found  her  imder  great  affliction. 
She  told  me  that  her  daughter  was  con- 
fined to  bed,  and  that  her  swooning  fits 
returned  upon  her  whenever  her  mind 
acquired  power  and  sensibility  sufficient  to 
estimate  the  true  extent  of  her  sufierino;, 
for  she  could  not  be  made  to  believe  that 
the  loss  of  the  Mermaid  and  the  poverty 
and  beggary  of  her  father  was  a  dream  of 
hypochondria  ;  and  treated  the  attempt  of 
her  mother  to  produce  this  belief  as  a 
mere  act  of  maternal  sympathy,  to  conceal 
from  her  her  deplorable  fate  in  losing  a 
lover 


,  and  the  means  of  living,  at  the  same 
time.     She  informed  me  also  that  she  had 

seen  Augustus  A. ,  who  was  as  obstinate 

as  her  dauo;hter  in  his  belief  that  what  her 
husband  had  said  was  true,  giving  as  his 
reason  that  he  had  never  heard  that  Mr. 

H was  mad  ;  and  proceeding  so  far 

as  to  accuse  her  and  myself  of  an  attempt, 
by  the  falsified  newspaper,  to  get  matters 
so  arranged  as  to  inveigle  him  into  a 
match  with  the  daughter  of  one  on  the  eve 
of  becoming  a  bankrupt.  I  replied,  that 
I  now  saw  no  alternative,  in  our  efforts  to 
cure  those  ingeniously  contrived  disasters, 
other  than  waiting  for  the  captain  of  the 
Mermaid's  letter  of  advice,  which  could 
not  fail  to  arrive  in  a  very  short  time.  I 
had   scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when 

Mr.   H 's    clerk   handed  in  a   letter 

from  Kingston.  We  were  surprised  and 
pleased  at  this  curious  coincidence  ;  and  I 

agreed  to  remain  until   Mrs.  H took 

up  to  her  husband  this  piece  of  evidence, 
which  could  not  fail  to  open  his  eyes,  and 


cure  all  the  evils  that   had  resulted  from 
his  delusion.     In  a  short  time  after  Mrs. 


H- 


left  the  room,  I    heard   the   well- 


known  sound  of  the  expression  of  an  ex- 
acerbation of  the  hypochondriac's  suffer- 
ings, mixed,  as  I  thought,  with  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  same  spasmodic  laugh  ;  and  I 
was  now  surprised  by  the   appearance  of 

Mrs.  H ,  bathed  in  tears,  and  holdino- 

in  her  hand  the  fragments  of  the  letter 
which    had   been    torn    to    pieces.     She 

informed   me   that    Mr.  H had  read 

the  letter,  and  had  cried  out,  immediately 
on  perusing  it,  that  it  was  not  written  in 
the  captain's  hand  ;  that  it  was  another 
attempt  to  impose  upon  him  ;  and  that 
we  deserved  to  be  handed  over  to  the 
authorities  for  forging  the  postmark.  On 
putting  the  pieces  of  the  letter  together, 
we  perceived  that  it  was  signed  by  the 
captain  ;  but,  in  consequence  of  his  having 
got  his  hand  hurt,  written  by  some  other 
person — yet  undoubtedly  a  genuine  docu- 
ment, communicating  the  safe  arrival  of 
the  Mermaid  at  the  port  of  Kingston.  It 
was  now,  we  both  agreed,  necessary  to 
wait  the  arrival  of  the  vessel  itself. 

In  the  meantime,  I  continued  my  visits, 

communicating  through  Mrs.  H with 

the  patient,  who,  conceiving  me  to  be  in 
the  plot  against  him,  would  not  consent  to 
see    me.      His   body  was    undergoing   a 
gradual    decay,   from    the   effects    of  the 
moral  poison  continually  instilled  into  the 
nerves  of  the  brain,  the  centre  of  the  living 
powers  of  the  system,  as  well  as  the   seat 
of  the  mind ;  while  his  liver,  getting  en- 
larged, generated  the  food  of  the  mental 
disease,  which  in  its  turn,  preyed  on  his 
flesh — producing  a  marasmus  assimilatino* 
him  to  a  living   skeleton.     The   darkness 
of  the  room  he  occupied  was   gradually 
increased,  so  as  to  suit  his  tender  vision, 
which  shrunk  at  the  light  of  day  ;  and  it 
was   subsequently  necessary  to  muffle  the 
bell  of  the  door,  to  prevent  its  sound  from 
throwing  him  into  a  fit  of  hysterics,  in  the 
apprehension  of  messengers,  tipstaffs,  and 
sheriff-officers,  who  he  said,  were  haunting 


188 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


the  house,  ready  to  pounce  upon  him  the 
instant  they  got  a  glimpse  of  his  person. 
He  was  evidently  fast  falling  into  a  gene- 
ral cachexia  or  depraved  habit  of  body, 
which  would  eventually  defy  all  the  restora- 
tive powers  of  medicine,  as  well  as  the 
influence  of  a  renewed  belief,  even  if  such 
could  be  stimulated  in  his  brain  by  a 
natural  perception  of  external  evidence. 
His  daughter,  too,  was  still  confined  to  bed 
by  a  slow  fever,  resulting  from  the  fearful 
excitement  she  had  suffered  on  the  day  of 
the  signing  of  the  contract. 

While  matters  were  in  this  desperate 
condition,  the  Mermaid  arrived  with  a 
rich  cargo  from  Jamaica.  I  saw  the  Cap- 
tain previous  to  his  first  interview  with 
his  owner,  gave  him  directions  how  to 
conduct  himself,  and  requested  him  to  call 
and  communicate  to  me  the  result  of  the 
meeting.  In  a  few  hours  afterwards,  he 
came  running  to  me  in  great  haste,  and 
informed  me  that  Mr.  H was  assured- 
ly mad  ;  that  he  had  gazed  at  him  as  if  he 
had  been  an  apparition — requesting  to 
know  how  he  had  saved  himself  from  the 
wreck  of  the  Mermaid,  and  whether  any 
of  the  crew  were  saved  ;  but  prohibiting 
him,  by  dreadful  oaths,  from  recapitulat- 
ino"  the  circumstances  of  the  loss,  which, 
he  said,  he  could  not  hear  from  the  lips 
of  an  eye-witness,  and  live  an  hour  after. 
When  the  Captain  replied  that  the  Mer- 
maid was  in  the  harbor,  he  rose  in  great 
fury,  cried  that  the  narrator  was  leagued 
with  his  other  enemies,  who  wanted  to 
impose  on  him,  and  threatened  to  strike  , 
him  if  he  did  not  instantly  leave  the  room. 
After  what  I  had  witnessed,  I  was  not  sur- 
prised even  at  this.  There  was  only  one 
expedient  now  remaining — to  carry  him 
by  force,  ill  as  he  was,  on  board  of  the 
ship,  and  present  to  his  eyes  the  corpus 
reale  of  the  Mermaid  herself. 

This  was  done  the  very  next  day.  The 
patient  was  by  far  too  weak  to  offer  any 
resistance.  He  was  told  that  he  was  or- 
dered by  the  doctor  to  take  an  airing. 
Two   men   lifted   him    down    stairs,  and 


placed  him  in  a  sedan  chair,  for  the  great- 
er facility  of  transporting  him  on  board. 
I  was  waiting  him  on  the  deck,  along  with 
Mrs.  H ,  the  Captain,  and  two  con- 
fidential friends,  while  the  crew  were 
directed  to  be  working  about,  so  as  to  add 
the  weight  of  the  testimony  of  their  living 
bodies  to  the  evidence  of  the  wood,  ropes, 
and  sails  of  the  vessel.  The  sedan  chair 
was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  deck  ; 
and  we  stood  around  to  witness  the  effects 
of  the  apparition  of  the  lost  Mermaid,  on 
the  diseased  mind  of  the  patient.  When 
the  head  of  the  chair  was  lifted  off  and  the 
door  opened,  the  spectacle  presented  to 
our  view  was  most  appalling,  transcending 
even  the  fancy  of  a  resurrection  from  the 
dead.  His  skin  was  of  the  color  of  an 
orange,  and  seemed  to  envelope  a  heap  of 
bones,  bound  together  by  gristles — no  mus- 
cular amplification  in  any  part  visible  ;  his 
jaws,  and  the  thin  tendinous  muscles  in- 
tended to  cover  and  move  them,  were  as 
rigid  as  if  they  had  been  frozen  by  a  hy- 
perborean winter  ;  a  thick  shock  of  black 
hair,  that  had  not  been  cut  for  a  long 
period,  hung  down  over  his  yellow  fore- 
head, and  partly  concealed  his  eyes  •  the 
nails  upon  his  fingers,  which  he  would  not 
allow  mortal  to  touch,  had  grown  long  and 
sharp,  resembling  more  the  talons  of  an 
eagle  than  the  appurtenances  of  men's 
hands  : — everything  indicated  the  diseased, 
immured  troglodite,  or  cave-man,  brought 
out  to  see,  before  he  died,  the  rays  of  the 
mid-day  sun.  As  the  light,  to  which  he 
had  been  so  long  unaccustomed,  struck  his 
eyes,  he  winced  and  groaned,  turning  the 
yellow  orbs  backwards  and  forwards,  shut- 
ting his  eyelids,  opening  them  again,  like 
one  awakening  from  a  long  sleep,  and  rub- 
bing them  with  his  fingers,  as  if  to  ease 
his  pain,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  remove 
a  supposed  mirage  which  tormented  him 
by  its  delusion.  Beginning  to  wonder  at 
the  strano;e  sights  exhibited  to  him — the 
change  from  his  own  apartment  to  a  ship's- 
deck,  from  darkness  to  light,  and  from 
loneliness  to  society,  with  the  cries  of  the 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 


18? 


seamen's  "  yo-he-vo,"  the  dashing  of  the 
waves  against  the  sides  of  the  vessel,  and 
the  motion  of  the  pitching  bark,  which  was 
in  an  exposed  part  of  the  outer  harbor — 
he  rose  from  his  seat,  and  looked  wildly 
over  the  top  of  the  sedan,  eyeing  us,  along 
with  the  passing  seamen — whose  faces  he 
scanned  curiously — with  the  greatest 
amazement,  not  unmixed  with  terror,  and 
struggling,  apparently,  to  force  some  satis- 
factory conclusion  out  of  a  comparison  of 
riveted  beliefs  and  perplexing  appearances. 
No  one  spoke  to  him,  all  being  deeply 
occupied  in  watching  the  strange  symp- 
toms of  the  first  returning  ray  of  reason 
and  belief,  on  a  mind  so  long  clouded  and 
deranged  by  gloomy  delusions  and  vision- 
ary imaginations.  He  continued  to  scan 
everything  with  the  most  minute  attention 
— shuddering  at  intervals,  as  if  he  saw  an 
apparition — casting  on  us  looks  of  suspi- 
cion, and  then  brightening  up  with  gleams 
of  reviving  confidence.  At  last,  his  eye 
was  firmly  riveted  on  some  object  in  the 
direction  of  the  mainmast — his  gaze  be- 
coming so  steadfast  and  keen  that  his  very 
soul  seemed  to  be  centred  in  it.  We  all 
turned  our  eyes  in  the  same  direction  ; 
but  I  saw  nothing  calculated  to  produce  so 
much  excitement.  In  an  instant,  a  loud 
scream  rent  the  air — the  hypochondriac 
rushed  forward  with  the  last  collected 
strength  of  his  attenuated  frame,  and, 
clasping  his  arms  round  the  main-mast,  at 
a  place  where  his  name  was  painted  in  the 
semicircle  of  the  indispensable  horse-shoe, 
hugged  it  till  his  nerves  seemed  to  crack, 
and,  drawing  a  deep  sigh,  fell  down  on  the 
deck,  I  thought  the  experiment  was  fatal 
— that  the  clouded  mind  had  been  unable 
to  bear  the  coup  de  soleil  of  truth — that 
he  was  dead  ! 

I  ran  forward  and  lifted  him  up.  In  a 
short  time  he  recovered,  and  looked  around 
him  wildly  ;  but  he  had  received  his  speci- 
fic— even  the  scepticism  of  his  disease  had 
begun  to  give  way  to  touch.  When  he 
was  lifted  up,  he  took  my  arm,  and  walked 


round  and  round  the  vessel,  looking  at 
everything,  touching  everything  ;  and,  as 
the  evidence  grew  stronger  and  stronger, 
bursting  out  into  strange  hollow  laughs. 
No  one  yet  interfered  to  give  any  explan- 
ation ;  for  I  deemed  it  better  to  let  the 
real  evidence  work  its  eff"ect  in  the  first 
instance,  before  any  moral  confirmation 
was  ofiered.  The  process  was  slow  ;  the 
shadows  of  scepticism  seemed  to  hang 
about  his  mind,  and  contest  every  inch  of 
the  mental  province  with  the  beams  of  the 
searchincr  lio;ht  of  the  evidence  of  sense. 
Yet  he  became  gradually  stronger  and 
stronger  in  his  belief;  and,  before  we  left 
the  vessel,  was  as  much  satisfied  of  the 
safety  and  identity  of  the  Mermaid,  as  he 
was  formerly  of  her  loss  and  his  own  ruin. 
He  was  taken  home,  and  the  effects  of  the 
new  conviction  became  soon  apparent, 
producing  a  reaction  of  confidence,  and 
brightening  up  his  mind  with  the  cheer- 
ing rays  of  hope.  A  healthy  mind  is  the 
best  medicine  for  a  diseased  body — he  be- 
came gradually  better  and  better,  and 
latterly  entirely  recovered. 

When  he  became  quite  well,  I  used 
often  to  talk  with  him  about  the  state  of 
his  mind  during  that  dark  period.  He 
felt  no  disinclination  to  speak  of  it.  He 
said  that  the  most  remarkable  circum- 
stance was,  that  all  his  fancies  were  inves- 
ted with  that  same  conviction  of  truth 
which  generally  accompanies  the  evidence 
of  the  five  senses.  One  good  effect,  he 
said,  followed  from  the  hallucination  ;  and 
that  was,  that  his  blindness  enabled  him 
to  see  through  the  heart  of  his  intended 
son-in-law ;  for  he  was  satisfied  that  no- 
thing but  his  declaration  of  poverty  would 
have    elicited    the    unworthy    motives    of 

Auo-ustus  A .     He  succeeded  in  satis- 

fying  his  daughter  that  her^  lover  was  un- 
worthy of  her  ;  and,  some  years  afterwards, 
another  and  more  worthy  suitor  having 
souo-ht  her  hand,  succeeded,  and  a  dowry 
of  i£  10,000  was  paid  down  on  the  mar- 
riage day. 


100 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


THE    PROFLIGATE. 


On  the  estate  of  Mr.  Dreghorn  of  Long- 
trees,  in  the  west  country,  there  lived, 
some  twenty  years  ago,  a  farmer  of  the 
name  of  Blair.  The  portion  of  Mr. 
Dreghorn's  estate,  however,  which  James 
Blair  rented,  was  but  a  small  one  ;  for, 
although  a  man  of  great  respectability 
and  integrity  of  character,  he  was  poor, 
and  had  much  difficulty  in  keeping  him- 
self square  with  the  world.  This,  how- 
ever, by  dint  of  rigid  economy  and  ceas- 
less  toil,  he  effected. 

The  family  of  James  Blair  consisted  of 
his  wife,  a  son,  named  after  himself,  and 
a  dau2;hter  who  was  called  Elizabeth. 

The  younger  Blair,  who  was,  at  the  pe- 
riod of  our  story,  about  twenty  years  of 
age,  was  a  lad  of  excellent  character  and 
amiable  dispositions.  He  was,  withal,' a 
remarkably  handsome  young  man,  and 
was  thus  a  general  favorite  in  that  part  of 
the  country  where  he  resided. 

Elizabeth,  again,  was  the  counterpart 
of  her  brother,  in  both  disposition  and 
personal  appearance,  making  allowance, 
as  regarded  the  latter,  for  the  difference 
of  sex.  She  was,  in  truth,  a  lovely  girl ; 
and  of  many  a  sad  heart  and  sleepless 
night  was  she  the  unconscious  cause, 
amongst  the  young  men  of  the  district  in 
which  she  lived. 

James  Blair's  home,  therefore,  though 
a  humble,  was  a  happy  one.  He  doated 
on  his  children ;  and  they,  in  return, 
loved  him  with  the  most  devoted  tender- 
ness and  affection. 

Up  to  this  period,  nothing  had  occur- 
red to  disturb,  for  a  moment,  the  peace 
and  quiet  of  this  happy  family.  But,  un- 
deserved as  it  may  appear,  the  hour  of 
trouble  was  approaching  ;  it  was  at  hand. 

Mr.  Dreghorn,  the  proprietor  of  James 
Blair's  farm,  had  a  son  an  only  one  we 


believe,  named  Henry,  at  this  time  about 
four-and-twenty  years  of  age.  He  was  a 
remarkably  fine-looking  young  man,  and 
of  engaging  manners,  but,  in  reality,  a 
heartless  debauchee  ;  one  whom  no  moral 
restraints  could  bind ;  and  whom  no  con- 
siderations, however  strongly  they  might 
appeal  to  the  sense  of  honor,  could  induce 
to  forego  the  gratification  of  his  selfish 
and  vicious  passions. 

Such  was  Henry  Dreghorn,  and  such 
was  the  man  who  was  destined  to  carry 
misery  and  wretchedness  into  the  once 
happy  home  of  James  Blair. 

Young  Dreghorn  saw,  and  (we  cannot 
say  loved,  for  he  was  too  great  a  sensual- 
ist to  entertain  so  pure  and  holy  a  passion) 
coveted  the  fair  form  of  Eliza  Blair. 

On  this  part  of  our  story,  however,  wc 
need  not  dwell.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the 
arch  deceiver  plied  his  most  winning  "wiles, 
and  plied  them  successfully ;  he  triumph- 
ed, and  his  victim  fell. 

On  the  disgrace  of  the  poor  confiding 
girl  becoming  known  to  her  family,  dread- 
ful was  its  effect.  Her  mother  shrieked 
out,  in  the  agony  of  her  soul,  and  refused 
to  be  comforted.  Her  father,  with  more 
strength  of  mind,  suppressed  his  grief; 
but  he  too  shed  the  secret  tear,  and  beat 
his  forehead  in  the  wildness  of  bis  despair, 
as  he  brooded  over  the  ruin  of  his  hopes 
— the  ruin  of  his  child. 

But  it  was  on  her  brother  that  the  blow, 
perhaps,  fell,  after  all,  with  the  most 
witherins;  effect.  With  a  less  matured 
judgment,  and  with  less  experience  of  the 
world  than  his  elders,  his  feelings  were 
more  poignant,  and  less  under  the  control 
of  reason.  To  him  all  appeared  dark  and 
dismal,  without  one  glimmering  of  light  to 
relieve  the  dreary  waste  of  his  thoughts. 
To  his  unfortunate  sister  herself  he  said 


THE  PROFLIGATE. 


191 


nothing — not  one  upbraiding  word  escaped 
his  lips ;  but  his  silence  was  the  silence 
of  deep  despondency — of  a  mind  oppress- 
ed and  borne  down  by  an  overwhelming, 
although  uncomplaining  sorrow. 

Young  Blair's  first  impulse,  on  learning 
the  misfortune  of  his  sister,  was  to  seek 
out  her  destroyer,  and  to  take  him  to  ac- 
count for  the  dastardly  deed  ;  and  for  this 
purpose  he  actually,  watched  him,  cau- 
tiously and  determinedly,  with  a  loaded 
pistol.  But  Dreghorn  was  not  to  be 
found ;  he  had  left  the  country ;  he  had 
gone  to  London ;  and  thus,  for  a  time,  at 
any  rate,  escaped  the  vengeance  of  the 
justly  incensed,  but  rash  and  ill-judging 
young  man.  Thus  baulked  of  his  victim, 
young  Blair  resumed  his  usual  employ- 
ment ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  short  space. 
The  disgrace  of  his  sister  so  preyed  on  his 
mind,  that  he  could  not  attend  to  his  duties 
as  he  formerly  did ;  neither  would  he  go 
abroad  as  he  had  been  wont,  but  naturally, 
though  erroneously,  believing  that  he  also 
would  be  considered  as  sharing  the  infamy  j 
of  "his  unhappy  relative,  avoided  all  his 
usual  places  of  resort,  and  all  the  compa- 
nions of  his  happier  hours. 

This,  however,  was  a  state  of  things  j 
that  could  not  lons!;  continue  ;  neither  did 
it ;  young  Blair,  unable  longer  to  struggle 
a2;ainst  the  witheringi;  feelinoi;s  which  his 
continued  residence  on  the  scene  of  his 
own  and  his  family's  disgrace  was  con- 
stantly calling  into  existence,  suddenly 
disappeared,  without  informing  even  his 
parents  of  his  intention,  or  giving  them 
any  idea  of  what  he  intended  doing.  A 
letter,  however,  which  they  received  a 
short  time  after  his  departure,  solved  the 
mystery.  It  informed  them  that  he  had 
enlisted ;  and  gave  them,  at  the  same 
time,  the  reason  for  his  taking  so  extraor- 
dinary a  step  ;  yet,  although  this  reason, 
as  will  readily  be  guessed,  bore  reference 
to,  and  weighed  heavily  on,  the  conduct 
of  his  unfortunate  sister,  he  concluded  by 
begging  for  tha4,  sister,  at  the  hands  of  his 
parents,  their  forgiveness,  and  the  kindest 


attentions  which  their  own  benevolence 
could  suggest,  and  her  unhappy  situation 
could  demand. 

Like  much  greater  events,  however,  the 
misfortune  of  the  Blair  family  was  only  a 
nine  days'  wonder.  For  somewhere  about 
that  time,  it  was  the  talk  of  the  country ; 
but  it  gradually  sunk  into  oblivion,  and 
was  soon  all  but  forgotten.  The  subse- 
quent disappearance  of  young  Blair,  also, 
created  a  sensation  for  a  time  ;  but  that 
too  passed  away,  and  merged  into  the  ge- 
neral mass  of  things  heaped  up  by  revolv- 
ing years.  These,  to  the  number  of  six 
or  seven,  had  now  sped  on  their  course; 
and,  when  they  had  done  so,  they  found 
James  Blair,  with  his  regiment,  in  Spain, 
fighting  the  battles  of  that  unhappy  coun- 
try, and  of  all  Europe,  if  we  but  except 
France,  under  the  Dake  of  Wellington. 

The  reo-iment  to  which  Blair  belonsjed 
had  sufi'ered  severely  in  these  sanguinary 
conflicts  ;  and  he  himself  had  been  twice 
wounded,  though  not  so  seriously  as  to 
drive  him  from  the  field,  where  he  had 
acquired  the  reputation  of  a  brave  and 
intrepid  soldier.  The  losses  which  Blair's 
regiment  sustained  falling  particularly 
heavy  on  the  officers,  they  were  replaced 
from  time  to  time  by  young  aspirants  for 
military  fame  from  England,  who  sought 
out  and  were  then  ioinino;  their  regiments, 
at  every  resting-point  in  the  route  of  the 
army — coming,  fresh  and  untrained,  from 
the  bosom  of  civil  society,  and  the  luxu- 
ries of  home,  to  share  in  the  dangers  and 
j)rivations  of  a  soldier's  life. 

Of  such  was  a  gentleman,  dressed  in  a 
blue  surtout,  with  fur  neck,  and  followed 
by  two  sumpter-mules  loaded  with  his 
baggage,  who  road  up  to  a  piquet,  or  out- 
guard,  of  the  — th  regiment — the  regiment 
to  which  Blair  belonged — on  the  day  pre- 
ceding the  Battle  of  Vittoria,  and  inquired 
for  the  head-quarters  of  the  corps.  James 
Blair  was  one  of  the  party  to  whom  the 
stranger  addressed  himself ;  and  there  was 
good  reason  for  the  agitation  into  which  the 
sight  of  that  person  threw  the   astonish- 


192 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ed  soldier.  In  that  person  he  recognised,  ' 
although  the  latter  knew  not  him,  the  se- 
ducer of  his  sister,  Henry  Dreghorn.  He 
had  purchased  a  commission  in  the  army, 
and  was  now  come  out  to  join  the  regi- 
ment to  which  he  had  been  appointed — 
the  same,  by  a  curious  coincidence,  in 
which  the  brother  of  his  victim  served. 
On  seeing  him,  Blair  became  as  pale  as 
death,  and  felt  himself  suddenly  under 
the  influence  of  a  violent  but  indefinable 
feeling  of  excitation,  which  he  made  a 
desperate  effort  to  conceal  from  his  com- 
rades, lest  it  might  lead  to  the  discovery 
of  the  disgrace  of  his  unfortunate  sister — 
a  discovery  which  he  dreaded  infinitely 
more  than  the  front  of  the  enemy. 

Blair's  first  impulse,  on  this  occasion, 
was  to  rush  on  his  sister's  seducer,  and  to 
transfix  him  to  the  spot  with  his  bayonet ; 
but,  for  the  same  reason  that  induced  him 
to  conceal  his  feelings  from  his  comrades — 
namely,  the  dread  of  bringing  to  light  the 
story  of  her  frailty — he  forbore  ;  but  it 
was  with  a  secret  compact  with  himself, 
that  the  hour  of  vengeance  was  only  de- 
layed, not  passed  away.  In  the  meantime, 
Lieutenant  Dreghorn — for  such  was  the 
rank  he  held — having  obtained  the  infor- 
mation he  desired,  pursued  his  way,  and 
was  soon  at  the  destination  he  sought. 

We  have  already  alluded  to  the  singu- 
larity of  the  circumstance  of  Dreghorn's 
being  appointed  to  the  same  regiment  in 
which  Blair  served ;  but  it  will  appear  yet 
more  striking,  when  we  mention  that  he 
was  appointed  not  only  to  the  same  regi- 
ment, but  the  same  company  to  which  the 


brother  of  the  victim  of  his  unhallowed 
passions  belonged.  This  was  the  case  ; 
and  it  was  a  circumstance  well  calculated 
to  forward  that  stern  and  perhaps  too  se- 
vere retribution  which  was  about  to  be 
meted  out  to  the  heartless  seducer. 

The  mornino;  following;  the  occurrence 
of  the   incident  just  related  saw  the  con- 
tending  armies    of    Britain    and   France 
drawn  up  in  hostile  array  on  the  memora- 
ble field  of  Vittoria.     The  bugle  sounded 
its  ominous  strains ;  the  drum  pealed  its 
notes    of    alarm  ;    and   the   armed   hosts 
closed   in    deadly   strife,    shrouded   in   a 
canopy  of  dense   and  sulphurous   smoke^ 
The  — th  regimejit  was  amongst  the  first 
engaged.     It  was  thrown,  for  a  moment, 
into     some    confusion  by  the   impetuous 
charge  of  a  column  of  the  enemy.     Dur- 
ing this  moment,  the  combat  assumed  the 
character  af  a  melee.     The  men  were  de- 
tached, and  fighting  single-handed,  officers 
and  privates  mingled   together.     At  one 
instant,  during  the   struggle,  Lieutenant 
Dreghorn  stood  alone,  isolated  from  his 
companions  in  arms.     In  that  instant,  a 
bullet    passed    through    his     head,     and 
stretched  him  lifeless  on  the  field.     That 
bullet   was   from   the   musket   of   James 
Blair.     He   saw  the  opportunity,  found  it 
irresistible,  levelled  his  piece,  fired,  and 
the  seducer  of  his  sister  fell.     The  Bat- 
tle of  Vittoria  was  fought  and  won,  but 
James  Blair  was  not  amonirst  the  livina; 
victors.       He    perished    in   the    conflict, 
probably  not  against  his  own  wishes  ;   and 
a  comrade,  who  saw   the   direction  of  his 
^  aim,  told  the  story  after  the  war. 


POLWARTH  ON  THE  GREEN. 


193 


POLWAHTH    ON    THE    GREEN. 


Peradventure  there  are  a  few  of  our 
readers  who  have  not  heard  of  "  Polwarth 
on  the  Green,"  and  the  "  Polwarth 
Thorn."  The  sons;  bearms;  the  former 
title  is  certainly  founded  upon  one  of  the 
most  popular  traditions  on  the  Borders. 
Since  the  commencement  of  this  publica- 
tion, we  have  been  many  times  requested 
to  write  a  tale  upon  the  subject,  and  not 
less  than  thrice  from  different  quarters 
within  the  last  seven  days  ;  and,  as  we  are 
at  all  times  anxious  to  meet  the  wishes  of 
our  readers,  we  shall  now  endeavor  to  fulfil 
the  request  which  has  been  made  to  us. 

There  are  none  to  whom  the  traditions 
of  other  days  are  not  interesting.  They 
save  from  oblivion  the  memory,  the  deeds, 
and  the  manners  of  our  fathers.  No  na- 
tion is  so  sunk  in  barbarity  as  to  disregard 
them  ;  the  civilized  European,  and  the 
Indian  savage,  alike  cherish  them ;  and 
the  poets  of  every  land  have  wed  them 
with  song.  Yet,  nowhere  are  traditions 
more  general  or  more  interesting  than  up- 
on the  Borders.  Every  grey  ruin  has  its 
tale  of  wonder  and  of  war.  The  solitary 
cairn  on  the  hillside,  speaks  of  one  who 
died  for  religion,  or  for  liberty,  or  belike 
for  both.  The  very  schoolboy  passes  it 
with  reverence,  and  can  tell  the  history  of 
him  whose  memory  its  perpetuates.  The 
hill  on  which  it  stands  is  a  monument  of 
daring  deeds,  where  the  sword  was  raised 
against  oppression,  and  where  heroes  sleep. 
Every  castle  hath  its  legends,  its  tales  of 
terror  and  of  blood,  "  of  goblin,  ghost,  or 
fairy."  The  mountain  glen,  too,  hath  its 
records  of  love  and  war — there  historj^  has 
let  fall  its  romantic  fragments,  and  the 
hills  enclose  them.  The  forest  ■  trees 
whisper  of  the  past ;  and,  beneath  the 
shadow  of  their  branches,  the  silent  spirit 

13 


of  other  years  seems  to  sleep.  The  an- 
cient cottage,  also,  hath  its  traditions,  and 
recounts 

"  The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

Every  family  hath  its  legends,  which  re- 
cord to  posterity  the  actions  of  their  an- 
cestors, when  the  sword  was  law,  and  even 
the  payment  of  rent  upon  the  Borders 
was  a  thing  which  no  man  understood  ; 
but,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  saith,  "  all  that 
the  landlord  could  gain  from  those  resid- 
ing upon  his  estate,  was  their  personal 
service  in  battle,  their  assistance  in  labor- 
ing the  land  retained  in  his  natural  posses- 
sion, some  petty  quit-rents  of  a  nature  re- 
sembling the  feudal  casualties,  and  per- 
haps a  share  in  the  spoil  which  they 
acquired  by  rapine."  Many  of  those 
traditions  are  calculated  to  melt  the 
maiden's  heart,  to  fill  age  with  enthusi- 
asm, and  youth  with  love  of  country, — 
But  to  our  story. 

In  the  year  1470,  John  Sinclair  of 
Herdmanstone,  in  East  Lothian,  who  was 
also  Lord  of  Kimmerghame  and  Polwarth, 
dying  without  male  issue,  the  estate  of 
Kimmerghame  descended  to  his  daughter 
Marion,  and  that  of  Polwarth  to  her  sister 
Margaret.  His  heir-male  was  his  brother, 
Sir  William  Sinclair,  to  whom  the  estate 
of  Herdmanstone  fell.  Sir  William,  as 
the  uncle  of  the  co-heiresses,  though  not 
appointed  as  their  guardian  by  their 
father,  for  they  were  both  well  nigh  of 
woman's  estate  when  he  died,  craftily  took 
upon  himself  that  duty.  He  whispered  to 
them  that  their  estates  were  not  managed 
as  they  ought  to  be — that  their  bondmen 
did  not  perform  the  duty  required  of  them 
— that  those  they  had  set  over  their 
grounds  as  stewards,  did  not  render  them 


194 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


a  faithful  account  of  their  stewardship. 
He  insinuated  a  thousand  suspicions  into 
their  young  minds,  until  their  affairs 
gradually  fell  into  his  hands,  and  he  at 
length  succeeded  in  gaining  the  entire 
manao-ement  of  their  estates  :  and  he  now 
required  only  to  have  the  disposal  of  their 
personal  freedom.  Men  of  power  in  those 
days  were  not  very  scrupulous  as  to  the 
means  which  they  employed  to  obtain 
their  object ;  he  who  had  a  score  of  re- 
tainers, weighed  the  scales  of  life  and 
death  in  his  hands.  Nevertheless,  aware 
of  the  rank  which  his  nieces  held  in  the  es- 
timation of  his  country.  Sir  William  knew 
that  it  would  not  be  safe  to  venture  upon 
making  them  prisoners  by  open  violence. 
He,  therefore,  courteously  invited  them 
to  his  house  at  Herdmanstone,  where  he 
stated  that  the  gayest  and  the  proudest 
company  in  broad  Scotland  would  be 
present  to  delight  them.  Marion,  who 
was  fond  of  amusements,  was  overjoyed 
at  the  invitation ;  but  her  sister  Mar- 
garet, who  was  of  a  graver  disposition, 
said — 

"  Well,  sister,  1  like  not  our  uncle's  kind- 
ness— something  sinful  seems  to  laugh  in 
his  looks  ;  the  very  movement  of  his  lips 
bespeaks  more  than  he  reveals  ;  confide  in 
?7ie,  dear  sister,  and  distrust  him.  When 
I  was  but  a  child,  playing  around  our 
mother's  knee,  1  have  heard  her  say  unto 
my  father — '  Ah,  John  !  I  like  not  your 
brother  ;  there  is  a  cunning  in  his  looks, 
in  his  very  words  ;  he  cannot  meet  you 
with  the  straightforward  gaze  of  an  honest 
man  ;  and  methinks  he  looks  upon  me  as 
though  he  distrusted  and  hated  me  ;  yea, 
I  have  often  thou2;ht  as  thouQ;h  he  were 
plotting  evil  against  me.'  So  our  mother 
was  wont  to  say  ;  and  my  father  would  re- 
ply— '  Dear  Elizabeth,  think  not  so  cru- 
elly of  one  who  is  so  near  and  dear  to 
me ;  trust  me,  that  he  loves  you  and 
yours.'  *  It  may  be  so,'  she  would  reply, 
'  but  there  is  that  in  his  manner  which  I 
cannot  overcome.'  Then  our  father  would 
remain  silent  for  a  time,  and  add — ^  Well, 


there  is  a  want  of  frankness  in  Sir  Wil- 
liam which  becomes  not  a  brother.'  " 

"  Lull  your  suspicions,  my  demure  sis- 
ter," the  light-hearted  Marion  replied  ; 
^'  a  thousand  times  have  I  heard  him  say 
that  no  one  but  the  boldest  baron  in  all 
Scotland  should  wed  his  niece,  Marion." 

"  And  he  said  truly,"  replied  Marga- 
ret ;  "  for,  if  he  have  us  once  within  his 
power,  not  even  the  boldest '  knight  in 
Scotland  will  be  able  to  receive  our  hands, 
unless  he  sue  for  it  with  gallant  bowmen 
at  his  back,  and  the  unsheathed  sword  to 
enforce  his  suit." 

^'  Oh,  then,  sister,  subjoined  Marion, 
"  I  suppose  you  have  a  knight  at  hand  who 
would  delight  in  such  handy- work  ;  for  is 
not  Sir  Patrick  Hume  of  Wedderburn  re- 
puted to  be  the  most  valorous  knight  upon 
the  Borders,  and  withal  the  humble 
worshipper  of  fair  Margaret  Sinclair  of 
Polwarth."  ) 

And  as  the  maiden  spoke  she  laughed, 
and  tapped  her  sister  good-naturedly  upon 
the  cheek.  Margaret  blushed,  and  play- 
fully replied — "  Well,  sister,  is  there  no 
valorous  knight  at  Wedderburn  but  Sir 
Patrick  ?  What  think  ye  of  George 
Hume  .'"' 

"  No  more  of  this,"  cried  Marion  ;  "  let 
us  accept  our  uncle's  invitation,  and  min- 
gle with  the  gay  company  he  has  invited 
to  meet  us." 

"  If  you  will  have  it  so,  let  it  be  so,"  re- 
plied Margaret ;  "  but,  trust  me,  I  fear 
that  good  will  not  come  of  it." 

On  the  following  day  they  set  out  upon 
their  journey  towards  Herdmanstone,  ac- 
companied with  only  two  men-servants. 
Their  uncle  received  them  ^vith  a  show  of 
cordial  friendship  ;  but  the  guests  whom 
they  expected  to  meet,  they  saw  not,  and 
they  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  beneath 
his  roof,  when  they  found  themselves  priso- 
ners, secured  by  gratings,  bolts,  and  bars. 
On  discovering  the  situation  into  which 
they  had  been  entrapped,  Marion  wept 
aloud,  and  accused  herself  of  being  the 
unwitting  author  of  her  sister's  captivity. 


POLWARTH   ON  THE   GREEN. 


195 


"  Fear  not,"  said  Margaret  ;  "  our  un- 
cle is  a  stern  man,  he  is  a  man  of  blood  ; 
but  there  are  as  strong  luinds  as  his,  that 
will  be  raised  to  deliver  the  sisters  of 
Kimmerghame  and  Polwarth,  when  their 
captivity  becomes  known." 

'"'-  But  how  will  it  be  known  r"  asked 
Marion  ;  "  for  who  knows  that  we  are 
here  ?" 

"  Let  us  trust  to  Him  who  is  the  or- 
phan's father,"  replied  her  sister,  "  and 
leave  all  to  His  good  providence." 

"  Amen,"  said  the  other  ;  but  she 
sobbed  bitterly  as  she  spoke. 

On  the  second  day  of  their  imprison- 
ment, their  uncle  entered  the  apartment 
where  they  were  confined. 


Weel, 


maidens," 


said  he  sternly, 
'^  how  like  ye  your  abode  at  Herdman- 
stone  .?  I  have  observed  the  slio'htfu'  een 
with  which  baith  o'  you  have  looked  upon 
your  uncle ;  and  now  that  ye  are  in  my 
power,  ye  shall  repent  the  airs  o'  disdain 
that  ye  hae  taken  upon  you.  It  becomes 
nae  the  blood  o'  Polwarths  to  assume  a 
superiority  over  the  house  o'  Sinclair. 
So  choose  ye — there  are  twa  cousins  who 
are  not  very  auld,  but  they're  growing  ; 
ye  shall  hae  your  choice  to  marry  them, 
or  the  deepest  dungeon  in  Herdmanstone 
shall  be  your  doom.  Your  destiny  is  placed 
in  your  o^vn  hands — decide  it  as  ye  will ; 
but  r-emember  that  it  is  a  Sinclair  that 
never  broke  his  word,  that  wags  the  finger 
o'  fate  over  your  heads.  Eight  days ! 
eight  days!  remember!"  he  repeated, 
and  left  them. 

''  Now,  you  will  despise  me,  Margaret," 
said  Marion,  "  for  my  maiden  ambition 
has  led  us  into  this  trouble  ;  yet  will  I 
rather  be  an  inmate  in  our  uncle's  dun- 
geon, than  be  the  wife  of  the  boy-husband 
he  would  assign  me.  Sister,  will  you  not 
upbraid  me  .'"' 

"  Upbraid  you  !"  said  the  calm  and 
gentle  Margaret,  "  stern  as  is  our  uncle, 
deadly  as  is  his  wrath,  I  fear  him  not. 
The  other  day  you  spoke  to  me  jeeringly 
of  Sir  Patrick  Hume — in  the  same  strain 


1  answered  you  respecting  his  brother 
George.  Eight  days  will  not  pass  until 
Sir  Patrick  miss  me  from  Polwarth,  and 
powerful  as  my  uncle  may  be,  bold  and 
desperate  as  he  is,  I  know  that  one  stone 
of  Herdmanstone  Castle  will  not  be  left 
standing  upon  another  until  we  are 
freed." 

"  You  have  a  brave  heart,  sister,"  said 
Marion,  "  but  it  is  small  comfort  to  me, 
who  must  look  upon  myself  as  the  author 
of  this  disaster.  And  how  think  ye  that 
Sir  Patrick  or  his  brother  George  (if  ye 
will  speak  o'  him)  are  to  hear  of  our  con- 
finement >  Wot  ye  not,  that  they  know 
not  where  we  are  ;  or  if  they  should  know, 
they  will  not  apprehend  that  e\i\  could 
befal  us  in  the  house  of  our  relative  .?" 

"  I  believe,  Marion,"  answered  Marga- 
ret, "  that  within  the  eight  days  which 
our  uncle  has  named,  we  shall  either  be  at 
liberty,  or  have  ceased  to  live.  It  is  our 
lives  that  he  seeks,  not  that  we  should  be 
the  wives  of  his  sons  ;  rather  than  be  so 
wed,  1  will  die — so  will  you.  But,  if  we 
should  die,  our  deaths  would  not  be  un- 
avenged. He  would  neither  enjoy  our  es- 
tates, nor  the  triumph  of  his  guilt.  Ye 
have  heard  the  names  of  Patrick  and 
George  Hume  of  Wedderburn  spoken  of 
as  sounds  of  terror  upon  the  Borders — 
their  swords  have  avenged  the  injured, 
and  released  the  captive.  Marion  !  they 
will  avenge  our  wrongs — dear  sister,  be 
not  afraid." 

It  was  about  daybreak  on  the  fourth 
day  after  their  imprisonment,  that  a  mu- 
sician, who  played  upon  the  Union  or 
Northumbrian  pipe  of  those  days,  ap- 
proached beneath  the  window  of  their 
apartment,  and  softly  playing  an  air,  ac- 
companied it  with  his  voice,  as  follows  : — 

My  heart  is  divided  between  them, 

I  dinna  ken  which  I  wad  hae  ; 
Right  willing  my  heart  I  wad  gien  them — 

But  how  can  I  gie  it  to  twae  ? 
There's  Meggy,  a  fairer  or  better 

I'm  certain  there  couldna  weel  be  ; 
Dumfounder-d  the  first  time  T  met  her, 

What  was  sweet  Marion  to  me  ! 


196 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


Yet  Marion  is  gentle  and  bonny 

I  liked  her  ere  Meggy  I  saw, 
And  they  say  it  is  sinfu'  for  ony 

Man  upon  earth  to  like  twa. 
My  heart  it  is  rugg'd  and  tormented, 

I'd  live  wi'  or  die  for  them  baith  ; 
I've  done  what  I've  often  repented, 

To  baith  I  have  plighted  my  aith. 

Ajid  oft  when  I'm  walking  with  Meggy, 

I'll  say  "Dear  Marion."  and  start  ; 
While  fearfu'  she'll  say,  '•  Weel,  I  ken  ye 

Hae  ithers  mair  dear  to  your  heart." 
Was  ever  a  man  sae    confounded  ? 

I  dinna  ken  what  will  be  dune, 
Baith  sides  o'  my  bosom  are  wounded, 

And  they'll  be  the  death  o'  me  sune. 

"  Hark  !"  said  Marion,  as  she  listened 
to  the  strain  of  the  minstrel ;  "  it  is  the 
song  of  the  Egyptian  thief,  Johnny  Faa. 
Mind  ye  since  he  sang  it  beneath  our  win- 
dow at  Kimmerghame  ?" 

"  J  remember  it  weel,"  replied  Marga- 
ret ;  "  but  dinna  call  him  thief,  sister  ; 
for,  be  Johnny  a  king  or  no  a  king,  he  is 
one  that  King  James  is  glad  to  lift  his 
bonnet  to  ;  and  I  am  sure  that  he  means 
weel  to  us  at  present.  Wheesht  ye, 
Marion,  and  I  will  whisper  to  him  a  low 
ehaunt  over  the  window.'  And,  in  a  low 
voice,  she  sucg — 

Oh,  saw  ye  my  laddie  comin',  Johnny  ? 

Oh,  saw  ye  my  laddie  comin'  ? 
If  ye've  no  seen  him,  tell  him  fraeme, 

That  I'm  a  woefu'  woman. 
We  here  are  sisters  twa,  Johnny, 

Confined  within  this  tower  ; 
And  ilka  time  the  sun  gaes  down 

It  points  to  our  death  hour. 

"  I  heard  it  rumored,  gentle  maiden," 
said  the  gipsy,  gazing  eagerly  towards  the 
window  from  whence  they  looked,  "  that 
no  good  was  intended  ye  in  this  place ; 
and  though  it  be  not  in  the  power  of  John- 
ny Faa  to  bring  to  ye  the  assistance  of  his 
own  men,  yet  it  strikes  me  there  is  ane, 
if  no  twa.y  maidens,  that  I  could  bring  to 
your  rescue,  and  that  wad  make  a  clap  o' 
thunder  ring  through  the  deepest  cell  in 
Herdnianstone.'' 

"  Thank  ye,  Johnny,"  replied  Marga- 
ret; "  ye're  kind — ye're  very  kind;  and 
if  ye  wad  carry  a  bit  scrap  o'  paper  to 
Wedderburn  Castle,  greatly  would  ye  aid 
a  distressed  damsel." 


*'  I  thank  ye,  my  doo,  for  relying  on 
the  word  and  promise  o'  John,  king  and 
lord  o'  Little  Egypt.  Little  do  they  ken 
me,  and  less  is  their  knowledge  o'  our  race, 
who  think  that  we  would  look  upon  those 
who  are  wronged  without  seeing  them 
righted.  How  I  heard  of  your  imprison- 
ment or  the  wrong  intended  ye,  never  fash 
your  thumb  ;  though  a  bird  waffed  it  in 
my  lugs  wi'  its  wings,  though  it  chirped 
it  in  them  as  it  chirmed  past  me,  it  is 
enough  that  I  ken  o'  your  wrongs,  and  that 
I  will  assist  ye.     Trust  me,  maidens." 

"  I  will  trust  ye,"   answered  ?vlargaret. 

"  Dinna  trust  him,  sister,"  said  Marion; 
"  he  may  be  some  spy  of  our  uncle's." 

"  Of  being  a  spy,"  cried  the  other,  "  I 
dinnabelieve  him  capable  Stop,  Johnny, 
or  king,  or  whatever  ye  be,"  she  added, 
"  and  I  will  throw  ye  a  word  or  two 
to  carry  to  Sir  Patrick  Hume  of  Wedder- 
burn." 

She  addressed  to  him  a  few  words,  and 
threw  the  paper  which  contained  them  into 
the  hands  of  the  gipsy. 

"  Bless  ye  for  your  confidence,  my  bon- 
ny lassie  !"  said  Johnny  Faa ;  "  and  before 
the  sun  gae  down.  Sir  Patrick  Hume  shall 
ken  that  there  is  ane  that  likes  him  pining 
in  a  captive's  prison,  wi'  none  but  ane 
that  his  brother  likes  to  bear  her  compa- 
ny," 

The  gipsy  king  was  mounted  on  an 
active  pony,  and  although  it  was  without 
a  saddle,  and  reined  only  by  a  hempen 
bridal,  he  dashed  off  with  it,  at  the  pace 
of  a  fleet  racer,  and  directed  his  course 
towards  the  Lammermoors. 

It  was  not  noon  when  he  arrived  at  the 
Castle  of  Wedderburn.  The  porter  at 
the  gate  retreated  in  terror  as  he  beheld 
him,  for  the  name  of  the  Faa  king  had 
become  terrible  on  the  Borders,  and  even 
the  king  had  been  glad  to  grant  him  terms 
on  his  own  choosing.  On  beinc;  admitted 
to  the  presence  of  the  knight — "  What  is 
it,  ye  vagrant  loon,"  asked  Sir  Patrick, 
''  that  brings  ye  to  venture  within  the  roof 
o'  honest  men  .?" 


POLWARTH  ON  THE  GREEN. 


197 


"  Honest !"  said  tlie  gipsy — "  ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  I  dare  srj  your  honesty  and  mine  is 
muckle  about  a  par.  Between  us  two  it 
is,  take  who  can.  Ye  hae  the  bit  land, 
Sir  Patrick,  but  ye  havena  a  stronger  or 
a  more  cunning  hand,  nor  yet  a  sharper 
sword  than  the  lord  o'  Little  Egypt. 
Therefore,  speak  at  evens  with  me, -lest ye 
rue  it." 

^'  And  wherefore  should  I  speak  at 
evens,"  answered  Hume,  "  with  the  like  o' 
you,  who  are  at  best  but  the  king  o^  gaber- 
lunzie  men." 

"  The  mischief  light  on  ye  !"  said  the 
gipsy  ;  "  ye  have  provoked  me  sair,  and  I 
have  tholed  wi'  your  slights  and  taunting  ; 
but  try  me  not  wi'  another  word,  lest  ye 
rue  it.  Sir  Patrick  Plume,  and  your  bro- 
ther rue  it,  and  every  Hume  o'  the  house  o' 
Wedderburn  shall  be  brought  to  cry 
dool,  for  refusing  to  listen  to  the  words  o' 
Johnny  Faa." 

"  And  what  wad  ye  say  if  ye  had  yuur 
will,  ye  braggart  knave  .?"  cried  the 
knight. 

"  Merely,"  retorted  the  gipsy,  "  that 
there  is  a  bonny  lassie,  ane  who  is  owre 
guid  to  be  the  bride  o'  sae  uncivil  an  in- 
dividual as  yourseP,  now  lying  in  durance, 
wi'  death  or  perpetual  imprisonment 
before  her,  while  ye  havena  the  courage  to 
lift  your  hand  to  her  rescue." 

"  Of  whom  speak  ye  .^"  vociferated  the 
laird  of  Wedderburn. 

"  Who,"  rejoined  the  gipsy,  slily,  "is 
nearest  to  your  heart } — who  nearest  to 
your  door  ?  Have  you  seen  her  within 
these  four  days  .'^" 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Sir  Patrick,  "  speak 
ye  of  my  Margaret.'^" 

"  Of  whom  does  your  heart  tell  you  that 
I  speak  .?"  said  Faa. 

"  It  is  then  to  her  that  ye  allude  .^"  cried 
Sir  Patrick. 

"  Ay,  it  is  to  her,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  and  what  knight  are  ye  that  would  re- 
main here  idly  within  your  castle,  while 
death  threatens  the  maiden  of  your 
love?" 


''  Pardon  me,  stranger,''  said  Sir  Pa- 
trick ;  "  tell  me  where  she  is." 

"  Ye  ask  me  to  pardon  ye  now," 
answered  the  gipsy  proudly  ;  *'  ye  knew 
me  before,  when  the  insult  was  offered,  ye 
know  me  still.  It  is  not  because  ye  bear 
a  name  powerful  in  arms,  nor  yet  that  I 
have  heard  of  your  deeds  of  war  that  I 
come  to  you  ;  but  it  is  because  of  the 
maiden  who  loves  you  as  the  Mayfly  does 
the  summer  sun.  Margaret  Sinclair  and 
her  sister  are  the  prisoners  of  their  uncle, 
Sir  William  Sinclair  of  Herdmanstone. 
He  has  looked  with  an  eye  of  covetousness 
upon  their  estates — he  longs  to  possess 
them  ;  and,  if  they  be  not  yielded  to  him, 
the  life  of  the  fair  owners  now  in  his  pow- 
er must  pay  the  forfeit." 

The  knight  clasjoed  the  hand  of  the  gip- 
sy. "  Thank  ye,  thank  ye,"  he  cried ; 
"  I  will  reward  ye  for  this  act  of  kind- 
ness." 

'•  You  reward  me  !"  shouted  the  gipsy 
king,  disdainfully,  "  think  ye  that  when 
the  king  of  Little  Egypt  does  an  act  of 
humanity  or  generosity,  he  is  to  be  reward- 
ed for  it  by  a  Scottish  knight !  Away 
with  ye,  man  !  I  spurn  your  thanks!  I 
am  as  far  above  them  as  the  moon  is  above 
the  glow-worm  that  glimmers  on  the 
ground — ay,  as  the  sun  above  the  foetid 
matter  from  which  it  draws  life.  Know, 
then,  that  Margaret  Sinclair  and  her  sister 
will  die  unless  ye  have  courage  to  release 
them,  and  that  before  another  Sabbath 
shine  a  holiday  to  you." 

Wedderburn  held  his  hand  in  thankful- 
ness. "  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,"  he 
cried ;  "  I  have  spoken  unjustly  to  one 
that  has  a  soul  within  him,  and  who  has 
sympathized  for  those  in  whom  my  happi- 
ness is  bound  up.  Again,  I  say,  forgive 
me." 

"  Ye  are  forgiven,"  said  the  Faa  ;  "  and, 
if  assistance  be  needed  in  the  hour  of  peril, 
ye  shall  find  willing  hands  ready  to  help 
ye,  though  ye  deserve  it  not." 

So  saying,  the  Faa  beckoned  his  hand, 
and  withdrew  from  the  presence  of  Hume. 


198 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Sir  Patrick  bore  the  tidings  instantly  to 
his  brother  ;  and,  within  two  hours,  a  hun- 
dred of  their  retainers  stood  armed  around 
Wedderburn  Castle.  "To  Herdman- 
stone  !"  was  the  cry  ;  "  and  the  rescue  of 
the  lady  love  of  the  Lord  of  Wedder-. 
burn !" 

"  Ay,  and  for  Marion,  the  maid  of 
Kimmerghame  !"  cried  George,  the  bro- 
ther of  Sir  Patrick  ;  "  and  the  Sinclairs 
shall  wear  stout  bucklers  and  belts  to  boot, 
that  this  sword  pierce  not." 

The  party  being  marshalled,  they  took 
their  way  across  the  Lammermoors  with 
the  brothers  Sir  Patrick  and  George 
Hume  at  their  head.  It  was  shortly  after 
daybreak  when  they  appeared  before 
Herdmanstone  Castle;  and  the  Lady 
Margaret  was  the  first  to  perceive  their 
approach. 

"  Sister  !"  she  cried  ;  "  see  !  see  !  aid 
is  at  hand — the  banner  of  the  Humes 
is  wavino-  over  the  fields  of  Herdman- 
stone." 

"  Ye  dream,  sister  !"  said  Marion,  start- 
ing from  her  couch. 

"  Nay,  I  dream  not,"  retorted  Marga- 
ret. "  Arise  ;  through  the  grey  light  I 
perceive  the  plume  of  Sir  Patrick  Hume, 
and  the  gay  jack  which  my  sister  wrought 
for  his  brother." 

Marion  sprang  forward  to  the  window 
where  her  sister  stood ;  they  thrust  their 
hands  from  the  window,  to  encourage  their 
deliverers  to  the  rescue,  while  Sir  Patrick 
and  his  brother  answered  them  back,  cry- 
ino- — "  We  come  !  we  come  !  The  hauo-h- 
ty  and  cruel  Sinclair  shall  repent  in  blood." 
The  trumpets  of  the  Humes  sounded  ; 
and,  as  if  prepared  for  the  approaching 
conflict,  within  a  few  minutes,  more  than 
fifty  retainers  of  Sir  William  Sinclair 
were  in  arms.  Ignorant  of  the  number  of 
their  foes,  they  rushed  forth  to  meet  them, 
hand  to  hand,  and  sword  to  sword.  Long 
the  strife  was  desperate — it  was  even  doubt- 
ful; but,  at  length,  superiority  of  numbers, 
on  the  part  of  the  Humes,  prevailed;  the 
retainers  of  Sir  William  were  routed  in  all 


directions,  and  his  caslle  was  assailed,  even 
to  its  threshold.  "  To  the  rescue  of  the 
fair  maidens  !"  shouted  the  Humes.  In- 
dependent of  the  immediate  retainers  of 
Sir  William  Sinclair,  however,  his  neigh- 
bors came  to  his  aid,  and,  although  they 
were,  at  first,  as  two  to  one,  the  conflict 
had  not  lasted  long  when  the  Humes  be- 
came the  weaker  party.  The  battle  raged 
keenly — swords  were  broken  in  the  grasp 
of  their  owners — the  strong  war-horse 
kicked  upon  the  ground,  in  the  agony  of 
death,  indenting;  the  earth  with  its  hoofs 
as  it  died,  leaving  the  impression  of  its 
agony — their  wounded  men  grappled  with, 
and  reviled  each  other,  as  though  they  had 
been  foreigners  or  aliens — spears  were 
broken,  and  shields  clanked  against  each 
other — while  the  war-shout  and  the  dying 
groan  mingled  together.  Victory  seemed 
still  to  be  doubtful  ;  for,  though  the 
Humes  fought  bravely,  and  their  leaders 
led  them  on  as  with  the  heroism  of  despair, 
yet  every  minute  the  numbers  of  their 
adversaries  increased,  while  theirs  if  the 
expression  might  be  used,  became  fewer 
and  more  few. 

Yet  there  were  two  spectators  of  the 
conflict  who  beheld  it  with  feelings  that 
may  not,  that  cannot  be  described.  Now 
the  one  beheld  the  plume  which  she  had 
adorned  for  her  betrothed  husband,  severed 
by  the  sword  of  an  enemy  ;  while  the 
otKer  saw  the  gay  jerkin,  which  she  had 
weave-d  for  hers,  tarnished  with  blood. 
They  perceived,  also,  what  we  might  term 
the  ebbing  and  the  flowing  of  the  deadly 
feud — the  retreating  and  the  driving  back  ; 
and  they  were  spectators  also  of  the 
wounded,  the  dying,  and  the  dead.  They 
saw  the  party,  in  whom  their  hop^s  were 
fixed,  gradually  overpowered — they  beheld 
them  fall  back  beneath  the  swords  of  their 
opponents,  disputing  inch  by  inch  as  they 
retired,  and  their  hearts  fell  within  them. 
When  hope,  fear,  and  anxiety  were 
wrought  to  their  highest  point  of  en- 
durance, and  the  party  in  whom  their 
trust   lay  seemed  to  be  vanquished,    and 


THE   ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


199 


were  driven  back,  at  that  period,  Johnny 
Faa,  and  a  number  of  his  followers,  rush- 
ed to  their  succour. 

"Hurra!'  exclaimed  the  wanderer, 
''  for  the  braw  lasses  o'  Polwarth  and 
Kimmerghame  !  Fight,  ye  Humes  !  fight  ! 
There  is  a  prize  before  ye  worthy  a  clour 
on  the  crown,  or  even  a  stab  through  the 
brisket." 

The  approach  of  the  Faa  king  turned 
the  tide  of  victory,  and  his  followers  shout- 
ed— "  The  bonny  lasses  o'  Polwarth  and 
Kimmerghame   shall  be  free  !" 

"  For  ever,  ay,  and  a  day  after  it," 
cried  Sir  William,  "  shall  the  man  inherit 
a  cow's  mailing,  and  a  cow  to  boot,  upon 
the  lands  o'  Herdmanstone,  who  this  day 
brings  me  upon  his  sword  the  head  o'  one 
o'  the  birkies  o'  Wedderburn."  Sir  Wil- 
liam, however,  became  a  suppliant  for 
mercy  beneath  the  red  sword  of  Patrick 
Hume  ;  and  his  life  being  granted,  the 
Sinclairs  gave  their  arms  into  the  hands 
of  their  opponents.  The  young  brothers 
each  rushed  into  the  house,  to  the  rescue 
of  the  captive  damsels  ;  and  Margaret  and 
Marion  each  fell  upon  the  neck  of  the  man 
she  loved. 

On  arriving  at  Polwarth,  they  were  met 


by  the  glad  villagers,  with  whom  the  fair 
ladies  joined  hands,  and  they  danced  to- 
gether in  joy  around  a  thorn  tree,  upon 
the  village  green. 

In  a  few  weeks,  each  of  the  maidens 
gave  her  hand  to  her  deliverer — Margaret 
to  Sir  Patrick,  and  Marion  to  his  brother 
George.  On  their  marriage-day,  the  dance 
around  the  thorn  upon  the  green  was  re- 
sumed, and  a  festive  crowd  tripped  joyous- 
ly around  it,  blessing  the  bride  of  Pol- 
warth and  her  fair  sister,  Marion  of  Kim- 
merghame ;  and  the  music  to  which  they 
that  day  danced,  proceeded  from  the  pipes 
of  king  Johnny  Faa,  who,  with  half  a 
dozen  of  his  people,  sat  each  with  a  pair 
of  union  pipes  beneath  his  arm,  and  dis- 
coursing "  most  eloquent  music,"  without 
"  fee,  favor,  or  reward,"  save  that  they 
were  partakers  of  the  good  things  which 
were  that  day  plentifully  cii'culated  upon 
Polwarth  green. 

In  concludins;  this  account  of  the  co- 
heiresses  of  Polwarth  and  Kimmerghame, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  add  that,  from  her 
union  with  Hume  of  W^edderburn,  the  fair 
Margaret  became  the  progenitor  of  the 
future  Earls  of  Marchmont, 


THE    ROTHESAY    FISHERMAN. 


When  I  was  a  boy,  I  used  to  pass  the 
summer  vacation  in  the  Isle  of  Bute, 
where  my  father  had  a  small  cottage,  for 
the  convenience  of  sea  bathing.  I  enjoyed 
my  sea-side  visits  greatly,  for  I  was  pas- 
sionately fond  of  boating  and  fishing,  and, 
before  I  was  sixteen,  had  become  a  fear- 
less and  excellent  swimmer.  From  morn- 
ing till  night,  I  was  rambling  about  the 
beach,  or  either  sailing  upon  or  swimming 
in  the  beautiful  Frith.  I  was  a  prime  fa- 
vorite among  the  fisherman,  with  most  of 
whom  I  was  on  familiar   terms,  and  knew 


them  all  by  name.  Among  their  number 
was  one  man  who  particularly  attracted 
my  attention,  and  excited  my  curiosity. 
He  was  civil  and  obliging,  though  distant 
and  reserved  in  his  manners,  with  a  shade 
of  habitual  melancholy  on  his  counte- 
nance, which  awakened  my  sympathy,  at 
the  same  time  that  his  "  bearing,"  which 
was  much  above  his  station,  commanded 
my  respect.  He  appeared  to  be  about 
sixty  years  of  age  ;  particularly  prepos- 
sessing in  his  appearance  ;  and  his  lan- 
o-uaire    and    demeanor  would   have    done 


200 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


honor  to  any  rank  of  society.  I  felt  in- 
voluntarily attracted  towards  him,  and 
took  every  opportunity  of  showing  my 
wish  to  please  and  become  better  acquaint- 
ed with  him ;  but  in  vain.  He  seemed 
gratified  by  my  attentions  ;  but  I  made  no 
nearer  approach  to  his  confidence.  He 
went,  among  his  companions,  by  the  name 
of  "Gentleman  Douglas;"  but  they  ap- 
peared to  be  as  ignorant  of  the  particu- 
lars of  his  history  as  myself.  All  they 
knew  of  him  was,  that  he  had  come  among 
them,  a  perfect  stranger,  some  years  be- 
fore, no  one  knew  from  whence  ;  that  he 
seemed  to  have  some  means  of  support 
independent  of  his  boat ;  and  that  he  was 
melancholy,  silent,  and  reserved — as  much 
as  possible  avoiding  all  communication 
with  his  neighbors.  These  particulars 
only  served  to  whet  my  boyish  curiosity, 
and  I  determined  to  leave  no  means  un- 
tried to  penetrate  to  the  bottom  of  Doug- 
las' mystery.  Let  me  do  myself  justice, 
however :  my  eagerness  to  know  his  his- 
tory proceeded  from  an  earnest  desire  to 
soothe  his  sorrow,  whatever  it  might  be, 
and  to  benefit  him  in  any  way  in  my  pow- 
er. Day  after  day  I  used  to  stroll  down 
to  the  beach,  when  he  was  preparing  to 
get  his  boat  under  way,  and  volunteer  to 
pull  an  oar  on  board.  At  first  he  seemed 
annoyed  by  my  ofiiciousness  ;  and,  though 
he  always  behaved  with  civility,  shewed, 
by  his  impatient  manner,  that  he  would 
rather  dispense  with  my  company;  but 
the  constant  dripping  of  water  will  wear 
away  a  stone,  and  hard  indeed  must  be 
the  heart  that  will  not  be  softened  by  un- 
remitting kindness.  My  persevering  wish 
to  please  him  gradually  produced  the  de- 
sired effect — he  was  pleased,  and  evinced 
it  by  his  increasing  cordiality  of  manner, 
and  by  the  greater  interest  he  seemed  to 
take  in  all  my  movements.  In  a  short 
time  we  became  inseparables,  and  his  boat 
hardly  ever  left  the  shore  without  me. 
My  father  was  not  at  all  adverse  to  my 
intimacy  with  Douglas ;  he  knew  him  to 
be  a  sober,  industrious  man,  and  one  who 


bore  an  irreproachable  moral  character  ; 
and,  as  he  was  anxious  that  I  should 
strengthen  my  constitution  as  much  as 
possible  in  the  sea-breeze,  he  thought  I 
could  not  roam  about  under  safer  or  less 
objectionable  protection.  On  a  further 
acquaintance  with  Douglas,  I  found  him  a 
most  agreeable  companion  ;  for,  when  his 
reserve  wore  ofi",  his  conversation  was 
amusinp^  and  instructive  ;  and  he  had  tales 
to  tell  of  foreign  lands  and  of  distant  seas, 
which  he  described  with  that  minuteness 
and  closeness  which  only  a  personal  ac- 
quaintance with  them  could  have  produced. 
Often,  in  the  course  of  his  narration,  his 
eye  would  brighten  and  his  cheek  glow 
with  an  emotion  foreign  to  his  usual  calm 
and  melancholy  manner ;  and  then  he 
would  suddenly  stop,  as  if  some  sound 
he  had  uttered  had  awakened  dark  memo- 
ries of  the  past,  and  the  gloom  clouded 
his  brow  again,  his  voice  trembled,  and 
his  cheek  grew  pale.  These  sudden  tran- 
sitions alarmed  and  surprised  me ;  my 
suspicions  were  excited,  and  I  began  to 
imagine    that  the  man    must   have    been 

o 

guilty  of  some  unknown  and  dreadful 
crime,  and  that  conscience  was  at  such 
times  busy  within  him.  Douglas  must 
have  observed  my  changing  manner  ;  but 
it  made  little  alteration  in  his  demeanor 
towards  myself. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Douglas  ?"  said  I, 
one  day,  when  I  observed  him  start  and  turn 
pale  at  some   casual  observation  of  mine. 

"  Do  not  indulge  a  vain  and  idle  curi- 
osity, Master  Charles,  at  the  expense  of 
another's  feelings,"  replied  he,  gravely 
and  mournfully,  "  nor  endeavor  to  rake 
up  the  ashes  of  the  past.  The  heart 
knows  its  own  bitterness :  long  may  yours 
be  a  stranger  to  sorrow  !  I  have  observed, 
with  pain,  that  you,  as  others  have  done, 
begin  to  look  upon  me  with  suspicion.  Be 
satisfied  with  the  assurance,  that  I  have 
no  crimes,  needing  concealment,  to  re- 
proach myself  with ;  and  the  sorrows  of 
age  should  be  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  youth." 

I  was  humbled  by  the  old  man's  reproof, 


THE  ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


201 


and  hastened   to   express  my  concern  for 
liavino;  hurt  his  feelino;s. 

"  Enough  said,  enough  said,  Mr. 
Charles,"  said  he  ;  "  Curiosity  is  natural 
at  your  age  ;  and  I  am  not  surprised  at 
your  wishing,  like  some  of  your  elders,  to 
learn  the  cause  of  the  melancholy  which 
hangs  over  me  like  a  cloud,  darkening  the 
path  of  life,  and  embittering  all  its  plea- 
sures. At  some  future  time  I  will  tell 
you  the  reason  why  you  see  me  what  I 
am  ;  but  1  cannot  now — the  very  thought 
of  it  unmans  me." 

Time  wore  on  ;  every  year  I  returned 
to  the  sea-side  during  the  summer,  and 
was  always  welcomed  with  unaffected  cor- 
diality by  my  old  ally,  Douglas.  I  was 
now  a  strapping  youth  of  nineteen,  tall 
and  powerful  of  my  age — thanks  to  the 
bracing  sea-air  and  constant  exercise. 
One  day  Douglas  told  me  he  was  going 
over  to  Largs,  and  asked  if  I  would  ac- 
company him. 

'^  With  all  my  heart,"  said  I ;  and,  in 
ten  minutes,  we  were  standing  across  the 
Frith  with  a  fine  steady  breeze.  We  were 
close  over  to  the  Ayrshire  coast,  when  a 
sudden  puff  of  wind  capsized  the  boat, 
and  we  were  both  thrown  into  the  water. 
When  I  rose  to  the  surface  ag-ain,  after 
my  plunge,  I  looked  around  in  vain  for 
Douglas,  who  had  disappeared.  He  had 
on  a  heavy  pea  jacket,  and  I  was  at  first 
afraid  the  weight  and  encumbrance  of  it 
must  have  sunk  him ;  but,  on  second 
thoughts,  I  dived  under  the  boat,  and 
found  him  floundering  about  beneath  the 
sail,  from  whence  I  succeeded  with  great 
difl&culty  in  extricating  him.  He  was 
quite  exhausted,  and  it  required  all  my 
strength  to  support  him  to  the  gunnel  of 
the  boat.  After  hanging  on  there  some 
time,  to  recover  breath,  we  swam  toorether 
to  the  beach,  which  was  not  far  distant. 
When  we  landed,  he  seated  hiaiself  on  a 
large  stone,  and  remained  silent  for  some 
time,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 

''  Douglas,"  said  I,  wondering  at  his 
long  silence,  "  are  you  hurt .''" 


To  my  great  surprise  I  heard  low  sobs, 
and  saw  the  tears  trickling  between  his 
fingers.  Thinking  that  he  was  grieved  at 
the  loss  of  his  boat,  I  said — 

"  Cheer  up,  man  !  jf  the  boat  be  lost, 
we  will  manage  among  us  to  get  another 
for  you." 

"  'Tisn't  the  boat,  sir,  'tisn't  the  boat 
— we  can  soon  raise  her  again :  it  is  your 
kindness  that  has  made  a  fool  of  me." 

He  then  looked  up  in  my  face,  and, 
drying  his  glistening  cheek  with  one  hand, 
he  shook  mine  long  and  heartily  with  the 
other. 

"  Mr.  Charles,  before  I  met  you,  I 
thoug^ht  I  was  alone  in  the  world  ;  shun- 
ned,  by  most  around  me,  as  a  man  of  mys- 
tery. Because  I  could  not  join  in  their 
rude  sports  and  boisterous  merriment, 
they  attributed  my  reserve  and  visible  de- 
jection to  sinister  causes — possibly  to  some 
horrible  and  undiscovered  crime."  A 
blush  here  flitted  across  my  countenance  ; 
but  Douglas  did  not  remark  it.  ''  Young, 
and  warm,  and  enthusiastic,  you  sought 
me  out  with  different  feelings — you  were 
attracted  towards  me  by  pity,  and  by  a 
generous  desire  to  relieve  my  distress.  It 
was  not  the  mere  impulse  of  a  moment ; 
your  kindness  has  been  constant  and  un- 
wavering— and  now  you  have  crowned  all 
by  saving  my  life.  I  hardly  know  whether 
or  not  to  thank  you  for  what  was  so  worth- 
less to  myself;  but  I  do  thank  you  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  for  the  friendly 
and  generous  feeling  which  actuated  you. 
You  shall  know  the  cause  of  the  sorrow 
that  weighs  upon  my  heart ;  I  would  not 
that  one  to  whom  I  owe  so  much,  should 
look  upon  me  with  the  slightest  shade  of 
suspicion.  I  think,  when  you  know  my 
story,  you  will  pity  and  sympathize  with 
me ;  but  you  will  judge  less  harshly,  I 
doubt  not,  than  I  do  of  myself." 

"  Do  not  call  up  unnecessary  remem- 
brances, which  harrow  your  feelings, 
Douo-las.  That  I  have  often  thought  there 
is  mystery  about  you,  I  will  not  deny ;  but 
only  once  did  the  possibility  of  a  cause  of 


202 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


guilt  flash  across  my  mind  ;  that  unworthy 
suspicion  has  long  past,  and  I  am  now 
heartily  ashamed  of  myself  for  having 
harbored  it  for  a  moment.  But  we  are 
forgetting  the  boat;  we  must  try  to  get 
assistance  to  right  her." 

We  soon  fell  in  with  one  of  the  fisher- 
men on  the  coast,  with  whose  assistance 
she  was  speedily  righted  and  baled  out ; 
and,  after  having  done  what  we  came  for 
at  Largs,  we  returned  homewards. 

"  Meet  me  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock, 
Mr.  Charles,"  said  Douglas,  as  he  grasped 
my  hand  at  parting,  "  and  you  shall  then 
hear  my  story,  and  judge  whether  or  not 
I  have  cause  to  grieve." 

At  the  appointed  hour  next  morning  I 
hastened  to  the  rendezvous ; — the  fisher- 
man was  already  there,  waiting  for  me. 

''  I  daresay  you  are  surprised  to  see  me 
here  so  soon,"  said  he  ;.  "  but  now  that  I 
have  determined  to  make  you  my  confi- 
dant, I  feel  eager  to  disburthen  my  mind, 
and  to  seek  relief  from  my  sorrows  in  the 
sympathy  of  one  whom  I  am  so  proud  to 
call  my  friend. 

I  was  not  always  in  the  humble  station 
in  which  you  now  see  me,  Mr.  Stewart ; 
but,  thank  heaven  !  it  was  no  misconduct 
of  my  own  that  occasioned  the  change. 
My  father  was  an  English  clergyman, 
whose  moderate  stipend  denied  to  his  fa- 
milv  the  luxuries  of  life ;  but  we  had  rea- 
son  to  acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  wise 
man's  saying,  that  "  a  dinner  of  herbs, 
where  love  is,"  is  better  than  more  sump- 
tuous fare  where  that  love  is  not :  we  were 
a  united  and  a  happy  family,  contented 
with  the  competence  with  which  Provi- 
dence had  blessed  us,  and  pitying,  not  en- 
vying, those  who,  endowed  with  greater 
wealth,  were  exposed  to  greater  tempta- 
tions. Oh !  those  happy,  happy  days ! 
It  sometimes  almost  maddens  me,  Mr. 
Stewart,  to  compare  myself,  as  I  am  now, 
with  what  I  was  then.  Every  morning  I 
rose  with  a  light  and  happy  heart,  exulting 
in  the  sunbeam  that  awakened  me  with  its 
smile,  and  blessing,  in  the  gladfulness  of 


youthful  gratitude,  the  gracious  Giver  of 
light  and  life.  My  heart  overflowed  with 
love  to  all  created  beings.  I  could  look 
back  without  regret,  and  the  future  was 
bright  with  hope.  And  now,  what  am  I  ■: 
A  broken-hearted  man ;  but  still,  after 
all  my  suff"erings,  grateful  to  the  hand 
which  has  chastened  me.  I  can  picture 
the  whole  family  grouped  on  a  summer 
evening,  now,  Mr.  Stewart,  as  vividly  as 
a  sight  of  yesterday,  though  fifty  years 
have  cast  their  dark  shadows  between. 
My  mother,  seated  beside  her  work-table 
under  the  neat  verandah  in  front  of  our 
cottage,  encouraging  my  sisters,  with  her 
sweet  smile  and  gentle  voice,  in  the  work- 
ing of  their  first  sampler ;  my  father, 
seated  with  his  book,  under  the  shade  of 
his  favorite  laburnum  tree  ;  while  my  bro- 
ther and  I  were  trundling  our  hoops  round 
the  garden,  shouting  with  boyish  glee  ; 
and  my  little  fair-haired  cousin,  Julia,  totr- 
terino;  alono;  with  her  little  hands  extended, 
to  catch  the  butterfly  that  tempted  her  on 
from  flower  to  flower.  My  brother  Henry 
was  two  years  younger  than  myself,  and 
was,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  a  remarkably 
handsome,  active  boy,  of  ten  years  of  age  ; 
full  of  fun  and  mischief;  unsteady  and 
volatile.  My  father  found  considerable 
difficulty  in  confining  Henry's  attention 
to  his  studies ;  for,  though  uncommonly 
quick  and  intelligent,  he  wanted  patience 
and  application.  He  could  not  bear  the 
drudgery  of  poring  over  musty  books. 
He  used  to  say  to  me — "  How  1  should 
like  to  be  an  officer,  a  gallant  naval  offi- 
cer, to  lead  on  my  men  through  fire  and 
smoke  to  victory  !"  And  then  the  little 
fellow  would  wave  his  hand,  while  the 
color  flushed  his  cheeks,  and  shout — 
"  Come  on  !  come  on  !"  He  had,  some- 
how or  other,  got  possession  of  an  old 
naval  chronicle  ;  and  from  that  moment 
his  whole  thoughts  were  of  ships  and  bat- 
tles, and  his  principal  amusement  was  to 
launch  little  fleets  of  ships  upon  the  pond 
at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  My  father, 
though  mild  and  indulgent  in  other  mat- 


THE   ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


203 


ters,  was  a  strict  disciplinarian  in  educa- 
tion ;  and  often  did  I  save  Henry  from 
punishment  by  helping  him  with  his  exer- 
cises and  other  lessons.  Dearly  did  I  love 
my  gallant,  high-spirited  little  brother  ; 
and  he  looked  up  to  me  with  equal  fond- 
ness. 

I  will  not  weary  you  with  details  ;  but 
at  once  jump  over  the  next  twelve  years 
of  my  life.  The  scene  was  now  greatly 
changed  at  the  parsonage :  death  had 
been  busy  among  its  inmates ;  a  conta- 
gious disorder  had  carried  off  my  mother 
and  sisters,  and  my  poor  father  was  left 
alone  in  his  old  age — not  alone,  for  Julia 
was  still  with  him.  I  forgot  to  say,  be- 
fore, that  she  was  the  orphan  daughter  of 
his  elder  brother.  Julia,  at  sixteen,  was 
beautiful.  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe 
her,  although  every  feature,  every  expres- 
sion of  her  lovely  countenance,  is  vividly 
pictured  in  my  heart.  She  was  its  light, 
its  pride,  its  hope.  Alas  !  alas  !  she  had 
grown  up  like  a  sweet  flower  beside  me, 
and,  from  her  infancy,  had  clung  to  me 
with  a  sister's  confidence,  and  more  than 
a  sister's  affection.  Was  it  wonderful 
that  I  loved  her  ?  Yes,  I  loved  her  fondly 
and  devotedly ;  and  I  soon  had  the  bliss 
of  knowing  that  my  affection  was  returned. 
I  had  been  for  some  time  at  college,  stu- 
dying for  the  church,  when  a  distant  re- 
lation died,  and  left  me  a  comfortable 
competency.  My  father  now  consented 
with  pleasure  to  my  union  with  Julia ; 
and  a  distant  day  was  fixed  for  the  mar- 
riage, to  enable  my  brother  Henry  to  be 
present.  He  had  been  abroad  for  some 
time  in  the  merchant  service,  and  his  con- 
stant employment  had  prevented  his  visit- 
ing home  for  many  years  ;  but  he  had  writ- 
ten to  say  that  he  expected  now  to  have  a 
long  holiday  with  us.  At  length  he  re- 
turned ;  and  great  was  my  joy  at  meeting 
my  beloved  brother  once  more.  He  was 
a  fine,  handsome,  manly-looking  fellow — 
frank  and  boisterous  in  his  manner,  kind 
and  generous  in  his  disposition,  but  the 
slave  of  passion  and  impulse.     In  a  week 


after  his  return,  he  became  dull  and  re- 
served, and  every  one  remarked  the  extra- 
ordinary change  that  had  come  over  him. 
My  fixther  and  I  both  thought  that  our 
quiet  and  monotonous  life  wearied  and 
disgusted  him,  and  that  he  longed  for  the 
more  bustling  scenes  to  which  he  had  been 
accustomed.  "Come,  Harry!"  said  1  to 
him  one  day,  "  cheer  up,  my  boy  !  we 
shall  be  merry  enough  soon  :  you  must  lay 
in  a  fresh  stock  of  spirits  ;  Julia  will 
quarrel  with  you  if  you  show  such  a  mel- 
ancholy phiz  at  our  wedding."  He  turn- 
ed from  me  with  impatience,  and,  rushing 
out  into  the  garden,  I  saw  no  more  of  him 
that  day.  I  was  hurt  and  surprised  by  his 
manner,  and  hastened  to  express  my  an- 
noyance to  Julia.  She  received  me  with 
less  than  her  usual  warmth,  blushed  when 
I  talked  of  my  brother,  and  soon  left  me 
on  some  trifling  pretext.  My  father  had 
gone  to  visit  a  neighboring  clergyman,  at 
whose  house  he  was  taken  suddenly  and 
alarmingly  ill.  I  hastened  to  his  bedside, 
and  found  him  in  such  a  precarious  state 
that  I  determined  upon  remaining  near 
him.  I  therefore  despatched  a  messenger 
to  Julia,  informing  her  of  my  intention, 
and  intimating  that  it  would  be  necessary 
to  postpone  our  marriage,  which  was  to 
have  taken  place  in  the  course  of  a  week, 
until  my  father's  recovery.  In  answer  to 
my  letter,  1  received  a  short  and  hurried 
reply,  merely  acquiescing  in  the  propriety 
of  my  movements,  and  without  any  ex- 
pression of  regret  at  my  lengthened  ab- 
sence. Surprised  at  the  infrequency  and 
too  apparent  indifference  of  Julia's  an- 
swers to  the  long  and  impassioned  letters 
which  I  almost  daily  wrote  to  her,  alarmed 
at  the  long  interval  which  had  elapsed 
since  I  last  heard  from  her,  and  fearing 
that  illness  might  have  occasioned  her 
silence,  I  left  my  father,  who  was  rapidly 
recovering,  and  hastened  home.  When  I 
arrived  at  the  parsonage,  I  walked  into 
the  drawing-room  ;  but,  as  neither  Julia 
nor  my  brother  was  there,  I  concluded 
they  were  out  walking,  and,  taking  a  book, 


204 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


I  sat  down,  impatiently  waiting  their  re- 
turn. Some  time  having  elapsed,  however, 
without  their  making  their  appearance,  I 
rang  the  bell ;  and  our  aged  servant,  on 
entering,  started  at  seeing  me  there. 

"  La,  sir  !"  said  she,  "  I  didn't  expect 
to  see  you .'" 

"  Where  are  Miss  Julia  and  my  bro- 
ther !" 

"  Why,  la,  sir  !  I  was  just  agoing  to 
ask  you.  Miss  Julia  had  a  letter  from 
you  about  a  week  ago,  and  she  and  Mr. 
Henry  went  off  in  a  poshay  together  next 
day.  They  said  they  would  be  back  to- 
day." 

I  said  not  a  word  in  reply,  but  buried 
my  face  in  my  folded  arms  on  the  table, 
while  the  cold  perspiration  flowed  over  my 
brow,  and  my  heart  sickened  within  me,  as 
the  fatal  truth  by  degrees  broke  upon  me. 
"  Fool,  fond  fool,  that  I  was,  to  have 
been  so  long  blind  !"  muttered  I ;  "  but 
it  cannot  be  ! — Julia  ! — my   Julia  ! — no, 
no  !"     And  I  almost   cursed  myself  for 
the  unworthy  suspicion.     But  why  dwell 
longer  upon   these  moments   of    agony  .^ 
My  first  surmise  was  a  correct  one  :  in  a 
week's  time  all  was  known — my  brother, 
my  brother   Harry,   for   whom   I    would 
have  sacrificed  fortune,  life  itself,  had  be- 
trayed my  dearest  trust,  and  had  become 
the  husband  of  her  I  had  fondly  thought 
my  own.     The  blow  was  too  sudden  and 
overpowering ;     I    sank   beneath  it ;    my 
reason  became  unsettled,  and,  for  several 
months,    I  was   unconscious    of  my  own 
misery.     I   awoke    to    sense,  an   altered 
man.     My  heart  was  crushed,  my  very 
blood   seemed  to  be   turned  into   gall,  1 
hated  my  kind,  and  resolved  to  seclude 
myself  for  ever  from  a  world  of  falsehood 
and    ingratitude.     The    only    tie    which 
could  have  reconciled  me  to  life  had  been 
wrenched  away  from  me  during  my  un- 
consciousness :  my  brother's  misconduct 
had  broken  my  father's  heart,  and  I  was 
left  alone  in  the  world.     I  paid  one  sad 
visit  to  my  father's  grave,  shed  over  it 
bitter  tears  of  sorrow  and  disappointment, 


and  from  that  hour  to  this  I  have  never 
seen  the  home  in  which  I  passed  so  many 
happy  days.  Some  months  afterwards,  I 
received  a  letter  from  a  friend  residing;  in 
Wales,  of  a  very  extraordinary  nature, 
requiring  me  instantly  to  visit  him,  and 
stating  that  he  had  something  of  impor- 
tance to  communicate  to  me.  I  knew  the 
writer,  and  confided  in  him  ;  he  had 
known  my  misfortune,  and  wept  with  me 
over  the  loss  of  my  Julia  and  of  my  fa- 
ther. I  hastened  to  him  on  the  wino-s  of 
expectation  ;  and,  when  I  arrived,  was 
taken  by  him  into  an  inner  apartment  of 
his  house,  with  an  air  of  secrecy  and  mys- 
tery. 

"  Have  you  yet  recovered  from  the  ef- 
fects of  your  misfortunes  .'"  said  he.  "I 
have  often  reflected  on  your  extraordina- 
ry fate,  and  pitied  you  from  the  inner- 
most recesses  of  my  soul.  Would  you 
believe  it  .^ — I  have  in  store  for  you  an 
antidote  against  the  grief  of  your  ruined 
affections  ;  but  I  will  not  say  a  medicine 
for  your  pain,  or  a  balm  for  your  sor- 
rows." 

"  For  a  broken  heart,"  said  I,  ^'  there 
is  no  cure  in  this  world." 
He  looked  at  me,  and  wept. 
*'  Dress  yourself    in    this  suit   of    my 
mournings,''  he  said,    "  and    accompany 
me  whither  I  will  lead  you." 

I  gazed  at  him  in  amazement ;  but  he 
left  me  to  put  on  the  weeds,  and  to  tor- 
ture myself  with  vain  thoughts. 

He  returned  and  called  me  out.  I  fol- 
lowed him.  We  went  some  little  dis- 
tance, and  joined  a  funeral  that  was 
slowly  proceeding  to  the  burying-ground. 
My  confusion  prevented  me  from  looking 
at  the  time  to  see  who  was  chief  mourner. 
I  proceeded  with  the  mourners,  and  soon 
stood  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.  When 
the  pall  was  taken  off,  and  the  coffin  low- 
ered down  into  the  earth,  my  eye  caught 
the  inscription  on  the  plate  ;  it  was  "  J. 
M.,  aged  20."  ''So  young!"  muttered 
I ;  and  at  the  same  moment  I  glanced  at 
the    chief  mourner.     He  had  withdrawn 


THE  ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


205 


his  handkerchief  from  his  face — our  eyes 
met — he  turned  deadly  pale,  and  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  leave  the  ground  ;  but  I 
sprang  forward,  almost  shrieking,  "  Hen- 
ry !"  and  detained  him.  I  looked  in  his 
face.  Oh,  what  a  change  was  there  ! 
His  eye  quailed  beneath  the  cold,  steady, 
withering  glance  of  mine.  I  felt  that  he 
read  the  meanino;  of  that  glance ;  for  he 
absolutely  writhed  beneath  it. 

"  Do  not  revile  me,  brother,"  murmur- 
ed he  :  "  the  hand  of  Heaven  has  been 
heavy  upon  me  ;  my  crime  has  already 
met  with  its  punishment.  Oh,  my  poor, 
poor  Julia  !" 

"  Where,  where  is  she  .?"  wildly  ex- 
claimed I.     He  pointed  to  the  new-made 


crave 


Oh,  the  bitterness  of  that  hour  !  We 
wept — the  betrayer  and  the  betrayed  wept 
together  over  the  grave  of  their  buried 
hopes.  I  arose  calm  and  collected. 
"  Brother,"  said  I,  giving  him  my  hand, 
"  my  animosity  shall  be  buried  with  her  ; 
may  your  own  heart  forgive  you  as  freely 
as  I  do  the  injury  you  have  done  me  ! 
But  we  must  never  meet  more."  And, 
with  slow  steps  and  aching  heart,  I  turned 
and  left  the  spot. 

I  received  a  letter  from  Henry  some 
time  afterwards  from  one  of  the  outports, 
telling  me  that  he  was  just  on  the  point 
of  leaving  England  for  ever,  and  implor- 
ing my  forgiveness  in  the  most  touching 
terms,  "  for  the  sake  of  our  early  days, 
the  happy  years  of  our  boyhood."  Those 
early  days — those  happy  days  ! — my  heart 
softened  towards  him  as  I  thoug-ht  of  them. 
Sorely  as  he  had  wronged  me,  he  was  my 
brother  still,  and  I  felt  that  I  could,  if 
permitted,  clasp  him  to  my  heart  once 
more. 

Weary  of  life,  and  tired  of  the  world, 
I  dragged  on  a  miserable  existence  for 
some  time,  in  a  secluded  situation  on  the 
shores  of  Cornwall ;  but,  by  degrees,  the 
monotony  of  my  sedentary  and  recluse 
life  wearied  me.  I  began  to  associate 
with  the  poor  fishermen  around  me,  and, 


in  a  short  time,  became  enthusiastically 
fond  of  their  perilous  and  exciting  mode 
of  life.  The  sea  became  to  me  quite  a 
"passion" — my  mind  had  found  a  new 
channel  for  its  energies ;  and  when,  a 
short  time  afterwards,  I  lost  my  little  for- 
tune through  the  mismanagement  or  vil- 
lany  of  my  agent,  I  took  staff  in  hand, 
and,  hastening  to  Liverpool,  boldly  launch- 
ed into  life  again  as  a  common  seaman, 
on  board  a  merchant  vessel  bound  to  the 
West  Indies. 

I  had  toiled  on  for  several  years  as  a 
common  seaman,  during  which  time  I  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  my  captain,  by  my 
indefatigable  attention  to  the  duties  of  my 
station,  and  by  the  reckless  indifference 
with  which  I  lavished  mj  strength,  and 
often  risked  my  life,  in  the  performance 
of  them. 

"  Douglas,"  (for  that  was  the  name 
which  I  had  assumed,)  "  Douglas,"  said 
the  captain  to  me  one  day,  after  I  had 
been  particularly  active  during  a  heavy 
gale  we  encountered,  "  I  must  try  if  I 
cannot  do  something  for  you  :  your  ac- 
tivity and  energy  entitle  you  to  promo- 
tion. I  will  speak  to  the  owners  when  we 
return,  and  endeavor  to  procure  you  a 
mate's  berth."  I  thanked  him,  and  went 
forward  again  to  my  duty.  A  few  days 
afterwards,  we  were  going  along  with  a 
strong  beaming  wind ;  there  was  a  high 
sea  running,  every  now  and  then  throw- 
ing a  thick  spray  over  the  weather  bul- 
warks ;  the  hands  were  at  dinner,  and  I 
was  just  coming  up  to  relieve  the  man  at 
the  wheel  ;  there  was  no  one  on  deck  but 
the  mate  of  the  watch,  and  the  captain, 
who  was  standing  on  the  weather  bulwark, 
shaking  the  backstays,  to  feel  if  they  bore 
an  equal  strain:  all  at  once  the  ship  gave 
a  heavy  weather  lurch,  the  captain  lost 
his  footing,  and  was  overboard  in  a  mo- 
ment. I  instantly  sprang  aft,  cut  away 
the  life-buoy,  and  knowing  that  he  was 
but  an  indifferent  swimmer,  jumped  over- 
board after  him.  As  I  said  before,  the 
sea  was  running  high,  and  a  few  minutes 


206 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


elapsed  before  I  caught  sight  of  him  ris- 
ing on  the  crest   of  a  -wave,  at  some  dis- 
tance from  me.     I  saw  he  could  not  hold 
out  long  ;  for   he  was  over-exerting  him- 
self, shouting  and  raising  his  hand  for  as- 
sistance, and  his   face  was  pale  as  death. 
I  struck  out  desperately  towards  him,  and 
shouted,  when  I  got  near  him,  "  Keep  up 
your  heart,  sir  ;  be    cool  ;  don't  attempt 
to  lay  hold  of  me,  and  please  God,  I  will 
save  you  yet.''     My  advice  had  the   de- 
sired effect,  and  restored  his  self-posses- 
sion ;  he  became  more  cool  and  collected, 
and   with    occasional    support  from  me, 
contrived  to  reach  the  life-buoy.     In  the 
meantime,  all  was  confusion  on  board  the 
ship  ;  the  second   mate  of    the   watch,  a 
young  hand,  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment, 
threw  the    ship  too    suddenly  up   in  the 
wind,  a  squall  struck  her  at  the  moment, 
and  the  foretopmast    and   topgallantmast 
went  over  the  side,  dragging  the  maintop- 
gallantmast  with  them.     The  cry  of '' A 
man  overboard!"  had  hurried  the  crew 
on  deck,  and  the  crash  of  the  falling  spars, 
and    the  contradictory    orders    from    the 
quarter-deck,  at  first  puzzled  and  confus- 
ed them  ;  but  the  chi^f  mate  was  a  cool, 
active  seaman,  and  the   moment  he  made 
his   appearance,  order   and  silence  were 
restored  ;  the  quarter-boat  was  instantly 
lowered,  numbers    of  the  men  springing 
forward  to  volunteer  to  man  her,  for  the 
captain  was   deservedly    beloved    by  his 
crew  ;  and  the  rest  of  the  hands  were  im- 
mediately set  to  work  to   clear  away  the 
wreck.     In  a  few  minutes  the  boat  reach- 
ed us,  and  we  were  safely  seated  in  the 
stern-sheets. 

"  Douglas,  my  gallant  fellow,"  said  the 
captain,  shaking  me  cordially  by  the  hand, 
"  1  may  thank  you  that  I  am  not  food  for 
the  fishes  by  this  time.  I  had  just  resign- 
ed myself  to  my  fate,  when  your  voice 
came  over  the  water  to  me,  like  a  mes- 
senger of  hope  and  safety.  How  can  I 
ever  repay  you  ?" 

"  I  am  sufficiently  repaid,  Captain 
Rose,  by   seeing    you    beside    me ;    the 


only  way  in  which  you  can  serve  me,  is 
by  giving  me  a  lift  in  the  way  of  promo- 
tion, when  we  return  home." 

"  I  will,  you  may  depend  upon  it,"  re- 
plied he  ;  "  and  as  long  as  I  live,  you 
may  apply  to  me  as  a  firm  and  faithful 
friend." 

I  was  highly  gratified  by  this  promise  ; 
for  the  great  object  of  my  ambition  for 
some  time  past  had  been  to  raise  myself 
again  from  obscurity  into  something  like 
my  former  station  in  life.  Next  voyage, 
through  the  captain's  interest  with  the 
owners,  I  was  appointed  chief  mate  of  the 
Albion,  Captain  Rose's  ship,  for  which  I 
was  found  duly  qualified,  having  employed 
all  my  spare  hours  at  sea  in  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  the  theory  of  navigation. 
Captain  Rose  was  like  a  brother  to  me, 
introducing  me  to  his  family  and  friends 
as  the  saver  of  his  life,  and  making  a  lion 
of  me  in  Liverpool.  We  sailed  in  com- 
pany with  a  large  fleet,  under  convoy  of 
of  three  frigates  and  two  sloops  of  war, 
and  had  been  some  time  at  sea,  when  a 
heavy  gale  of  wind  came  on  one  afternoon, 
which  completely  dispersed  the  convoy. 
When  it  commenced  there  were  nearly 
two  hundred  sail  in  sight  ;  at  the  end  of 
two  days,  we  were  alone.  The  Albion 
was  a  beautiful  vessel  of  her  class,  about 
four  hundred  tons  burden  ;  an  excellent 
sea-boat.  We  had  a  smart,  active  crew, 
besides  a  number  of  passengers,  and  were 
well  furnished  for  defence,  if  required  ; 
but  we  were  now  so  near  our  port  that  we 
dreaded  little  danger.  However,  it  was 
necessary  to  be  constantly  on  the  alert, 
for  there  were  many  piratical  vessels  in 
those  seas,  which,  in  spite  of  the  vigilance 
and  activity  of  H.M.  cruisers,  were  con- 
stantly on  the  watch  to  pounce  upon  any 
stray  merchantman.  Captain  Rose  was, 
on  the  whole,  rather  pleased  at  his  sepa- 
ration from  the  convoy,  as  there  were 
only  one  or  two  other  vessels,  besides 
himself,  bound  to  the  Havanna,  and  he 
would  have  been  obliged  to  accompany  the 
body  of  the  fleet  to  Barbadoes.     After  we 


THE  ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


207 


had  parted  from  the  convoy,  we  made  the 
best  of  our  way  towards  Cuba.  One 
night  it  was  almost  calm,  but  with  every 
appearance  of  a  coming  breeze  ;  the  moon 
was  nearly  at  her  full,  but  dark,  heavy 
clouds  were  drifting  quickly  over  her, 
which  almost  entirely  hid  her  from  our 
view,  except  when,  at  intervals,  she  threw 
from  between  them  a  broad  flash  over  the 
waters,  as  bright  and  almost  as  momenta- 
ry as  lightning  gleams.  We  were  crawl- 
ing slowly  along,  with  all  our  small  can- 
vas set ;  the  breeze  was '  blowing  off  the 
shore,  the  dark  shadow  of  which  lay  like 
a  shroud  upon  the  water ;  it  was  nearly 
eight  bells  in  the  first  watch ;  the  captain 
and  several  of  the  passengers  were  still 
on  deck,  enjoying  the  cool,  delightful 
breeze  ;  but  their  suspicious  and  anxious 
glances  into  the  dark  shadow  to  windward, 
seemed  to  intimate  that  their  conversation 
over  their  grog  that  evening,  which  had 
been  of  the  pirates  that  infested  those 
islands,  and  Cuba  in  particular,  had 
awakened  their  fears  and  aroused  their 
watchfulness. 

"  Hark  !  Captain  Rose,"  said  I,  "  what 
noise  is  that .?" 

Every  face  was  instantly  turned  over  the 
weather  gunwale,  and  in  breathless  si- 
lence they  all  listened  in  the  direction  to 
which  I  pointed.  A  low,  murmuring, 
rippling  sound  was  heard,  and  a  kind  of 
dull,  smothered,  creaking  noise  repeated 
at  short  intervals  ;  nothing  was  to  be  seen, 
however,  for  all  was  in  deep  shadow  in 
that  quarter. 

"  Talk  of  the  devil,  and  he'll  show  his 
horns,  Douglas  !"  said  the  captain.  "  I 
have  not  been  so  long  at  sea  without  be- 
ing able  to  distinguish  the  whispering  of 
the  smooth  water  when  a  sharp  keel  is 
slipping  through  it,  or  the  sound  of  muf- 
fled sweeps.  There  may  be  mischief 
there,  or  there  may  not;  but  we'll  be 
prepared  for  the  worst.  Get  the  men 
quietly  to  their  quarters,  put  an  extra 
dose  of  grape  into  the  guns,  and  have  all 
our  tools  ready. 


Just  at  this  moment  the  moonlight 
broke  brightly  through  the  clouds,  and 
showed  us  a  small,  black  looking  schoon- 
er, slowly  crawling  out  from  the  shadow 
of  the  land.  Her  decks  were  apparently 
crowded  with  people,  and  she  had  a  boat 
towing  astern.  The  men  were  soon  at 
their  quarters— and  a  fine,  active,  spirited 
set  of  fellows  they  were — each  armed  with 
a  cutlass  and  a  brace  of  pistols,  while 
tomahawks  and  boarding  pikes  lay  at 
hand  for  use  if  required.  The  passengers 
were  all  likewise  provided  with  muskets, 
pistols,  and  cutlasses,  and  the  servants 
were  ready  to  load  spare  fire-arms.  We 
mustered  about  fifty  in  all ;  but  there  was 
not  a  flincher  amons:  us. 

"  Now,  my  lads,"  said  Captain  Rose  to 
his  crew,  "  we  must  have  a  brush  for  it. 
1  have  no  doubt  those  fellows  are  pirates ; 
and  if  once  they  get  footing  on  this  deck, 
I  would  not  give  a  farthing  for  any  man's 
life  on  board.  Be  cool  and  quiet.  Don't 
throw  away  a  shot ;  remember  that  you 
are  fighting  for  your  lives  ;  I  do  not  doubt 
your  courage,  but  be  cool  and  steady  !" 

In  the  meantime,  the  dark  hull  of 
the  schooner  was  gradually  nearing  us. 

"  Schooner  ahoy  !'"  shouted  Captain 
Rose.  No  answer  but  the  sweeps  dipped 
faster  into  the  water,  which  rippled  up 
beneath  her  bow.  "  Schooner,  ahoy  ! — 
answer,  or  I'll  fire  !"  Still  no  reply  ;  but, 
almost  immediately,  a  bright  sudden  flash 
burst  from  her  bow,  and  a  shot  came 
whizzing  through  the  mizzen  rigging. 

"  I  thought  so,"  calmly  said  the  cap- 
tain ;  "  be  cool,  my  lads  ;  we  must  not 
throw  away  a  shot ;  he's  hardly  within  our 
range  yet."  The  moon  broke  out  for  a 
moment.  "  Now,  my  lads,  take  time,  and 
a  steady  aim.  Give  it  him  !"  And  flash, 
flash — bang,  bang,  went  all  our  six  carro- 
nades.  The  captain's  advice  had  not  been 
thrown  away  ;  the  aim  had  been  cool  and 
deliberate  ;  we  heard  the  loud  crashing  of 
the  sweeps  as  the  grape-shot  rattled  among 
them,  and  fell  pattering  into  the  water ; 
and  at  the  same  time  a  yell  arose  from  the 


208 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


schooner,  as  if  all  the  devils  in  hell  were 
broke  loose.  The  next  glimpse  of  moon- 
light showed  us  her  foretopmast  hanging 
over  the  side. 

"  Well  done,  my  fine  fellows  !"  shouted 
Captain  Rose  ;  "  bear  a  hand,  and  give 
them  another  dose.  We  must  keep  thern 
at  arm's  lens-th  as  lono;  as  we  can."  The 
schooner  had,  by  this  time,  braced  up  on 
the  larboard  tack,  and  was  standing  the 
same  way  as  ourselves,  so  as  to  bring  her 
broadside  to  bear  upon  us  ;  and  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  edge  out  of  the  range  of  our 
guns, 

"  Oh,  oh,"  said  our  gallant  captain,  "  is 
that  your  play,  old  boy  ?  You  want  to 
pepper  us  at  a  distance  :  that'll  never  do. 
Starboard,  my  boy  ! — So  !  steady  !  Now, 
my  lads,  fire  away  !" — And  again  our  little 
bark  shook  with  the  explosion.  The 
schooner  was  not  slow  in  returning  the 
compliment.  One  of  her  shot  lodged  in 
our  hull,  and  another  sent  the  splinters 
flying  out  of  the  boat  on  the  booms.  Im- 
mediately after  she  fired,  she  stood  away 
before  the  wind,  and,  rounding  our  stern 
at  a  respectful  distance,  she  crawled  up  on 
the  other  side  of  us,  as  fast  almost  as  if  we 
had  been  at  anchor,  with  a  wish  apparent- 
ly to  cut  off  our  escape  in  that  direction. 
But  he  was  playing  a  deeper  game.  A 
long,  dark,  unbroken  cloud  was  passing 
over  the  moon,  which  threw  its  black  sha- 
dow over  the  water,  and  partially  conceal- 
ed the  movements  of  the  pirate.  When 
it  cleared  away  again,  he  was  braced  sharp 
up  on  the  larboard  tack,  standing  across 
our  bows,  with  the  intention  of  raking 
us. 

"  Starboard  the  helm  I — Brace  sharp 
up  ! — Bear  a  hand,  my  fine  fellows  !" — 
And,  before  she  had  time  to  take  advan- 
tage of  her  position,  the  Albion  again 
presented  her  broadside.  The  flash  from 
the  pirate's  guns  was  quickly  followed  by 
the  report  of  ours,  and  we  heard  imme- 
diately the  loud  clattering  of  blocks  on 
board  of  her,  as  if  some  sail  had  come 
down   by   the   run.     At   this   moment   I 


thought  I  heard  some  strange  noise  astern, 
and,  running  aft,  I  plainly  distinguished 
the  sound  of  muffled  oars,  and,  immediate- 
ly after,  saw  a  small  dark  line  upon  the 
water. 

"  Aft,  here,  small-arm  men  I"  shout- 
ed I. 

"  Boat,  ahoy  ! — Boat,  ahoy  !" — A  loud 
and  wild  cheer  rose  from  the  boat ;  and 
the  men  in  her,  finding  that  caution  would 
no  longer  avail  them,  evidently  redoubled 
their  efforts  at  their  oars. 

"•  Fire  !"  shouted  the  captain,  while  a 
blue  light  he  had  just  ignited  threw  a  pale, 
unearthly  glare  over  the  ship's  taffarel, 
and  showed  us  our  new  and  unexpected 
enemy.  It  was  the  pirate's  boat,  which 
she  had  dropped  during  the  partial  ob- 
scurity I  spoke  of,  intending  to  board  us 
a-head  herself,  while  the  boat's  crew  at- 
tacked us  astern.  It  was  fortunate  that 
we  happened  to  hear  them — three  minutes 
more,  and  nothing  could  have  saved  us. 
There  was  a  sot  of  the  most  ferocious 
looking  desperadoes  I  had  ever  seen,  arm- 
ed to  the  teeth  ;  and  the  boat  (a  large  one) 
was  crowded  with  them.  Deadly  was  the 
effect  of  our  fire.  Four  or  five  of  the  men 
at  the  oars  were  tumbled  over  on  their 
faces  ;  but  their  places  were  instantly  sup- 
plied by  others,  who,  with  loud  yells  for 
revenge,  bent  desperately  to  their  oars. 
In  a  few  minutes,  the  boat  shot  up  under 
the  mizen-chains,  while  the  bullets  that 
were  raining  down  upon  them  from  above, 
only  made  them  more  desperate.  The 
living  trampled  upon  the  dying  and  the 
dead,  in  their  eagerness  to  board  ;  and,  in 
a  thick  swarm,  the  blood-thirsty  scoundrels 
came  yelling  over  the  bulwarks.  A  sharp 
and  well-directed  fire  staggered  them  for 
a  moment,  and  sent  several  of  them  to 
their  last  account.  We  now  threw  aside 
the  muskets,  for  cutlasses  and  tomahawks. 
Hand  to  hand,  foot  to  foot,  desperate  and 
deadly  was  the  struggle. 

"  Down  with  them,  my  lads  !"  shouted 
Rose.  *'  Hew  the  blood-thii'sty  villains 
to  pieces.     No   quarter  !    no    quarter  ! — 


THE  ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


209 


shew  them  such  mercy  as  they  would  shew 
you  !" 

Short  and  "bloody  was  the  conflict  ; 
several  of  the  pirates  had  been  killed,  the 
deck  was  slippery  with  blood,  and  the  rest 
were  keeping  their  ground  with  difficulty. 
I  had  a  Ions;  and  severe  hand-to-hand 
fight  with  one  of  them.  We  had  each 
received  desperate  wounds,  when  his  foot 
slipped  on  the  bloody  deck.  I  gave  him 
a  severe  stroke  on  the  head  with  a  toma- 
hawk, and,  after  a  deadly  struggle  on  the 
gangway,  tumbled  him  backwards  over- 
board. The  moon  shone  bright  out  at 
the  moment,  and  fell  full  upon  his  face. 
Merciful  heaven  ! — my  brain  reeled,  1 
staggered  against  a  gun,  and  became  in- 
sensible— that  face,  Mr.  Stewart,  haunts 
my  dreams  to  this  hour  with  its  ghastly, 
despairing  expression.  It  was  the  long- 
lost  Henry's — I  was  my  brother's  murder- 
er !  (Here  the  poor  fellow  hid  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  groaned  with  agony.  I 
pitied  him  from  my  heart ;  but  I  knew 
that  sorrow  such  as  liis  "  will  not  be  com- 
forted "  in  the  moment  of  its  strength  ;  so 
I  sat  in  silence  beside  him,  till  his  first 
burst  of  grief  was  over,  and  then  I  endea- 
vored calmly  and  coolly  to  reason  with 
him  on  the  subject,  and  to  persuade  him, 
by  all  the  arguments  I  could  think  of,  that 
he  had  no  cause  to  reproach  himself  with 
what  had  happened. ) 

It  is  kindly  meant  of  you,  Mr.  Stewart, 
(said  he  mournfully  shaking  his  head) 
kindly  meant,  but  in  vain  !  1  know  that 
I  was  only  acting  in  self-defence — that  it 
was  life  against  life — that  I  was  perfectly 
justified,  in  the  eyes  of  men,  in  taking  the 
life  of  him  who  would  have  taken  mine — 
but  I  cannot  drive  that  last  despairing- 
look  from  my  memory.  I  feel  as  if  my 
brother's  blood  were  crying  out  against  my 
soul.  O  my  poor  Harry  !  would  that  the 
blow  had  fallen  on  my  head  instead  of 
thine  ! — would  that  I  had  had  time  to  tell 
thee  how  fondly  I  loved  thee,  how  freely  I 
forgave  thee  ! 

But  I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Stewart ; — I 
14 


must  go  on  with  my  tale.  Ten  of  the 
pirates  were  lying  dead  on  the  deck,  and 
five  of  our  poor  fellows  ;  the  bodies  of  the 
former  were  immediately  thrown  overboard, 
and  the  others  wer.e  laid  side  by  side 
amidships,  till  we  could  find  time  to  give 
them  Christian  burial.  Our  last  lucky 
shot  iad  prevented  the  pirate  from  carry- 
ing the  other  part  of  his  scheme  into  ef- 
fect:  the  moon  was  now  shining  out  full 
and  clear,  and  by  her  light  we  saw  that 
her  throat  halyards  had  been  shot  away, 
and  her  mainsail  was  flapping  over  the 
quarter ;  there  were  hands  aloft,  reaving 
new  halyards,  and  busily  employed  about 
the  mast-head,  as  if  it  were  crippled. 
"  We  have  had  fighting  enough  for  one 
bout,"  said  Captain  Rose  ;  "  we  must  run 
for  it  now."  Our  main  topgallantmast 
was  hanging  over  the  side,  and  our  sails 
were  riddled  with  the  schooner's  shot ; 
she  had  evidently  been  firing  high,  to 
disable  us,  that  she  might  carry  us  by 
boarding.  We  cracked  on  all  the  sail  we 
could,  served  out  grog  to  the  men,  and 
lay  down  at  our  quarters.  We  were  not 
suffered  to  remain  at  peace  long ;  the 
moment  the  schooner  perceived  our  inten- 
tion, she  edged  away  after  us,  and  having 
repaired  her  damage,  set  her  mains-ail 
again  ;  and,  as  the  wind  was  still  light, 
with  the  assistance  of  her  remaining  sweeps, 
came  crawling  up  again  in-shore  of  us. 
"  Scoundrels  !"  muttered  the  captain, 
"  they  will  stick  to  us  like  leeches  as  long 
as  there  is  a  drop  of  blood  left  on  board." 

Again  we  saw  the  flash  of  her  gun,  and 
the  smoke  curling  white  in  the  moonbeam. 
The  shot  told  with  fatal  effect :  our  main- 
topsailyard  creaked,  bent,  and  snapped  in 
the  slings,  falling  forward  in  two  pieces. 

The  loud  cheers  of  the  pirate  crew 
came  faintly  over  the  water  ;  but  our  brave 
fellows  nothing  daunted,  responded  to 
them  heartily. 

"  They  have  winged  us,  my  lads  !"  said 
our  gallant  captain;  "but  we  will  die 
game  at  all  events."  The  men  answered 
him  with  another  cheer    and  swore  they 


210 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


would  go  to  the  bottom  rather  than  yield. 
We  blazed  away  at  the  schooner,  but  in 
vain  ;  she  had   been    severely    taught  to 
respect  us  ;  our  shot  fell  far  short,  while 
she,  with  her  long  metal,  kept   dropping 
shot  after  shot  into  us  with  deadly  preci- 
sion.    We  tried  to  close  with  her  ;  but  she 
saw  her  advantage,  and  kept  it ;  all  that 
we  could  do  was  to  stand  steadily  on,  the 
men  lying  down  under  the  shelter  of  the 
bulwarks.     A    faint  dull   sound  now  fell 
upon  our  ears,  like  the  report  of  a  distant 
gun.     "Thank    heaven!"    said   I,   "our 
guns  have  spoken  to  some  purpose  ;  some 
of  the   cruisers   have    taken  the  alarm." 
We  immediately  burnt  a  blue  light,  and 
threw  up   a  couple  of  rockets.     In  a  few 
minutes  a  shout  of  joy  burst  from  the  crew  ; 
a  small  glimmering  star  appeared  in  the 
distance,  which    flickered  for  a  moment, 
and  then   increased  to  a  strong,  steady, 
slarino-  light;  at  the  same  time,  we  heard 
a  second  report,  much  nearer   and  clearer 
than    before.     Alarmed   at  the  near  ap- 
proach of  the   stranger,  which  was  now 
distinctly  visible,     standing    towards    us 
under  a  press  of  sail,  the  pirate,  determin- 
ed to  have   another  brush  with  us,   bore 
up,  and  closed  with  us.     But  we  were  pre- 
pared for  him  ;  he  was  evidently  stagger- 
ed by  our  warm  reception  ;  and,  giving  us 
a  parting  broadside,  hove  round,  stood  in 
under  the  dark  shadow  of  the  land,  and  we 
soon  lost  sight  of  him. 

The  stranger  proved  to  be  H.  M.  sloop 
Porcupine.  She  hove  to  when  she  neared 
us,  and  sent  a  boat  on  board.  She  had 
heard  the  report  of  our  guns,  and  hasten- 
ed to  the  scene  of  action,  just  in  the  very 
nick  of  time  to  save  us.  The  lieutenant 
complimented  the  captain  and  crew  on 
their  gallant  defence,  and  hastened  on 
board  the  sloop  again,  to  make  his  report. 
The  boat  soon  returned,  with  a  gang  of 
hands  to  assist  in  repairing  om*  damages  ; 
and,  on  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  we 
were  safely  at  anchor.  When  the  excite- 
ment of  the  action  was  over,  the  pain  of 
my  wounds  and  the  agitation  of  my  mind 


brought    on    a    violent    attack    of  fever. 
During  my    delirium,  the    vision  of  my 
dying   brother  was  ever  before  me  ;  and 
in  my  madness  I  twice  made  an  attempt 
upon  my  own  life.      At  length  the  good- 
ness  of  my   constitution  triumphed  over 
the   violence     of  my   "disorder ;    but   my 
peace    of  mind  was   gone  for  ever.     My 
worthy  friend,    the    captain,  to    whom  1 
confided   my  story,  did  everything  in  his 
power  to  rouse  me  from  my  sorrow,  and 
to  reconcile  me   to  myself ;  but  in  vain. 
The  sight  of  my  brother  had  recalled  the 
vivid  recollection  of  by-gone  scenes,  which 
I  had  been  for  years  steeling  my  heart  to 
forget ;  my  spirit  was   broken,   I   became 
listless  and  indifferent,  and  no  longer  felt 
any  interest  in  my  profession.     I  did  my 
duty,  to  be  sure  ;  but  it  was  mechanically 
— from  the  force  of  habit.     Captain  Rose 
was  ceaseless  in  his  kindness.     When,  on 
our  return  home,  I  expressed  my  deter- 
mination not  to  go  to  sea  again,  he    re- 
presented my  conduct  during  the   action, 
and  on  other  occasions,   in  such  glowing 
terms,  to  the  owners,  that  they  Settled  a 
small  annuity  upon   me,  in  consideration 
of  the  wounds  I  had  received  in  their  ser- 
vice.    IL  was  with  the   deepest  regret  I 
took  leave  of  my  worthy  friend  and  cap- 
tain. 

"  I  can  never  forget,"  said  he,  "  that, 
but  for  you,  my  children  would  have  been 
fatherless,  my  wife  a  widow :  whenever 
you  need  the  assistance  of  a  friend,  Doug- 
las, apply  to  me  with  as  much  confidence 
as  to  a  brother." 

He  then  offered  to  evince  his  regard  in 
a  more  substantial  manner,  which  I  firmly 
but  gratefully  declined.  I  wrote  to  him 
afterwards,  telling  him  that  I  had  settled 
in  this  neighborhood,  and  requesting  him 
to  make  arrangements  that  my  annuity 
might  be  made  payable  to  a  certain  firm  in 
Glasgow.  In  reply,  he  wi'ote  me  a  long 
and  affectionate  letter.  It  was  the  first 
and  last  I  ever  had  from  him  ;  he  died  soon 
afterwards.  It  is  now  five  years  since  1 
took  up  my  abode  here,  and  I  feel  the 


THE  ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN, 


211 


weakness  and  infirmities  of  age  creeping 
fast  upon  me.  Oli  !  how  happily  will  I  lay 
down  the  weary  load  of  life  !" 

"  Douglas,"  said  I,  when  he  had  finish- 
ed his  story,  "  you  certainly  have  had 
grievous  sorrows  and  trials  ;  but  you  have 
borne  them  nobly,  except  in  wilfully  at- 
taching the  odium  of  crime  to  the  unfor- 
tunate circumstances  of  your  brother's 
death." 

"  Would  that  I  could  think  as  you  do  !" 
said  he. 

We  parted  ;  and  four  years  elapsed  be- 
fore we  met  again.  I  had,  in  the  mean- 
time, commenced  practice  as  surgeon  in 
Glasgow,  and  my  professional  avocations 
kept  me  too  constantly  employed  to  al- 
low of  my  leaving  the  town.  At  last, 
after  a  severe  attack  of  illness,  I  was 
recommended  to  go  to  the  sea-side  for  a 
few  months  ;  and  my  thoughts  immedi- 
ately recurred  to  my  old  friend.  I  took  a 
lodging  in  Rothesay,  and  next  morning 
went  down  to  the  beach,  where  I  saw  the 
old  man  just  preparing  to  put  oiF. 

"  Here  I  am  again,  Douglas,"  said  I. 
"  Sir,"  replied  he,  looking  at  me  first 
doubtingly,  for  illness  had  greatly  reduced 
me.    "  Ah  !  Mr.  Stewart,  is  that  you  ?    I 
thought  you  had  forgotten  me." 

''  Then  you  did  me  injustice,  Douglas  ; 
I  have  often  and  often  regretted  that  the 
pressure  of  business  prevented  my  visiting 
you  again.  By  the  by,  I  was  reminded 
of  you  in  rather  an  extraordinary  way 
lately." 

"  How  was  that,  sir  .?" 
"  On  my  way  down  here,  a  few  days 
since,  the  steamer  touched  at  Greenock. 
I  was  standing  on  the  quay,  when  a  poor 
fellow,  a  passenger  in  a  vessel  just  arrived, 
fell  from  the  gangway,  and  was  taken  up 
insensible.  I  immediately  bled  him  ;  and, 
seeing  that  he  appeared  to  be  seriously 
injured,  I  determined,  as  I  had  no  other 
particular  call  upon  my  time,  to  remain 
beside  him  till  he  recovered.  I  had  him 
carried  to  a  small  lodging  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, where  he  soon  partially  recovered  ; 


and,  having  prescribed  for  him,  I  left  him, 
dosiiing  that  I  might  be  sent  for  if  any 
change  took  place.  During  the  night  he 
had  a  violent  attack  of  fever.  I  was  sent 
for  :  when  I  arrived,  I  found  him  deliri- 
ous ;  he  was  raving  about  Cuba,  and  ships, 
and  pirates,  and  fifty  other  things  that 
immediately  recalled  you  to  my  remem- 
brance.    When  he    came   to   his   senses 


agam 


Doctor  !  tell  me  the  truth,'  said  he  : 
^  am  I  not  dying  .?' 

"  '  No,'  replied  I ;  '  your  present  symp- 
toms are  favorable ;  everything  depends 
upon  your  keeping  your  mind  and  body 
quiet.' 

"  '  Quiet  mind  !'  muttered  he,  with  a 
bitter   smile  on  his  countenance.     ^  It  is 
not  that  I   fear  death,  doctor;  I   think  I 
could  willingly  depart  in  peace,  if  I  had 
but  been  allowed  time  to  find  the  person 
whom  I  came  to  Scotland  in  search  of.' 
"  '  And  who  is  that .?' 
"  'A  fisherman  at  Rothesay.' 
"  He  mentioned  the  name  ;  but  at  this 
moment  I  forget  it.     Let  me   see — it  was 
— ay,    it   was    Ponsonby — Charles    Pon- 
sonby.' 

Douglas  started,  and  turned  pale. 
"  Ponsonby  !"  exclaimed  he  ;  "  that 
was  jiiy  name,  my  father's  name  !  Who 
can  he  be  ?  Perhaps  some  old  shipmate 
of  poor  Harry's.  I  will  go  directly  and 
see  him."  And  he  tui^ned  as  if  to  de- 
part. 

"  Gently,  gently,  my  friend,"  said  I, 
detaining  him  ;  ''  I  must  go  with  you. 
When  I  left  the  poor  fellow  under  the 
charge  of  a  medical  man  at  Greenock,  he 
was  greatly  better  ;  but  he  had  received 
some  severe  internal  injury,  and  he  can- 
not live  long.  A  sudden  surprise  might 
hasten  his  death.  I  must  go  with  you  to 
prevent  accidents." 

We  went  on  board  the  next  steamer 
that  started,  and  in  two  hours  were  land- 
ed at  Greenock.  I  led  the  way  to  the 
small  lodging  in  which  I  had  left  my  pa- 
tient ;  and  leaving  Douglas  at  the  door, 


212 


TALES   OP   THE   BORDERS. 


you  may  come 
noise   as   possi- 


went  in  to  inquire  into  the  state  of  the 
sufferer's  health,  and  to  prepare  him  for 
his  visitor.  I  found  him  asleep ;  but  his 
was  not  the  slumber  that  refreshes — the 
restless  and  unquiet  spirit  within  was  dis- 
turbing the  rest  of  the  fevered  and  fa- 
tigued body.  His  flushed  cheek  lay  upon 
one  arm,  while  his  other  was  every  now 
and  then  convulsively  raised  above  his 
head,  and  his  lips  moved  with  indistinct 
mutterings. 

"  He  is  asleep,"  said  I  to  Douglas  ; 
"we  must  wait  till  he  awakens." 

"  Oh,  let  me  look  at  him,"  said  he  ; 
*'  it  can  do  no  harm.  He  must  be  an  old 
shipmate  of  poor  Harry's  ;  perhaps  he 
has  some  memento  of  him  for  me." 

"Very  well,"  said  I;  " 
in ;  but   make   as   little 
ble." 

We  walked  gently  up  to  the  bed ; 
Douglas  looked  earnestly  at  the  sleeper, 
and,  suddenly  raising  his  clasped  hands, 
he  exclaimed — 

"  Merciful  Heaven  !  it  is  Henry  him- 
self!" 

The  poor  patient  started,  with  a  wild 
and  fevered  look. 

*'  Who  called  me  ?  I  thought  I  heard 
Charles's  voice  !  Where  am  I  ?  Give 
way  in  the  boat ! — oh,  spare  me,  spare 
me,  Charles  ! — Fire  ! — Down  with  them  ! 
Hurra!" — And  waving  his  hands  above 
his  head,  he  sank  down  again  on  his  bed, 
exhausted. 

He  soon  fell  into  a  deep  slumber,  which 
lasted  for  some  hours.  I  was  sitting  by 
his  bedside  when  he  awoke. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  .^"  said  I. 
"  O  doctor  !  I  am  dying.  I  have  been 
dreamins; :  I  thought  I  heard  the  voice  of 
one  1  have  deeply  injured — nay,  I  dreamt 
I  saw  him  ;  but  changed,  how  changed  ! 
— and  1 — I  have  been  the  cause  of  it." 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  smo- 
thered sobs  of  poor  Douglas,  or  Charles, 
as  I  now  must  call  him. 

"  Who  is  that  r  there  is  somebody  else 
in  the  room,"  said  he  ;  and.  drawing  the 


curtain  aside,  he  saw  his  brother.  "  Then 
it  was  no  dream  !  0  Charles !"  and, 
turning  round,  he  buried  his  face  in  the 
pillow.  Douglas  sprang  forward,  and, 
throwing  himself  on  the  bed,  gave  way  to 
a  violent  burst  of  emotion. 

"  Henry  I  dear  Henry  !  look  at  me — it 
is  your  brother,  Henry  !" 

The  dying  man  groaned.  "  I  cannot 
look  you  in  the  face,  Charles,"  said  he, 
^'  bill  you  say  you  have  forgiven  me." 

"Forgiven  yon!"  replied  the  other; 
"  bless  you  !  bless  you,  Henry  !  if  you 
did  but  know  the  load  of  remorse  that  the 
sight  of  you  has  relieved  me  from  !  Thank 
Heaven,  I  was  not  your  murderer  !" 

"  And  can  you  forget  the  past,  Charles  .^" 
said  Henry.  "  Do  not  my  ears  deceive 
me  ?     Do  you  really  forgive  me  }^^ 

"  Freely,  fully,  from  my  heart !"  was 
the  reply ;  "  the  joy  of  meeting  you 
again,  even  thus,  repays  me  for  all  1  have 
suffered." 

"  0  Charles  !"  again  ejaculated  Henry, 
"  you  were  always  generous  and  forgiv- 
ing ;  but  this  is  more  than  I  expected 
from  you." 

I  was  now  going  to  leave  the  room  ; 
but  my  patient,  noticing  my  intention, 
begged  me  to  remain. 

"  Stay,  doctor,  and  listen  to  my  confes- 
sion ;  concealment  is  no  longer  necessary, 
for  I  feel  that  the  hand  of  death  is  upon 
me,  and  that,  in  a  few  short  hours,  my  ca- 
reer of  sin,  and  shame,  and  sorrow,  will 
be  at  an  end." 

"  My  poor  fellow,"  said  I,  "  I  have 
heard  the  first  part  of  your  story  from 
your  brother  ;  you  had  better  defer  the 
remainder  till  you  have  recovered  from 
your  present  agitation  ;  I  will  come  again 
to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow,  sir  !"  said  he  ;  "  where 
may  I  be  before  to-morrow  .'  Oh,  let  me 
speak  now,  while  time  and  strength  are 
allowed.  It  will  do  me  good,  sii*  ;  it  will 
relieve  my  mind,  and  be  a  comfort  to  my 
troubled  spirit.'' 

Feeling  that   he  was   right,  I    seated 


THE  ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


213 


myself,  while  lie  thus  commenced  his 
tale : — 

"  You  remember,  Charles,  our  last  sad 
parting — when  we  stood " 

"  Mention  it  not,  Harry  !"  groaned  his 
brother — "  there  is  agony  in  the  recollec- 
tion.    Poor  Julia  !" 

"  When  I  left  you,  I  was  maddened 
with  sorrow  and  remorse  ;  all  night  long  1 
wandered  about  in  a  state  of  distraction, 
and,  when  morning  dawned,  I  fell  down 
by  the  roadside,  overcome  with  fatigue 
and  misery.  How  long  I  lay  I  know 
not ;  when  I  awoke,  the  sun  was  high  in 
the  heaven  ;  and,  during  one  brief  mo- 
ment of  forgetfulness,  1  rejoiced  in  his 
briorhtness.  Alas  !  it  was  but  for  a  mo- 
mcnt  ;  my  guilty  love,  my  treachery,  my 
loss,  all  flashed  upon  my  mind  at  once, 
and  I  started  to  my  feet,  and  hurried  mad- 
ly onwards,  as  if  I  hoped,  by  the  rapidity 
of  my  movements,  to  escape  from  my  own 
thoughts.  Hunger  at  last  compelled  me 
to  enter  a  small  public  house,  where  I  fell 
in  with  a  poor  sailor  who  was  on  his  way  to 
Liverpool  in  search  of  a  ship.  The  sight 
of  this  man  turned  my  thoughts  into  ano- 
ther channel.  '  Double-eyed  traitor,  that 
I  am,'  muttered  I,  '  England  is  no  longer 
a  home  for  me.  She,  for  whose  love  I 
broke  a  father's  heart,  and  betrayed  a 
brother's  confidence,  has  been  torn  from 
me ;  and  what  more  have  I  to  live  for 
here  ?'     My  mind  was  made  up. 

"  '  My  lad,'  said  I  to  the  sailor, '  if  you 
have  no  objection,  we  will  travel  together  ; 
I  am  bound  to  Liverpool  m3"self.' 

"  '  With  all  my  heart,'  said  he  ;  '  I  like 
to  sail  in  company.' 

"  I  engaged  to  work  my  passage  out  be- 
fore the  mast,  in  a  ship  bound  to  Jamai- 
ca, intending  to  turn  my  education  to 
some  account  there  if  possible,  or,  at  all 
events,  to  remain  there  as  long  as  my  mo- 
ney lasted.  When  1  saw  the  shores  of  my 
native  land  sink  in  the  distance,  I  felt  that 
I  was  a  forlorn  ?.,nd  miserable  outcast ; 
that  the  last  link  was  severed  that  bound 
me   to   existence.     A  dark   change   came 


over  me  ;  a  spirit  of  desperation  and 
reckless  indifference  ;  a  longing  wish  to 
end  my  miseries  at  once.  I  strove  a- 
gainst  the  evil  spirit ;  and  for  a  while  suc- 
ceeded. On  our  arrival  at  Kingston,  I 
endeavored  in  vain  to  obtain  employment ; 
my  stock  of  money  was  fast  decreasing  ; 
and  when  that  was  gone,  where  was  I  to 
turn  for  more  ?  Poverty  and  wretched- 
ness threatened  me  from  without ;  re- 
morse was  busy  within.  'Why  should  I 
bear  this  weary  load  of  life  P  said  I,  as  I 
madly  paced  the  shore,  '  when  one  bold 
plunge  would  bury  it  for  ever  .?' 

"  I  threw  myself  headlong  into  the  wa- 
ter ;  and,  though  an  excellent  swimmer,  I 
resolutely  kept  my  face  beneath  the  sur- 
face ;  yes  !  with  desperate  determination, 
I  strove  to  force  myself  into  the  presence 
of  that  dread  Being  whom  I  had  so 
grievously  offended.  When  I  came  to 
my  senses  again,  I  was  lying  on  a  part  of 
the  beach  1  was  unacquainted  with ;  a 
tall,  handsome,  dark-featured  young  man 
was  bending  over  me,  and,  within  a  few 
yards  of  where  I  lay,  a  small  light  boat 
was  drawn  tip  on  the  shore. 

"  '  So  you  have  opened  your  eyes  at 
last,  my  friend,'  said  the  man  ;  '  you  have 
had  a  narrow  squeak  for  it.  When  I 
dragged  you  out  of  the  water  like  a 
drowned  rat,  I  thought  all  was  over  with 
you.  Have  you  as  many  lives  as  a  cat, 
that  you  can  afford  to  throw  away  one  in 
such  a  foolish  manner  .^' 

"  '  Life  !   I  am  sick  of  it,'  answered  L 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  '  if  that  is  the  case, 
why  not  throw  it  away  like  a  man,  among 
men  ?'  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  furnish 
you  with  active  employment  to  drive  the 
devil  out  of  your  mind.  But  here,  before 
we  start,  take  some  of  the  cordial  to  cheer 
you.' 

"  I  was  chilled  and  exhausted,  and 
took  a  hearty  draught.  I  felt  its  warmth 
steal  through  my  frame — it  mounted  to 
my  brain — I  laughed  aloud ;  I  felt  that  I 
was  equal  to  any  act  of  desperation, 
Alas !  1  little  knew  the  snare  I  was  fall- 


214 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ino-  into.  We  launched  the  boat  and 
sprang  into  it ;  and  my  companion,  seiz- 
ing the  oars,  pulled  rapidly  along  the 
beach.  After  rowing  some  distance,  we 
saw  a  light  glimmering  amid  the  bushes  ; 
it  was  now  nearly  dusk  ;  my  companion 
lay  on  his  oars,  and  gave  a  long,  low,  pe- 
culiar whistle,  which  was  immediately  an- 
swered. He  then  ran  the  boat  ashore  ; 
two  men  sprang  in,  who  relieved  him  at 
the  oars  ;  and  we  again  held  on  our  way. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  conversation 
carried  on  in  a  low  tone  ;  and  from  what 
I  heard  of  it,  half  tipsy  as  I  was,  I  infer- 
red that  my  companion,  whom  the  other 
men  addressed  with  great  respect,  was  a 
naval  officer  on  some  secret  duty.  Just 
as  we  were  crossing  the  mouth  of  a  nar- 
row creek,  a  light  four-oared  gig  dashed 
out  after  us,  a  voice  hailed  us  in  English 
to  lie  on  our  oars,  and,  when  we  still  held 
on  our  course,  a  musket  ball  whizzed  over 
us,  to  enforce  obedience. 

"'The  piratical  rascals!'  exclaimed 
the  young  man  ;  '  if  they  lay  hold  of  us, 
we  are  all  dead  men.  Here  !'  continued 
he,  seizing  a  musket,  which  lay  in  the 
°tern  sheets,  and  giving  me  another,  'fire, 
for  your  life  !' 

"  I  was  half  mad  with  fever,  and  the 
effects  of  my  late  draught;  and,  under 
the  persuasion  that  our  lives  were  in  dan- 
ger, 1  fired.  The  bowman  of  the  gig  fell, 
and  we  rapidly  left  her.  We  came  at 
jast  to  a  narrow  lagune,  close  to  the  low 
shore  of  which  lay  a  small  schooner,  at 
anchor  with  sails  bent,  and  every  prepara- 
tion for  a  start. 

"  '  Welcome  on  board  the  little  Spit- 
fire, my  man  !'  said  the  young  stranger; 
'  we  want  hands — will  you  ship  .?' 

"  '  What  colors  do  you  sail  under  .^' 
replied  I. 

"  '  Oh,  not  particular  to  a  shade,'  said 
he  ;  '  any  that  happens  to  suit  us  for  the 
time  being  :  black  is  rather  a  favorite.' 

"  '  Black  !'  exclaimed  I  ;  '  I  thought 
you  were  king's  men.  I  won't  go  with 
you.' 


'^ '  It  is  too  late,  my  lad — go  you 
must !  Besides,  there  is  no  safety  for 
you  on  shore  now  ;  you  shot  one  of  the 
crew  of  the  cruiser's  gig,  and  they  will 
have  lifa  for  life,  depend  upon  it.' 

"  The  whole  horror  of  my  situation 
now  burst  upon  me.  I  was  in  a  fearful 
strait;  but  I  made  up  my  mind  at  once, 
to  deceive  the  pirates,  by  appearing  to  be 
contented  with  my  situation,  and  to  take 
advantage  of  the  first  opportunity  that 
presented  itself  to  escape. 

"  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  if  that's  the  case,  I 
had  better  die  fighting  bravely  like  a  man, 
than  hang  like  a  dog  from  the  yard-arm 
of  a  man-of-war.' 

"  '  Bravely  said,  my  hearty  !'  replied 
the  young  leader  ;  '  but  we  must  be  mov- 
ing— the  blue  jackets  will  be  after  us ; 
that  shot  of  yours  will  bring  the  whole 
hornet's  nest  about  our  ears.' 

"  We  got  underway  ;  and,  after  round- 
ing the  east  end  of  Jamaica,  we  stood  a- 
way  for  the  Cuba  shore.  The  very  first 
time  we  came  to  an  anchor,  I  made  an  at- 
tempt to  escape  ;  I  had  saved  part  of  my 
provisions  for  some  days  before,  and  con- 
cealed it  in  readiness  to  take  with  me. 
We  were  lying  close  to  the  shore,  and  the 
darkness  of  the  night  would,  I  thought, 
conceal  my  movements  ;  1  was  just  slip- 
ping over  the  schooner's  side,  to  swim 
ashore,  when  I  felt  a  touch  upon  my 
shoulder,  and,  turning  round,  a  dark  lan- 
tern flashed  in  my  face,  and  I  saw  the 
young  pirate  standing  beside  me.  He 
held  a  cocked  pistol  to  my  head.  '  One 
touch  of  this  trigger,'  said  he,  '  and  you 
would  require  no  more  looking  after.  My 
eye  has  been  upon  you  all  along  ;  you 
cannot  escape  me  ;  do  not  attempt  it 
again — the  consequences  may  be  fatal.' 

"  From  that  hour  I  was  aware  that  I 
was  constantly  and  narrowly  watched. 
Except  in  the  one  instance  of  tlie  gig's 
man,  whom  I  had  fired  at  under  a  delu- 
sion, it  was  my  good  fortune  as  yet  to 
have  escaped  imbruing  my  hands  in  blood. 
During  the  action  with  the  Albion,  I  waa 


II. 


THE   ROTHESAY  FISHERMAN. 


215 


sent  in  the  boat  under  the  particular 
charge  of  the  mate.  '  Keep  your  eye  on 
this  fellow,'  said  the  captain ;  '  if  he 
flinches  for  a  moment,  blow  his  brains  out 
instantly ;  we  must  glue  him  to  us  with 
blood.  I  will  keep  her  in  play  till  you 
creep  alongside  ;  and,  once  on  board,  cut 
every  one  down  before  you — give  no 
quarter. ' 

"  My  blood  ran    cold  at  this    horrible 
order,  and  I  determined  upon  doing  all  in 
my  power  to  counteract  its  execution.     I 
was   delighted  when  you   discovered  our 
approach,  and  the   blue  light  flashed  from 
your  stern  ;  for   I   dreaded  the   scene  of 
massacre  that  must  have  ensued,  if  we  had 
boarded  you  unawares.     I  sprang  on  deck 
with  the  rest,  in  hopes   that   I   might  be 
able  to   prevent    some   bloodshed ;    but, 
when   I   was  violently   attacked,  my  pas- 
sions were  aroused,  and  I  fought  despe- 
rately for  my  life.     Just   as  you  tumbled 
me  over  the  gangway,  the  gleam  of  moon- 
shine showed  me  your  face.     I  recognized 
you  immediately  ;   and,   when   I  rose  to 
the  surface   of  the  water   again  after  my 
plunge,  I  blessed  Heaven  that  I  had  been 
spared   the   guilt  of  murder.     I  reached 
the  boat,  which  was  still  hanging  under 
your  quarter,  cut  the  painter,  and,  in  the 
confusion,  escaped  unnoticed.     I  immedi- 
ately made    for    the    shore  ;    and,  after 
many  hair-breadth  escapes  from   my  old 
associates,  I  volunteered  on  board   one  of 
the  cruisers  on  the  Jamaica  station.     At 
length  she  returned  home,  the  crew  were 
paid   off,  and   I  determined  to  seek  you 


out.  On  inquiring  at  the  office  of  the 
owners  of  the  Albion,  in  Liverpool,  they 
told  me  that  the  late  chief  mate  had  set- 
tled, some  years  before,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Rothesay,  in  the  Isle  of  Bute, 
and  was  still  alive.  Thank  Heaven  !  I 
have  found  you  at  last  !  I  should  like  to 
live,  Charles,  to  prove  to  you  my  sorrow 
and  repentance  for  the  past ;  but  as  Hea- 
ven has  willed  it  otherwise,  the  blessed 
assurance  of  your  forgiveness  will  lighten 
death  of  half  its  terrors." 

The  poor  fellow  breathed  his  last  a  few 
days  afterwards.  Douglas  mourned  long 
and  deeply  for  his  brother's  death  ;  but, 
after  time  had  soothed  his  grief,  he  be- 
came quite  an  altered  man.  His  mind 
and  spirits  recovered  their  elasticity, 
after  the  load  which  had  so  long  weighed 
them  down,  was  removed.  He  did  not 
resume  his  own  name ;  but  lived  many 
years  afterwards,  contented  and  happy, 
in  the  humble  station  of  a  fisherman  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  after  his  death  that  his  old 
companions  discovered  how  justly  the 
name  of  "  Gentleman  Douglas  "  had  been 
applied  to  him.  His  tombstone  bore  the 
simple  inscription,  "  Charles  Douglas 
Ponsonby,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Reverend 
T.  Ponsonby." 

I  often  wander,  in  the  calm  summer 
evenings,  to  the  quiet  churchyard,  and 
return  a  sadder,  but,  I  hope,  a  better 
man,  after  meditating  upon  the  troublous, 
and  adventurous  life,  and  peaceful  and 
Christian  death  of  the  Rothesay  Fish- 
erman. 


216 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


A    VAGAEY    OF    FORTUNE. 


We  claim  some  credit  for  the  novelty  and 
originality  of  the  following  remarks,  name- 
ly, that  there  frequently  occur,  in  real  life, 
incidents  much  more  singular  than  any 
that  the  most  fertile  imagination  ever  sup- 
plied to  the  pages  of  romance.  We,  how- 
ever, claim  still  more  credit,  and  we  sus- 
pect the  reader  will  think  with  a  trifle 
more  reason,  for  the  following  illustration 
of  the  truth  of  this  observation. 

On  the  west  side  of  the  bay  of  Machri- 
more,  on  the  south  side  of  Cantyre,  there 
stands  a  small  farm  house,  at  the  distance 
of  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
beach. 

In  the  year  1774,  this  house,  and  farm 
adjoining,  was  tenanted  by  a  man  of  the 
name  of  Duncan  M'Allister  and  his  wife. 
Duncan  was  a  poor  but  decent  and  in- 
dustrious man,  much  respected  in  the 
country  for  his  integrity,  and  for  his  quiet 
and  civil  demeanor. 

Duncan,  however,  had  a  severe  struggle 
with  the  world.  His  farm  was  a  very 
small  and  a  very  wretched  one  ;  while  his 
rent  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
It  was,  in  short,  with  great  difficulty  that 
Duncan  could  make  a  living  of  it,  even 
with  all  the  assistance  he  could  obtain 
from  a  wife  not  less  industrious  than  him- 
self. But  Duncan  looked  confidently  for- 
ward to  better  days,  and  not  without 
reason.  Four  years  previous  to  the 
period  at  which  our  story  commences,  his 
son,  an  only  child — a  young  man  of  steady 
habits  and  excellent  disposition — had  gone 
out  to  the  East  Indies,  in  the  humble  ca- 
pacity of  a  gentleman's  servant,  had  there 
fallen  into  some  little  way  of  business,  in 
which  he  was  doing  so  well  that  he  had 
been  enabled  to  remit  to  his  parents 
twenty  pounds  per  annum,  for  the  last 
three  years  of  the  period  above-named. 


It  was,  then,  to  this  source — to  the  du- 
teous dispositions  of  his  son — that  Duncan 
trusted  for  an  improvement  of  his  own 
condition,  and  with  each  succeeding  year 
did  his  trust  in  this  son's  prosperity  and 
filial  affection  become  more  and  more  con- 
fiding ;  for,  with  each  succeeding  year, 
came  an  addition  of  ten  pounds  to  the 
preceding  year's  remittance,  with  an  as- 
surance that  this  latter  should  always  be 
proportioned — in  other  words,  go  on  in- 
creasing with  the  success  of  the  donor. 
And,  accordingly,  for  several  years  this 
was  the  case,  till  the  sum,  from  twenty 
had  risen  to  ninety  pounds. 

With  his  last  remittance,  Duncan's  son, 
whose  name  was  John,  informed  his  pa- 
rents that  he  was  getting  on  so  rapidly 
and  prosperously,  that  he  hoped,  in  a  few 
years,  to  be  able  to  return  to  his  own 
country  an  independent  man. 

This  was  a  communication  but  little  cal- 
culated to  prepare  his  parents  for  the 
following  letter  which  they  received  from 
him  about  nine  months  afterwards.  It 
was  dated  from  Bhurtpore. 

"  After  all  my  boasting,  my  dear  fa- 
ther," so  ran  the  letter  in  question, 
"  what  will  be  your  grief  and  amazement 
to  learn  that  I  am,  at  tliis  moment,  not 
worth  a  single  rupee — that  I  am,  in  short, 
a  ruined  man. 

''  A  scoundrel  of  the  name  of  Novorgod 
— Christian  Novorgod — a  Swede,  with 
whom  I  entered  into  partnership,  has 
plundered  me  of  all  1  had. 

"  Having  left  this  fellow — one  of  the 
smoothest-tongued,  most  plausible,  and 
most  deceptive  rascals  I  ever  met  with — 
in  charge  of  my  store  at  Bhurtpore,  while 
I  was  on  a  trafficking  expedition  into  the 
interior,  in  quest  of  gums  and  ivory,  ho 


A  VAGARY  OF  FORTUNE. 


217 


took  advantage  of  my  absence,  wliich  ex- 
tended to  nearly  two  months,  to  sell  off  all 
my  goods  at  whatever  they  would  bring, 
jDOcketed  the  monoy,  and  decamped. 

"  I  have  since  understood  that  the  vil- 
lain has  left  this  quarter  of  the  world,  and 
gone  to  Egypt.  But,  wherever  he  has 
gone  to,  I  have  little  chance  of  ever  fall- 
ing in  with  him,  and  still  less  of  recovering 
any  part  of  my  property.  That  is  gone 
beyond  all  redemption. 

"  The  loss  I  have  sustained  by  this 
scoundrel  I  cannot  estimate  at  less  than 
from  £9,000  to  £10,000. 

'••  This  is  a  severe  blow,  my  dear  father  ; 
but  its  most  distressing  consequence,  in 
my  view  of  it,  is  its  depriving  me  of  the 
power  of  further  assisting  you.  This  is 
what  pains  me  most. 

"  It  grieves  me  to  add,  that  the  agony 
and  anxiety  of  mind  to  which  this  cruel 
misfortune  has  subjected  me,  has  thrown 
me  into  such  a  weakly  state  of  health,  that 
I  find  myself  every  day  becoming  less  and 
less  able  to  struggle  against  the  enervating 
influences  of  the  climate  of  this  country, 
and  have,  therefore,  determined  on  re- 
turning home,  for  my  prospects  here  are 
entirely  ruined. 

"  In  about  eighteen  months,  therefore, 
from  this  date,  you  may  expect  to  see  me, 
if  God  shall  spare  me.  But,  O  dear 
father,  how  different  our  circumstances 
will  be  from  what  I  once  anticipated.  I 
expected  to  come  home  to  you  a  rich 
man  ;  in  place  of  that,  I  shall  come  to  you 
as  poor  as  1  left  you."     &c.,  &c.,  &c. 

We  will  not  detain  the  reader  by  any 
attempt  at  describing  the  effect  of  this 
letter  on  poor  old  M'Allister  and  his  wife, 
but  proceed  with  our  story. 

It  was  about  fifteen  months  after  this, 
that  M'Allister  received  a  letter  from  the 
minister  of  the  parish  of ,  in  Ayr- 
shire, requesting  him  to  come  instantly  to 
his  manse,  where  he  would  hear  of  some- 
thing which  greatly  concerned  him.  He 
complied.     In  the  afternoon  of  the  second 


day  after,  he  was  seated  in  the  parlor  of 
the  clergyman. 

"  You  have  a  son  in  the  East  Indies .'"' 
said  the  clergyman. 

"  I  have  !"  was  the  reply  of  the  former. 
"  What  of  him  ?"  he  added  anxiously. 

"  You  shall   hear,"  said  the   minister. 

"  Some    time    ago    the  ship  was 

seen  off  our  coast  in  great  distress.  The 
people  hastened  down  to  the  shore  to  ren- 
der what  little  assistance  they  could  to 
the  unfortunate  crew  when  the  catastrophe, 
which  they  foresaw,  should  have  happened. 
The  ill-fated  vessel  struck  on,  and  deeply 
lodged  herself  in,  the  quicksands.  Enor- 
mous seas,  like  huge  living  things,  now 
threw  themselves  in  rapid  succession  on 
and  over  the  devoted  vessel,  burying  her 
in  their  bosoms,  and  bearing  everything 
before  them  in  their  onward  career.  No- 
thing that  had  life  in  it,  could  now  exist 
for  an  instant  on  board  that  unfortunate 
ship,  even  suppose  it  could  have  kept  its 
hold  and  footing  on  her  deck — which  were 
impossible — as,  from  her  sinking  sideways 
in  the  sand,  the  former  sloped  at  an  angle 
of  nearly  forty-five  degrees. 

"  Anxious,  most  anxious  were  the  peo- 
ple to  render  the  miserable  sufferers  as- 
sistance ;  but  they  could  do  little.  They 
had  no  boat ;  and,  indeed,  no  boat  could 
have  lived  a  moment  in  the  tremendous 
surf  that  was  then  breaking  on  the  shore. 
Nothing  could  they  do,  then,  but  watch 
on  the  beach,  to  see  whether  the  waves 
would  bring  any  of  the  ill-fated  crew  to 
the  shore  in  whom  there  might  still  be  life. 
But  they  looked  long  in  vain  for  any  such 
occurrence  as  this.  The  waves  would  give 
up  none  of  their  victims.  At  length,  how- 
ever, they  saw  a  human  head,  peering, 
now  and  then,  above  the  white  foam  of  the 
sea,  and  advancing  and  receding  with  the 
approaching  and  retiring  waves. 

"  Satisfied,  after  a  moment's  observa- 
tion, that  the  object  they  saw  was  indeed 
the  head  of  a  human  being,  some  bold 
fellow,  watching  an  opportunity,  rushed 
into  the  surf,   plunged  his  arm  into  the 


218 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


water  close  by  the  floating  object,  caught 
the  breast  of  a  man's  coat,  and,  by  an  ex- 
ertion of  superhuman  strength,  the  result 
of  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  dragged 
him  to  the  shore.  He  was  brought  to  my 
manse.  The  body  exhibited  no  percep- 
tible signs  of  life  ;  but,  on  tearing  open 
the  waistcoat,  and  placing  my  hand  on  the 
heart,  I  felt  it  feebly  beating.  I  had  soon 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  success  attend 
our  efforts.  The  unfortunate  sufferer  be- 
gan to  breathe  audibly,  though,  for  a  time, 
by  irregular  and  convulsive  respirations. 
Satisfied  that  he  was  now  in  a  fair  way  of 
recovery,  I,  after  leaving  some  instruc- 
tions with  my  wife  as  to  the  management 
of  her  patient  during  my  absence,  hastened 
again  to  the  beach  to  see  whether  I  could 
not  find  any  other  object  on  which  to  ex- 
ercise my  humanity.  But  there  were  none  ; 
not  one.  All,  all  had  perished  ;  and,  of 
the  unfortunate  vessel  herself,  no  trace 
remained  but  in  the  loose  spars  and  rig- 
ging with  which  the  shore  was  strewed. 
The  hull  had  entirely  disappeared. 

"  On  returning  home,  I  found  my  pa- 
tient, though  still  in  a  feeble  and  exhausted 
state,  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  sitting  in 
an  arm-chair  before  the  fire,  and  able  to 
give  some  account  of  himself.  This  ac- 
count stated  that  he  was  a  foreigner, 
which,  indeed,  his  language  at  once  disco- 
vered, although  he  spoke  English  with 
tolerable  fluency.  That  he  was  a  passen- 
ger in  the  ship  which  had  just  been 
wrecked,  and  that  he  was  on  his  way  to 
England  on  a  mercantile  speculation. 
This  was  the  substance  of  all  that  the 
stranger  chose  to  communicate,  and  no- 
thins;  farther  regarding;  him  was  asked. 

"  For  several  days,  I  and  my  wife  show- 
ed the  unfortunate  man  every  attention  in 
our  power.  We  tended  him  day  and 
night;  for,  during  all  this  time,  he  con- 
tinued in  a  very  weakly  condition,  and,  so 
far  from  any  improvement  taking  place 
beyond  the  point  of  convalescence  he  had 
attained  immediately  after  his  resuscita- 
tion, he  seemed  to  be  retrograding — to  be 


sinking  daily  under  the  exhaustion  which 
his  late  accident  had  induced.  He  became 
feverish,  and  his  slumbers  were  disturbed, 
apparently,  by  frightful  dreams  ;  the  last 
a  natural  consequence,  as  his  benefactors 
thought,  of  the  perils  he  had  just  escaped. 
But  we  could  not  help  perceiving  at  the 
same  time,  that  the  unconnected  sentences 
he  muttered  during  his  sleep,  oftener  bore 
reference  to  other  matters  than  his  ship- 
wreck, although  this  last  was  occasionally 
alluded  to,  in  the  ravings  of  the  sufferer. 

"  What  these  other  matters  were,  how- 
ever, neither  I  nor  my  wife  could  at  all 
make  out ;  but  it  was  evident  they  were 
things  that  pressed  heavily  on  the  mind  of 
the  unfortunate  man.  In  the  meantime, 
he  gradually  became  weaker  and  weaker, 
until  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not  long 
to  live.  Becoming  sensible  of  this  him- 
self, the  dying  man  asked  if  there  was  any 
clergyman  in  the  neighborhood  who  would 
visit  him. 

''  1  told  him,  what  he  had  not  yet  been 
informed  of,  that  I  was  a  clergyman. 

"  '  I  would  wish,'  said  he,  ^  to  speak  one 
private  word  with  you,  sir,  before  you  shall 
speak  to  me  on  religious  subjects.' 

'' '  Surely,  surely,  my  good  friend,'  re- 
plied I. 

'' '  Sit  down  close  by  me,  my  good  sir,' 
said  the  dying  man,  '  and  I  will  tell  you 
something  that  presses  heavily  on  my 
mind.' 

*'  I  having  taken  a  seat  as  desired,  the 
sufferer  went  on  : 

"  '  About  two  years  ago,  I  was  a  mer- 
chant in  Bhurtpore,  in  the  East  Indies.  I 
was  in  partnership  with  a  Scotchman  of 
the  name  of  MWUister.  His  father  lives 
somewhere  about  Can  tyre.  We  were  do- 
ing very  well,  and  were  making  money 
fast,  when  the  devil  put  it  into  my  head  to 
turn  scoundrel.  When  my  partner  was 
up  the  country,  I  sold  off  all  the  goods, 
put  the  money  in  my  pocket,  and  ran 
away,  and  ruined  my  poor  partner.  Now, 
my  good  sir,  this  is  the  thing  that  troubles 
mo  ;  that  makes  me  fear  to'die.' 


THE  MISER  OF  NEWABBEY. 


219 


"  '  It  was,  indeed,'  said  I,  '  a  very  re- 
prehensible act  ;  but  your  present  contri- 
tion is  some  atonement ;  and,  I  trust,  will 
procure  you  the  forgiveness  of  a  merciful 
and  beneficent  God.' 

"  '  I  do  trust  so,'  replied  the  dying 
man  ;  ^  but  would  add  restitution  to  con- 
trition. Now,  would  you,  my  dear  sir, 
help  me  in  this  good  work  .''  I  have  the 
means,  and  I  would  place  them  in  your 
hands,  to  be  given  to  the  lawful  owner 
when  I  am  dead,  if  you  can  find  him  out.' 

"  Having  said  this,  the  unhappy  man 
took  a  pocket-book  from  beneath  his  pil- 
low, and  from  thence  produced  three  bills 
of  exchange  for  £3,000  each,  and  put 
them  into  my  hands. 

"  The  pledge  was  useless  without  wri- 
ting, and  I  instantly  got  a  testament  pre- 
pared. "  Some  neighbors  were  called  in  to 
attest  it  ;  and,  iu  the  midst  of  my  pray- 
ers, he  died.  Here  is  the  will,  sir  ;  it  is 
in  favor  of  your  son,  with  the  bills  enclos- 
ed in  it.  He  recollected  the  full  name  of 
his  partner's  father,  and  it  was  thus  that  I 
discovered  you.  Do  you  recollect  the 
name  of  your  son's  partner  .?" 


Novorgod," 


replied    the 


"  Christian 
farmer. 

"  The  same,"  responded  the  clergyman. 
"  Then  all  is  right,  and  as  it  should  be. 
By  this,"  he  continued,  "  I  may  reclaim  a 
host  of  Atheists.  It  is  thus  that  our  Great 
Father  justifies  his  ways,  even  at  intervals 
of  centuries  ;  that,  amidst  the  darkness 
raised  by  the  clouds  of  men's  doubts,  he 
may  hold  forth  a  shining  light,  whose  ra- 
diations may  reach  far  lands  and  far  times, 
to  comfort  the  faithful  and  reclaim  the 
wicked." 

The  farmer,  who  had,  as  yet,  been 
scarcely  able  to  open  his  mouth,  stood  en- 
veloped in  wonder,  scarcely  believing  that 
he  was  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  land  of 
dreams. 

In  about  three  months  after,  Mr.  M'Al- 
lister's  son  arrived  from  the  East  Indies. 
He  entered  his  father's  house,  as  he  be- 
lieved, a  beggar,  heartless  and  sorrowful. 
Need  we  describe  his  joy  when  the  cir- 
cumstance we  have  just  related  came  to 
his  knowledsje  ?  We  need  not.  The 
reader's  conception  of  it  will  be  sufficiently 
>  vivid  without  it. 


THE    MISER     OF    NEWABBEY. 


In  the  pretty  little  village  of  Newabbey,  in 
the  south  of  Scotland,  there  lived  one  of 
those  individuals  which  society  sometimes 
casts  up,  as  the  sea  does  its  secret  monsters, 
formed  apparently  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  show  how  curiously  opeross  nature 
can  be  in  her  productions,  though  man- 
kind, ever  in  search  for  final  causes,  may 
attempt  to  wrest  out  of  their  eccentricities 
some  moral  to  suit  their  self-love,  and,  by 
producing  a  contrast,  elevate  themselves 
in  the  scale  of  moral  or  physical  beings. 
That  strange  person,  Cuthbert  Grandison 
— or,  as  he  was  generally  termed.  Cubby 
Grindstane,   by  the   corruptive  ingenuity 


of  his  neighbors — occupied  a  small  mud 
cottage  near  the  centre  of  the  village  we 
have  mentioned.  He  was  considerably 
advanced  in  age,  and,  having  come  to 
Newabbey  at  a  late  period  of  his  life,  the 
people  in  that  part  of  the  country  knew 
little  of  his  history — a  circumstance  they 
regretted  in  proportion  to  the  interest  ex- 
cited by  the  strange  habits  of  the  indi- 
vidual. He  was  in  person  a  little  man ; 
extremely  spare  ;  with  a  sharp,  keen,  hun- 
gry look ;  a  grey  hawk's  eye,  which,  like 
the  cat's,  seemed  to  enjoy  the  best  vision 
collaterally,  for  the  pupil  was  almost  al- 
ways at  the  junction  of  the   eyelids.     On 


220 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


his  back  there  was  a  large   hump,  which, 
having  the  only  rotundity  which  his  spare 
body  presented,  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  skeleton    carrying    a  lump  of  beef; 
and,  as  his  mode  of  walking  was  quick  and 
hurried,  a  quaint   fancy  could   not   resist 
the  additional  suggestion,  that  he  was  run- 
ning home  with   it  in  order  to  satisfy  the 
hunger  that    shone    through  his  fleshless 
form.     The   extraordinary  appearance  of 
such  a  wild   and   grotesque-looking   indi- 
vidual, in  so  small  a  village,  could  not  fail 
to  produce  the  usual   speculation   among 
the  high-mutched  gossips,  who,  having  in 
vain  made  inquiries  and  exerted  their  wits 
as  to  his  origin,  directed  their  attention  to 
his  habits,  and    especially  to  the   mode  in 
which  he   earned   his   livelihood — for  no 
one  could  say  he  was  ever  seen  to  beg. 
But  they  were  not  much  more  successful 
in  these  secondary  inquiries  and  investiga- 
tions ;  because    (although  it  was   certain 
that  he   had  a  signboard,  exhibiting  the 
characters,   "  Cuthbert   Grandison,  Cob- 
]oler  " — an  unusual  and  somewhat  affected 
and  gratuitous  depreciation  of  the  votary  of 
St.  Crispin — and  sometimes  sat  at  his  small 
window,  perforating   soles  with   his    awl, 
and  filling  up  the  holes  with  "  tackets"), 
no  one  in  the  village   employed  him,  and 
he  never  condescended  to  ask  any  one  for 
work.     If  his  operations  thus  afforded  no 
proper  clue  to  his  means  of  life,  his  con- 
versation was,  if  possible,  still  more  ste- 
rile ;  for,  in  place  of  associating  with  the 
other  "  snabs  "  of  the  village,  or  joining 
the   quidnuncs  who  assembled  in  Widow 
Cruikshanks's,  to  drink  beer  and  "  twine 
political  arguments  " — a  much  harder  la- 
bor than  their  day's  work,  though  they 
thought  it  a  recreation — he  locked   him- 
self,  and   another   individual,  now  to  be 
mentioned,  into  the  house  at  an  early  hour 
of  the  evening,  and  refused   to   open  it 
again  to  however  urgent  a  visitor. 

The  other  individual  who  lived  in  Culh- 
bert's  house,  was  no  other  than  a  daugh- 
ter, about  eighteen  years  of  age,  called 
Jean,  as  unlike  her  grotesque  and  myste- 


rious   parent  as   any  of  God's  creatures 
could  be  ;  though  every  effort  was  exerted, 
on  his  part,  to  make  her  as  silent  and  in- 
communicative as  himself.     She  appeared 
to  have   received  no  education ;  her  dress 
was   of  the   most   wretched   kind ;  and  it 
was  even  alleged  by  the  neighbors,  whose 
espionage  extended  even  to  the  calculation 
of  the    quantity  of  meal    and   milk   pur- 
chased for  the  support  of  the  father  and 
the  daughter,  that  she  did  not   get  suffi- 
cient food.     These  circumstances  regard- 
ing the  girl  were  the  more  readily  remark- 
ed, that,  as  all  admitted,  Jean,  or,  as  she 
was  familiarly  called,  Jeanie    Grandison, 
would,  if  she  had  been  treated  like  other 
individuals  of  her  age,  have  excelled  the 
greater  number   of  young  women   of  the 
village,  not  only  in  personal   appearance, 
but  in  the  qualities  of  her  mind  and  heart. 
She  apparently  stood  in  great  awe  of  her 
strange  parent,  and  uniformly  rejected  all 
solicitations,  on  the  part  of  the  villagers, 
to  join  them  in  their  sports,  or  partake  of 
their  little  entertainments.     The  story  of 
the  mysterious  treatment  to  which  she  was 
subjected,  excited  the  sympathies  of  the 
neighbors  ;  and  her  own  amiable  manners 
and  meek  deportment,  exhibiting   the  in- 
dications of  a  crushed    spirit,  riveted  the 
regard  which  had   been   first    elicited  by 
her  apparent  misfortunes. 

The  studied  seclubion  which  Grindstane 
observed,  and  seemed  determined  to  vin- 
dicate against  all  attempts  on  the  part  of 
the  neio-hbors  to  "  draw  him  out,"  render- 
ed  it  difficult  to  obtain  any  insight  into  the 
domestic  economy  of  his  strange  domicile  ; 
and  accident,  at  last,  brought  about  what 
might  otherwise  not  have  been  easily  ac- 
complished. It  was  observed  that,  for  a 
considerable  time,  his  daughter  had  been 
ailing.  She  made  no  complaints  to  any 
one  ;  but  the  quick  eye  of  sympathy  soon 
discovered  what  was  apparently  attempted 
to  be  concealed.  The  wife  of  John  Mo- 
nilaws,  a  grocer  and  meal-dealer,  from 
whom  Jeanie  bought  the  small  portion  of 
provisions   her  father  required,  observed 


THE   MISER  OF  NEWABBEY. 


221 


and  noticed  the  cliano;e  that  had  taken 
place  upon  her,  and  urged  her  to  reveal 
her  complaint,  and  apply  to  the  surgeon 
of  the  village  for  relief.  She  smiled  sor- 
rowfully at  the  exhibition  of  a  sympathy 
to  which  she  was  so  much  a  stranger,  and 
which  she  was  not  permitted  to  avail  her- 
self of;  thanked  Mrs.  Monilaws  for  her 
kind  intentions  ;  and  assured  her  she  was 
not  much  out  of  her  usual  condition  of 
health.  Two  days  afterwards,  the  good 
dame  was  astonished  by  the  grotescjue  ap- 
pearance of  the  mysterious  Cubby  himself, 
standing  by  the  side  of  her  counter.  It 
was  seldom  he  was  to  be  seen,  far  less 
spoken  to ;  and,  as  she  looked  on  the  man 
whom  report  had  invested  with  attributes 
of  an  unusual  kind,  a  shiver  came  over 
her,  which  the  presence  of  her  husband, 
who,  having  seen  Cubby  enter  the  shop, 
followed  him  from  mere  curiosity,  was  re- 
quired to  counteract. 

•'  I  want  to  buy  some  bread,"  said  he, 
slowly. 

"  What  kind.^"  said  Mrs.  Monilaws. 

"  A  kind  I  hae  aften  asked  Jeanie  to 
get,"  replied  he  ;  "  but  my  een  are  never 
blessed  wi'  the  sight  o't." 

"  Ye  may  hae't,  if  we  hae't,  Cuthbert 
Grindstane,"  said  John. 

"  Hae  ye  ony  auld  weathered  bread," 
said  he,  "  that  has  seen  the  sun  for  a  week, 
and  fules  winna  buy  frae  ye  .'^" 

"  Ay  hae  we,"  replied  the  mistress — 
"  owre  muckle  o'  that.  There's  some  our 
John  is  to  boil  up  for  the  pigs.  It's 
moulded  as  green  as  turf-sod.  But  ye 
hae  nae  pigs,  Cuthbert.'"' 

"  Pigs  anew — pigs  anew,"  replied  he. 
"  What's  the  price  o'  that." 

"  It's  scarce  worth  ony  thing,"  replied 
the  honest  woman.  "  It's  seldom  I  sell 
whinstanes  covered  wi'  green  moss.  Ye 
may  hae't  a'thegither  for  a  penny." 

"  That's  owre  muckle,  guid  woman," 
said  Cubby.  "  A  bawbee,  eke  a  farthin, 
is  the  hail  value  o't.     I'll  gie  nae  mair." 

"  I  dinna  deal  in  farthins,"  replied  she. 

"Dinna  deal  in  farthins!"  ejaculated 


Cubby  with  surprise.  ''  Is  a  farthin  no 
the  fourth  part  o'  yer  ain  price  o'  a'  that 
bread,  sufficient  to  keep  a  moderate  man 
for  a  week  .^" 

"  He  would  be  a  very  moderate  man 
that  wad  eat  it,"  said  John.  "  I  was  even 
dootin  if  I  wad  hurt  the  stamach  o'  my 
pigs  wi't  though  boiled  in  whey." 

"  Whey  !"  ejaculated  CubJoy  again — 
"  do  ye  gie  yer  pigs  whey  }  They  maun 
hae  a  routhy  stye.   Will  ye  hae  my  bode  .?" 

"  Ye  may  tak  it  for  naething,"  said  the 
mistress.  "  Hoo  is  Jeanie  ? — she  was  com- 
plainin  last  time  I  saw  her." 

"  Complainin  !"  said  he,  as  he  with  the 
greatest  avidity  seized  the  bread,  and  stuf- 
fed it  into  his  pockets.  "  Did  the  lassie 
complain  ?  What  did  she  complain  o'  ? 
No  surely  that  she  didna  get  her  meat .?" 
And  he  looked  fearfully  and  inquiringly 
into  the  face  of  Mrs.  Monilaws. 

"  She  looked  in  an  ailing  way,"  said 
the  mistress  ;  "  an'  I  thought  she  was  ill." 

"  She's  owre  fat — an  ill  complaint," 
replied  he,  apparently  wishing  to  get  away. 

"  I  dinna  see  that,"  said  Mrs.  Moni- 
laws. 

"  But  I  baith  see't  an'  feel't,"  replied 
he  with  a  grin.     "  Guid  nicht." 

"  I  pity  the  puir  lassie,"  said  Mrs.  Mo- 
nilaws, after  Cubby  went  away,  "  wha's 
doomed  to  live  wi'  that  man.  That's  a 
puir  supper  for  the  stamach  o'  an  unweel 
cratur  ;  an'  I've  a'  my  doots  if  she's  no  at 
this  moment  confined  to  her  strae  bed. 
Is  there  nae  way  o'  gettin  her  out  o'  his 
hands  }  The  Laird  o'  Cubbertscroft  wants 
a  servant,  an'  I  promised  to  get  ane  to 
him.  Jeanie  wad  answer  better  than  ony 
other  lass  in  a'  Newabbey,  but  I  canna  see 
her  to  speak  to  her  ;  for,  though  she  comes 
here,  naebody  can  gae  to  her.'' 

"  There  seemed  to  be  somethino; 
strange,"  replied  John,  "  in  Cubby's  man- 
ner, when  ye  asked  him  about  Jeanie.  If  he 
gaes  lang  his  ain  errands,  an'  she  doesna 
mak  her  appearance,  I'll  conclude,  frae 
what  I  hae  seen  an'  heard,  that  there's 
something   wrang.      That   man   has   the 


222 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


heart  to  starve  ane  o'  God's  creatures— 
aj,  his  ain  dochter — to  death.  What 
mortal  could  live  on  that  meat  he  has  taen 
hame  wi'  him  this  nicht  ?  Keep  an  ee  on 
them,  Marion  ;  an',  if  Jeanie  doesna  sune 
show  hersel,  I'll  mak  sma'  scruple  in  visit- 
in  the  lion's  den." 

Some  days  afterwards,  Cubby  again 
made  his  appearance  at  the  counter  of 
John  Monilaws ;  and  there  being  no  more 
old  bread  for  him,  he  struck  a  long  con- 
tested bargain  about  some  "  fuisted  "  meal, 
that  had  been  long  in  the  shop,  and  for 
which  he  offered  far  beneath  its  real  value  ; 
but  Mrs.  Monilaws,  thinking  him  poor 
and  miserable,  accepted  his  offer,  though 
she  had  scarcely  done  so  when  she  repent- 
of  her  generosity,  for  she  immediately 
concluded  that  her  kindness  was  a  species 
of  cruelty,  in  so  far  as  she  was  accessary 
to  sending,  in  all  likelihood  to  an  invalid, 
food  that  was  not  suited  even  to  a  robust 
beggar.  As  he  greedily  grasped,  and  car- 
ried away  like  a  thief,  the  article  he  had 
purchased,  she  asked  again  for  his  daugh- 
ter ;  but  she  got  less  satisfaction  on  this 
occasion,  than  even  on  the  last,  for  his 
only  answer  was — "  What's  the  use  o' 
speerin  for  weel  folk  .^"  The  suspicions 
of  Mrs.  Monilaws  were  roused,  rather 
than  allayed,  by  this  answer,  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  it  was  delivered,  and  she 
lost  no  time  in  telling  her  husband,  that 
he  might  get  some  of  the  neighbors  to  ac- 
company him,  and  go  and  inquire  for  the 
young  girl,  who,  if  ill,  ought  to  be  taken 
from  the  house  ;  or,  if  well,  might  be  feed 
— whether  old  Grindstane  was  agreeable 
or  not — for  the  service  at  Cubbertscroft. 

At  the  moment  that  Mrs.  Monilaws  and 
her  husband  were  engao-ed  talkins:  about 
this  strange  individual  and  his  daughter, 
Carey  Cuthbert — the  third  son  of  William 
Cuthbert  of  Cuthbert's,  or,  as  it  was  call- 
ed, Cubbertscroft,  a  fine  property  in  the 
neighborhood — entered  the  shop,  with  a 
message  from  Mrs.  Cuthbert,  for  articles 
for  the  use  of  the  family,  and  a  request  to 
know  if  any  suitable  servant  had  yet  been 


procured  by  Mrs.  Monilaws.     This  young 
man,  who  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age, 
was   reputed  by  his  parents   as  unfit  for 
sustaininot,  even  so  far  as  a  third  son  miorht 
sustain,  the    honor  and   respectability  of 
the  Cuthberts  of  Cubbertscroft.     He  was 
represented  as  being  so  dull  that  he  would 
learn  nothing;  and,  at  the  same  time,  so 
fond  of  associating  with   inferior   people, 
that  he  could  scarcely  have  been  recog- 
nized, either  from  his  conversation  or  man- 
ners,  as  the   son  of  a   gentleman.      His 
bluntness,  kindness,  and   humility,  how- 
ever, pleased  all  those  with  whom  his  fa- 
ther did  not  wish  him  to  associate.    With 
many  of  the  humble  inhabitants  of  New- 
abbey  he  was  on  the  most  familiar  footing  ; 
and  nothing  pleased  him  better  than  to  get 
into  the  village,  where,  on  every  side,  he 
could  find    companions  of  the  grade  that 
suited  his  (as  his  father    termed  it)  de- 
praved taste.     In  these  humbler  societies, 
however,  Carey  learned  what   perhaps  he 
would  not  have  done  from  the  Greek  and 
Latin  books  which,  at  school,  were  eter- 
nally in  his  hands,  and  never  in  his  head. 
Like  most  other  individuals,  whether  fools 
or  wits,  he  had  a  genius  of  his  own  ;  and, 
as  the  worms  on  which  the  mole  feeds  are 
larger  and  fatter  than  the  flying  insects 
that  form  the  food  of  the  swallow,  humi- 
lity, and  a  taste   for  the  common  sense 
that,  like  water,  is  best    and   purest   the 
farther  down  you  go,  may  be  vindicated 
on  the  grand  principle  of  utility  and  inte- 
rest.    We   do  not   give  a  young  man  of 
eighteen  credit  for  an  a  priori  knowledge 
that  his  interests  lay  in  searching  among 
the  humble  for  that  "  lear,"  that    could 
not  be  got  among  the  sons  of  the  great ; 
but  we  may  safely  assert,  that  nature  had 
placed  in  him  an  instinctive  liking  for  the 
simple  and  the  natural,  and  he  might  soon 
perceive,  without  any  spirit  of  divination, 
that,  by  following  nature  as  his  guide,  he 
might  arrive  at  a  more  satisfactory  termi- 
nation   of  his  journey,    than   his    horse- 
racing  brothers,  William  and  George,  who 
were  fast  flying  through  their  father's  es- 


THE   MISER  OP  NEW  ABBEY. 


223 


tate.  He  had  nearly  already,  however, 
been  given  up  as  untractable ;  his  speech, 
as  Ins  mother  said,  had  been  Scotch  from 
the  iiist  lisp  ;  his  ideas  had  been  of  the 
earth,  from  the  first  moment  he  crawled 
upon  it ;  and  the  servants  his  compa- 
nions, from  the  time  ho  was  able  to  escape, 
by  the  aid  of  his  own  feet,  from  the 
nursery. 

As  soon  as  Carey  had  delivered  his 
messao-e,  he  conceived  he  had  thrown  off 
the  servitude  imposed  upon  him  by  his 
mother,  who  considered  him  of  no  other 
use  than  to  carry  a  verbal  communication 
to  the  village.  Entertaining  a  very  differ- 
ent opinion  of  Carey's  powers,  John  Mo- 
nilaws  told  him  of  the  strange  conduct  of 
Cubby  Grindstane  (whom  he  also  well 
knew,  as  indeed  every  person  in  the  neigh- 
borhood), in  endeavoring  to  conceal  the 
illness  of  his  daughter,  who  was  the  indi- 
vidual to  bo  recommended  to  his  mother 
as  a  servant.  Carey  confessed  he  thouo-ht 
the  conduct  of  Cubby  very  suspicious, 
and,  with  a  knowing  look,  hinted  that  it 
had  been  long  his  intention  to  endeavor  to 
ascertain  something  more  of  the  old  cob- 
bler than  the  people  of  Newabbey  yet 
knew. 

"  It  is  just  you  callants,"  said  John, 
*'  wha  are  best  at  thae  things.  When  I 
was  like  ye,  there  wasna  a  house  tap  in  a' 
Newabbey  I  didna  ken  as  weel  as  the 
sparrows  that  biggit  their  nests  in  them. 
There  are  queerer  sights  seen  i'  the  warld, 
by  lookin  down  than  by  lookin  mjo,  for  a' 
that  astronomers  may  say  on  the  subject. 
It  was  I  that  discovered  Marion  Muschet 
killin  her  new-born  bairn  wi'  a  pack- 
thread. I  saw  her  through  her  ain  sky- 
licht;  an',  though  I  had  nae  power  to 
speak,  I  had  plenty  o'  pith  i'  my  legs ; 
but  fule  that  I  was,  I  forgot  that,  lang 
afore  I  could  get  assistance,  the  pack- 
thread wad  hae  dune  its  wark.  Sae  it 
was — the  face  of  the  bairn  was  as  blue  as 
my  bannet,  when,  by  my  means,  it  was 
discovered." 

' '  An'  muckle  ye  got  for  yer  sky-larkin," 


said  Mrs  Monilaws.  "  Ye  hansjed  the 
puir  woman,  an'  got  the  name  o'  Skylicht 
Johnnie,  whilk  ye  hae  carried  about  wi'  ye 
ever  smce,  and  will  do  till  the  day  ye 
dee." 

"  Ay,  Marion,"  answered  the  good- 
natured  husband,  "  I  haetaen  nane  o'thae 
flights  sin'  I  married  ye.  Ye  keep  me 
weel  down.  I  suffered  weel  i'  my  young 
days  for  looking  down  ;  but  I  fear  I  wad 
suffer  mair  noo  for  lookin  up.  But  the 
deil's  no  buried  i'  Kirkaldy,  if  I  wadna 
hae  a  blink  through  Cubby  Grindstane's 
skylicht,  were  my  legs  as  soople  as  Mr. 
Carey  Cuthbert's  there,  an'  I  had  nae  wife 
on  my  back." 

Carey  looked  and  smiled,  and  said  no- 
thing ;  but  his  mind  was  not  so  inactive  as 
his  tongue. 

"  Ye  wad  be  nearer  yer  purpose,  John," 
said  Marion,  "if  ye  wad  tak  wi'  ye  oor 
neebor,  John  Willison,  a  godly  elder  o'  the 
kirk,  an'  gae  bauldly  in  at  the  door.  John 
will  tiik  wi'  him  prayers,  an'  ye  some  o' 
my  jellies.  I  never  kenned  ony  guid  come 
by  a  skylicht — except,  maybe.  Widow 
Gairdner's ;  wha  was  sittin  ae  nicht, 
thinkin  whar  she  wad  get  her  supper  ;  an', 
as  she  thought,  an'  thought,  an'  was  nae 
better  or  fu'er  for  thinkin,  a  man  fell  frae 
the  roof  at  her  feet,  an',  throwin  frac  him 
sixteen  gowd  guineas  wi'  pure  fear,  flew 
out  at  the  door  as  if  Beelzebub  an'  a'  his 
angels  had  been  after  him.  Widow  Gaird- 
ner  got  her  supper  that  nicht.  Naebody 
ever  asked  for  the  guineas  ;  but  it  was 
weel  kenned  frae  whase  hoose  they  were 
stown." 

"  Ah,  Marion,  Marion,"  said  John, 
laughing  ;  "  an'  sae  ye  forget  yer  ain 
mither's  skylicht,  through  whilk  I  used  to 
gae  to  court  ye." 

"An'  I  do  nae  sic  things,  John,"  replied 
Mrs.  Monilaws,  jocularly ;  "  ye  never 
brocht  sixteen  gowd  guineas  wi'  ye  when 
ye  cam  doon  through  my  mither's  skylicht, 
to  court  her  dochter." 

This  conversation  was  not  lost  upon 
Carey  Cuthbert,  although  he  said  nothing. 


224 


TALES  OF  THE    BORDERS. 


He  laughed  heartily  at  tli3  dry  humor  of 
the  honest,  happy  couple,  and  went  to 
visit  his  other  fiiendo  in  the  village.  In 
the  afternoon,  he  was  seen  studying  like  a 
painter  the  form  and  appearance  of  old 
Grindstane's  house,  and  did  not  leave  the 
villao;e  till  the  evening.  As  soon  as  it  was 
sufficient!}^  dark,  he  repaired  again  to  the 
old  black  domicile  ;  and  having  during 
daylight  taken  his  eye-draughts,  he  tried  if 
he  could  observe  what  was  going  on  in  the 
inside  of  the  house  from  the  small  window 
in  the  side-wall,  or  from  a  small  round  hole 
in  the  gable.  Both  apertures  were,  how- 
ever, completely  closed,  the  greatest  care 
having  apparently  been  taken,  not  only  to 
shut  the  crazy  shutters,  but  to  stuff  up  the 
holes  with  pieces  of  rags,  and  to  cover  up 
all  with  a  cloth  hung  from  the  inside  so  as 
to  cover  all  the  interior  part  of  the  win- 
dows. Carey  saw,  however,  enough  to 
satisfy  him  that  the  inmates  had  not  re- 
tired to  rest ;  for  there  was  light  in  the 
cottage,  and  he  thought  he  observed  that 
it  moved,  as  if  some  one  were  carrying  a 
lamp  from  one  part  of  the  interior  to 
another.  He  heard  no  sounds ;  for  the 
individual  who  moved  the  light  walked 
softly,  as  if  he  wished  to  avoid  making  any 
disturbance. 

"  We  hae  nae  hope  upon  earth,"  said 
Carey  to  himself,  quaintly  ;  "  I  maun  tak 
for  ance  my  mither's  counsel,  an'  soar — 
though,  1  fear,  crawlin  on  thatched  roofs 
is  no  the  kind  o'  ambition  she  wants  me  to 
flee  at." 

With  these  words,  and  a  smile  on  his 
face,  Carey  went  along,  and,  by  the  aid  of 
a  tree,  mounted  to  the  top  of  the  house 
adjacent  to  Cubby's.  Resisting  a  strong 
temptation  to  peep  into  the  interior  of  this 
house,  which  presented  a  very  clear,  open, 
and  convenient  skylight,  through  which 
many  secrets  might  have  been  discovered, 
he  slipped  softly  along,  and  laid  himself 
on  the  thatch  of  Cubby's  house,  with  his 
feet  in  the  spout,  and  his  head  on  the  small 
aperture,  with  one  pane  of  yelked  glass, 
through  which,  if  any  light  had  been  in 


the  interior,  he  could  very  easily  have 
seen  all  that  went  on  in  the  inside  of  tha 
cottage.  All,  however,  was  dark  as  pitch 
— a  circumstance  which  appeared  to  him 
somewhat  strange,  as  he  was  certain  he 
had  seen  light  in  the  house  before  he 
mounted  ;  but  to  be  accounted  for  suffi- 
ciently easily,  by  supposing  that  the  light 
had  been  extinguished  during  the  time  he 
had  been  occupied  in  getting  up.  He  had 
no  hopes  now  of  seeing  anything  that 
night ;  but,  as  he  was  there  at  any  rate 
(so  he  argued),  he  might  as  well  rest  him- 
self a  little,  after  the  fatigues  of  a  day 
spent  running  about  in  various  directions,, 
and  he  might  perhaps  hear  something,  if 
he  could  see  nothing  ;  a  mode  of  acquiring 
knowledge  he  had  less  objection  to,  ih.m 
to  the  ocular  exercises  on  printed  paper, 
so  much  recommended  by  his  paients 
and  Dominie  Blackletter — a  cre.iture  he 
hated. 

Having  lain  quietly  for  some  time,  he 
heard,  very  distinctly,  hollow  moans, 
coming  from  the  lower  part  of  the  house. 
They  were  of  the  most  unearthly  kind  he 
had  ever  heard,  suggesting,  as  they  struck 
the  pained  ear,  the  idea  of  some  one  suf- 
fering the  last  pangs  of  mortal  agony. 
These  were  mixed,  or  alternated,  with 
occasional  harsh  objurgatory  notes,  coming 
from  anothor  person,  apparently  a  man, 
and  supposed,  by  Carey,  to  be  Cubby 
Grandison  himself.  These  were  followed 
by  a  scream,  which  appeared  to  be  stifled 
towards  its  conclusion,  as  if  some  one  had 
applied  a  cloth  or  other  obstruction  to  the 
mouth  of  the  individual  giving  vent  to  the 
unbearable  agony.  The  scream  marked 
the  individual  as  a  female,  and  Carey  set 
her  down  as  the  unfortunate  daughter  of 
whom  he  had  heard  John  Monilaws  and 
his  wife  talking  in  the  fore  part  of  the  day. 
These  sounds  continued  for  a  considerable 
time.  The  groans,  the  objurgations,  the 
scream  stifled  as  before,  succeeded  each 
other  ;  and  then,  for  a  time,  a  deep  silence 
reigned  throughout  the  interior,  only  to  be 
interrupted  again,  by  a  repetition  of  the 


THE  MISER   OF  NEWABBEY. 


225 


same  sounds.  At  last,  a  louder  scream 
than  any  he  had  yet  heard,  burst  from  the 
mouth  of  the  sufferer,  and,  in  an  instant, 
a  noise,  as  of  some  one  falling  over  chairs, 
was  heard,  and  then  a  sudden  stifling  of 
the  scream,  accompanied  by  the  objurga- 
tory and  menacing  voice  of  a  man,  whose 
auii;3r  seemed  to  increase  with  the  ueces- 
sity  of  an  increase  of  his  efforts  to  stop  the 
complaint  of  the  sufferer.  This  scream 
vrds  the  last  that  Carey  heard.  A  deep 
silence  again  reigned,  and  a  full  quarter 
of  an  hour  passed  without  any  indications 
being  perceived  of  the  presence  of  a  living 
person  in  the  cottage. 

Havino"  waited  for  a  considerable  time 
without  hearing  anything  further,  Carey 
concluded  that  the  suffering  individual 
had  been  suffocated,  and  was  on  the  eve 
of  getting  down  to  give  an  alarm.  His 
attention  was  again  arrested  by  a  new  phe- 
nomenon. A  liij-ht  was  now  observable 
through  the  chinks  of  an  apparent  parti- 
tion between  the  skylight  and  the  under 
or  main  part  of  the  house,  an  unusual  oc- 
currence in  Scotch  cottages,  which  have 
generally  no  garret,  or  any  other  apart- 
ment than  what  extends  from  roof  to 
ceilino-.  A  noise  was  now  heard,  as  of 
some  one  trying  to  open  a  locked  door. 
Success  attended  his  efforts  and,  in  a 
little  time,  a  small  door,  sufl&cient  to  let 
in  the  body  of  a  man  in  a  crawling  pos 
ture,  opened,  and  discovered  the  face  and 
upper  part  of  the  body  of  Cuthbert  Gran- 
dison,  holding  in  his  hands  a  small  cruisie, 
which  sent  forth  a  doubtful,  glimmering- 
light,  scarcely  sufficient  to  do  more  than 
show  the  high  bones  and  grey  eye  of  the 
strange  individual  who  held  it.  The  door 
being  opened,  he  placed  the  cruisie  into 
the  small  apartment  into  which  it  led, 
whereby  Carey  was  enabled  to  see  the 
nature  of  the  place  and  its  extraordinary 
contents.  As  he  surveyed  them,  he  shook 
with  terror,  and  was  once  afraid  that  his 
perturbation  would  discover  him.  The 
apartment  was  a  place  in  the  form  of  a 
small  garret,  extending  to  about  a  half  the 


size  of  the  under  apartment  of  the  cottage  ; 
and  seemed  to  have  been  formed  after  the 
house  was  built,  for  the  purpose  to  which 
it  was  devoted.  Casting  his  eye  around 
and  round,  what  struck  the  fearful  obser- 
ver first,  was  a  skeleton  of  a  human  being, 
lying  extended  along  the  floor,  and  half 
enveloped  in  the  darkness,  which  the 
glimmering  taper  only  partially  illumina- 
ted. It  had  been  the  first  human  skeleton 
Carey  had  ever  seen  ;  and  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  now  beheld  it, 
shiuing  principally  by  the  borrowed  light 
of  its  bleached  bones,  and  suggesting  some 
mysterious  connexion  between  the  being 
whose  physical  system  it  once  supported, 
and  the  extraordinaiy  individual  who  held 
this  strange  piece  of  household  furniture, 
rendeied  the  sight  appalling  and  horripi- 
lant.  On  a  chest  at  the  other  side  of  the 
apartment  lay  another  skeleton,  apparent- 
ly that  of  a  new-born  child,  whose  tiny 
shanks,  worm-like  finger  bones,  and  small 
head,  formed  a  striking  and  painful  con- 
trast to  its  full-grown  companion — sug- 
gesting the  probability  of  some  kindred 
blood  having  once  warmed  the  sapless 
bones,  and  some  kindred  fate  having  dried 
it  up,  leaving  these  dry  tokens  as  the  only 
monument  of  then*  sorrows  and  misfor- 
tunes. Around  on  all  sides  were  large 
packages  cased  with  iron,  and  sitting  on  a 
small  hook  attached  to  the  wall  near  the 
ceiling  was  another  inhabitant  of  this 
living  cemetery,  which,  from  the  singulari- 
ty of  its  aspect,  its  silence,  and  its  locali- 
ty, excited  as  much  terror  in  Carey  as 
even  the  skeleton.  This  was  no  other 
than  a  large  grey  owl,  sitting  as  demure 
as  grimalkin,  with  its  goggle  eyes  at  their 
utmost  stretch,  glaring  in  the  light  of  the 
taper  like  fiery  balls,  and  rolling  as  if  in 
anger  at  being  interrupted  by  the  intruder 
in  its  enjoyment  of  eating  a  mouse,  which, 
dead  and  mangled,  was  firmly  clenched  in 
its  claws.  The  few  minutes  that  served 
Carey  to  examine  these  extraordinary 
appearances,  whose  reality  he  doubted 
against  all  the    clearness   of  his  rubbed 


VOL.  II 


15 


V,^ 


•22G 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


eyes,  enabled  Cuthbert  Grandison  to 
crawl  into  the  place,  through  the  limited 
aperture  opening  in  its  side.  The  moment 
he  got  in,  he  shut  the  door  carefully,  and 
threw  his  eyes  up  to  the  pane  of  glass 
through  which  Carey  was  looking,  without, 
however,  observing  him,  as  he  instantly 
drew  back  his  head.  When  Carey  again 
directed  his  eyes  to  the  object  of  his  cu- 
riosity and  awe,  he  was  lying  prostrate  by 
the  side  of  the  bones  of  the  larger  skele- 
ton. He  then  rose  up,  threw  a  look  of 
recc^-nition  to  the  owl,  which  went  on  with 
its  repast,  heedless  of  the  ceremony  wath 
which  it  had  been  honored.  The  necro- 
mantic appearance,  attitude,  and  acts  of 
the  hunchbacked  living  skeleton,  who 
thus  stood  as  it  were  in  the  midst  of  the 
dead,  communing  with  them  by  a  secret 
and  mysterious  power,  realized  in  the 
mind  of  the  neophyte  all  the  stories  he 
had  heard  and  read  of  the  wonderful  and 
the  terrific.  The  subsequent  conduct  of 
the  performer  was  not  less  extraordinary. 
His  ceremonies  and  operations  occupied  a 
full  hour.  Everything  was  noticed  by 
Carey  ;  and  if  what  we  have  attempted  to 
describe  produced  wonder,  what  we  have 
at  present  abstained  from  narrating,  from 
a  regard  to  what  is  due  to  the  importance 
of  other  circumstances  waiting  for  detail, 
was  not  calculated  to  lessen  that  feeling. 

Carey  having  got  down  again  from  the 
roof  top,  hurried  away  home  at  the  top  of 
bis  speed  ;  for  he  had  staid  too  long,  and 
was  certain  of  a  scold  from  his  parents, 
for  havino-  been  seduced  into  low  practices, 
by  the  vulgar  inhabitants  of  the  village. 
A  confusion  in  the  house,  produced  by  a 
poinding  having  been  that  day  executed, 
but  removed  by  payment  of  the  debt 
which  had  beeu  incurred  by  the  eldest  son, 
William,  and  corroborated  by  the  indul- 
gent father,  saved  him  from  the  abuse 
which  awaited  him.  Though  young,  he 
had  sense  enough  to  see  the  folly  of  the 
proceedings  of  his  father  and  brothers, 
and  sighed  as  he  retired  to  his  couch,  in 
the  anticipation  of  a  greater  evil  impend- 


ing over  the  house  of  Cuthbert,  than  the 
humble-mindedness  of  its  third  son.  The 
anticipated  misfortunes  of  his  father,  and 
the  recollection  of  the  extraordinary  sights 
he  had  witnessed  from  the  roof  top  of 
Cubby  Grandison,  kept  him  awake  during 
the  greater  part  of  the  night.  His  medi- 
tations took  various  turns.  The  abuse  to 
which  he  was  daily  exposed  at  the  hands 
of  his  parents  and  brothers,  produced  an 
ambition  of  showing  himself  worthy  of 
their  regard,  and  even  of  saving  them  from 
the  ruin  that  seemed  to  await  them  ;  but 
the  schemes  whereby  that  was  to  be  ac- 
complished, formed  in  a  youthful  mind, 
fell  far  short  of  the  wishes  which  produced 
them.  In  the  morning,  he  was  duly  cate- 
chised as  to  the  cause  of  his  being  so  late 
in  coming  home  ;  but  he  chose  rather  to 
be  subjected  to  the  suspicion  of  having 
been  in  the  company  of  Sandy  Ferrier  the 
smith,  or  Geordie  Mactubbie  the  cooper, 
or  any  other  humble,  but  witty  denizen  of 
Newabbey,  whose  laugh  caught  his  ready 
sympathies,  than  divulge  the  secrets  of 
his  evening's  adventures,  on  the  house-top 
of  Cubby  Grindstane  the  cobbler. 

Next  day  it  was  absolutely  necessary — 
so  at  least  thought  Carey  Cuthbert — 
that  he  should  again  see  John  Monilaws, 
about  his  mother's  servant,  though  he  had 
no  new  commission  from  her  to  execute, 
connected  with  that  affair ;  and  giving 
Gideon  Blackletter  and  his  Greek  and 
Latin  books  the  slip,  he  hastened  again  to 
Newabbey,  now  become  a  much  more  in- 
teresting place  than  Cubbertscroft. 

"  Ye've  got  nae  intelligence  yet,  I  f\in- 
cy,  Mrs.  Monilaws,  aboot  my  mither's 
servant  .^"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the  shop 
of  the  gaucy  dealer  in  many  wares. 

"  No  yet,  Mr.  Carey,"  replied  she. 
"  There's  been  a  consultation  atwoen  El- 
der Willison  an'  John,  as  to  the  time  o' 
their  visit  to  Cubby's  den,  as  they  ca'  it. 
They're  speakin  o'  four  o'clock.  They 
want  a  stout  young  chiel  wi'  them,  for 
fear  o'  accidents.  As  you're  a  little  inte- 
rested i'  the    affair,  an'  fond  o'  sichts, 


TH.-:    yiHEl   OF   Nt:VVA33EY. 


227 


maybe  ye  may  condescend   to   accompany 
them  ?  ' 

"  IVe  nae  ohj^^ctions,'' answered  Carey. 
*'  Is  there  ony  other  livin  creature  sup- 
posed to  be  i  the  house,  but  Cubby  an' 
his  dochter  ?'' 

"  No,"  answered  the  mistress,  "  if  in- 
deed ane  o'  thae  twa  even  be  livin  ;  but 
few  folk  can  tell  muckle  aboot  the  inside 
o'  Cubby  Grindstane's  hous^e,  for  he  has 
a  way  o'  nieetin  visitors  at  the  door,  an', 
staniu  richt  i  the  gap,  speaks  them  fair, 
an'  gets  them  awa  as  sune  as  he  can." 

"  Was  he  ever  married,  km  ye  ?'''  said 
Carey,  ''  or  did  ye  ev^ir  hear  o'  ony  ither 
body  that  lived  wi'  him  .?" 

'"•  1  dinna  ken,  '  replied  she.     "  He  has- 

na  had  a  wife  sin'  he  cam  to  Newabbey." 

"  Is  his  dochter  Jeanie,  wluim  ye  intend 

for  my  mither's  servant,  like  her  father  .'^" 

said  Carey. 

*'  As  unlike  as  ony  twa  creatures  can 
be,"  replied  Mrs.  Monilaws.  ''  He's  a 
hunchbacked  scarecraw,  an'  she's  a  bonny 
young  lassie,  whase  beauty,  a'  the  ill  usage 
and  starvation  she  has  suflF^red,  hasna 
been  able  to  tak  the  blume  frae ;  but 
muckle  1  fear,  that  blume  winna  stand 
muckle  langer,  if  indeed  death  hasna  al- 
ready blawn  the  witherin  gouch  o'  his 
breath  ou't.  But  this  day  will  expose  a' 
the  secrets  o'  the  inside  o'  that  house." 

"  I  see  nae  great  reason,"  replied  Ca- 
rey, "  for  supposin  there's  ony  great  se- 
cret aboot  it." 

"  What  maks  him  keep  a'body  oot,  then, 
Mr.  Carey,  man  .^"  said  the  mistress. 
"  What  gies  him  that  side-look,  that  fearfu 
girn,  an'  his  slouchin  walk  ?  What  main- 
tains him  } — for  he  works  nane  ;  and  why 
winna  Jeanie  speak  abune  her  breath  when 
she  sees  him,  or  answer,  when  he's  awa, 
ony  question  aboot  him  or  his  hoose  .^" 

"  A'  prejudice,  Mrs.  Monilaws,"  re- 
plied Carey  ;  "  auld  wives'  wind  eggs, 
hatched,  nae  doot,  by  a  covey  o'  them,  as 
they  sit  thegither  till  they  clock.  The 
puir  man  doesna  want  to  be  fashed  wi'  a 
set  o'  meddlin  neebors." 


At  four  o'clock,  Elder  Willison,  John 
Monilaws,  and  Carey,  went  to  the  house 
of  Cubby  Grindstane.  The  door  was 
locked.  They  knocked,  and  asked  ad- 
mi  ttan  e. 

'■'  What  want  ye  .^"  said  a  rough  voice 
from  within 

"  We  hae  som.e  shoes  to  get  mended," 
said  John  Monilaws. 

'•  I'm  ill,  ."^n'  no  in  a  mendin  way  the 
d  y,"  replied  Cubby.  "  Gang  awa  to 
Jamie  Goodawl's." 

'■'-  Jamie  has  owre  muckle  to  do,  and 
tauld  us  to  gang  to  Cubby  Grindstane," 
said  the  godly  elder. 

"  My  awl  s  my  ain,"  said  Cubby,  in 
wors':^  humor ;  "  an'  sae  lang  as  it's  no 
thirled  to  the  soles  o'  men.  ]  m  free  frae 
the  power  o'  their  bodies.     Awa  wi'  ye  !" 

"  You're  in  my  district,  Cubby,"  said 
the  elder,  "  an'  I  hae  the  command  o' 
Mr.  Singer,  oor  minister,  to  ca'  upon  ye, 
and  inquire  for  the  state  o'  yer  soul,  whilk, 
to  reverse  yer  puir  pun,  is,  we  fear,  owre 
closely  thirled  to  yer  all.  Yer  dochter 
has  also  a  soul  to  be  saved;  and  Mr. 
Singer  says  he  never  saw  you  or  her  i'  the 
kirk." 

"  Weel,  if  I  dinna  trouble  him,  he  has 
nae  richt  to  trouble  me,"  replied  Cubby. 
"  1  say  again,  awa  wi'  ye  !  The  law  says 
a  man's  hoose  is  his  castle,  an'  it  says 
true," 

"  That's  an  unfortunate  allusion,"  whis- 
pered Carey  to  John  Monilaws.  "  Castles 
are  made  to  be  attacked." 

"  An'  to  be  defended,"  answered  Cub- 
by, who  had  overheard  the  remark. 

Carey  applied  his  powerful  back  to  the 
crazy  door,  and,  in  an  instant,  threw  it 
open,  overturning  at  the  back  of  it  a 
number  of  pieces  of  old  furniture,  placed 
as  props  or  defences,  to  prevent  its  being 
opened.  The  party  entered,  and,  in  an 
instant,  were  in  the  middle  of  the  cottage, 
which  was  in  two  divisions — one  end  beinsr 
occupied  by  a  small  truckle  bed,  on  which 
a  human  body  lay  extended  ;  and  the 
other,  which  Carey  remarked  was  under 


228 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


the  small  garret  where  he  had  observed 
the  nocturnal  rites,  presented  nothing  but 
a  few  broken  stools  ;  some  straw  in  one 
corner  over  which  a  dirty  sheet  and  a 
blanket  were  spread  ;  a  fire,  with  about  as 
much  live  coal  in  it  as  a  hand  might  hold, 
as  well  for  quantity  as  activity  of  heat ;  a 
small  cupboard,  with  a  padlock  on  it  of 
twice  the  value  of  the  article  it  guarded, 
presenting  some  bones  that  had  once,  and 
while  another's  property,  been  covered 
with  roasted  meat,  and  seemed  by  their 
whiteness  to  have  been  four  or  five  times 
boiled,  with  the  remnant  of  the  fuisted 
meal  purchased  from  Mrs.  Monilaws. 

"  This  is  a  strange  way,"  said  Cubby, 
as  he  went  to  what  might  have  been  called 
the  butt  end  of  the  cottage— "  this  is  a 
strange  fashion  o'  bringing  the  word  o' 
God  to  folk  that  dinna  want  it." 

"  We  are  tauld,"  replied  the  elder,  "  to 
strive  for  the  repentance  o'  sinners." 

"  Ay,  but  ye're  no  tauld  to  break  open 
folks  doors,  to  force  them  to  repent,"  re- 
plied Cubby.  "  Besides,  Mr.  Willison, 
whar's  the  shoon  Jamie  Goodawl  said  he 
couldna  mend,  and  sent  ye  to  me  wi' .? 
Amang  sins  to  be  repented  o',  a  lee  is  a 
very  guid  ane  to  begin  wi'." 

''  Hoo's  Jeanie,  yer  dochter  .^''  said  the 
elder,  who  was  fairly  caught  by  Cubby. 

"  What  should  ail  her  .^"  said  Cubby, 
looking  suspiciously,  and  moving  between 
them  and  the  other  apartment. 

"  That's  just  what  we  want  to  ken," 
sai/lJohn  Monilaws,  pushing  Cubby  a  lit- 
tle to  the  side,  and  moving  slowly  into  the 
other  division,  followed  by  the  elder  and 
Carey. 

The  sight  that  here  presented  itself  to 
them,  as  they  approached  the  small  truckle 
bed,  and  folded  down  the  top  of  the  only 
blanket  that  covered  the  body  of  a  female, 
was  of  the  most  wretched  and  pitiful  cha- 
racter. It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
that  John  Monilaws  could  recocrnise  the 
features  of  Jeanie  Gratidison  (for  such  the 
invalid  was),  reduced,  by  the  ill-matched 
pair,  famine  and  disease,  to  the  last  stage 


of  existence.  The  bloom  which  Mrs. 
Monilaws  feared  for  was  indeed  withered, 
and  the  stailk  which  supported  the  flower 
attenuated  to  a  fibre.  Pale  as  a  corpse, 
and  emaciated  beyond  the  lowest  state  of 
body  that  keeps  burning  the  lamp  of  life, 
it  appeared  doubtful,  in  the  absence  of 
motion,  whether  she  should  be  classed 
among  living  mortals.  The  approach  of 
strangers  seemed  to  produce  no  efi"ect 
upon  her  ;  for  her  eyelids,  which  about 
half  covered  the  glazed  orbs,  remained 
stationary,  and  no  symptoms  of  breathing 
could  be  discovered.  At  the  side  of  the 
bed,  stood  a  three-footed  stool,  on  which 
was  placed  a  tin  tankard,  containing  some 
cold  water,  and  a  small  bowl,  with  about 
an  ounce  of  cold  porridge  (made,  no  doubt, 
of  part  of  the  meal  seen  in  the  press),  in 
the  bottom  of  it,  no  part  of  which  seemed 
marked  by  the  rusty  iron  spoon  that  lay 
alongside  of  the  dish. 

t'  Why  did  ye  say  to  my  wife,  Cubby, 
that  that  lassie  was  weel,  when  it's  scarce- 
ly possible  to  observe  in  her  a  spark  o'life  .'" 

"  And  what  guid  wad  it  hae  dune  to 
hae  said  she  was  ill  .^"  replied  Cubby.  "  I 
canna  pay  for  possets  an'  puddins  recom- 
mended by  auld  wives  ;  an'  a  doctor  is  far 
ayont  my  degree  or  ability." 

''  Ye  micht  hae  begged  assistance, 
then,"  said  John.  "  Naebody  wad  hae 
refused  a  bite  or  a  sup  to  ane  o'  God's 
creatures,  lyin  at  the  point  o'  death." 

"  The  folk  hereabout,"  replied  Cubby, 
"  are  owrc  proud  o'  their  bites  and  sups, 
no  to  come  an'  enjoy  the  luxury  o'  seein' 
their  charity  applied,  and  gettin'  their 
luo-s  lined  wi'  the  return  o'  gratitude .  A 
house  fu'  o'  folk,  an'  a  pouch  wi'  three 
farthins  i'  the  corner  o't,  dinna  sort  weel 
thegither.  Besides,  what  mair  can  ony 
sick  body  get  than  meat  and  drink  .^" 

"  An'  do  ye  ca'  that  meat  and  drink  ?" 
said  John,  pointing  to  the  porridge  and 
water. 

"  What  wad  you  ca'  it !"  replied  Cub- 
by, grinning.  "  I  wish  I  may  get  na  waur 
to  comfort  me  when  I  come  to  dee." 


THE   MiSLR   OP   i\EWABBEY. 


22i) 


"  If  the  fear  of  expense,"  said  Carey, 
"has  prevented  ye  frae  lettin' the  nee- 
bors  ken  o'  yer  daughter's  illness,  wadna 
the  same  cause  hae  prevented  ye  fiae  tel- 
lin'  o'  her  death  !  A  funeral  costs  siller 
— what  wad  ye  hae  dune  wi'  the  body  ?" 

Cubby  seemed  moved  by  this  question , 
and  eyed  the  speaker  suspiciously  and 
fearfully. 

"  What's  that  to  ye,  callant  ?"  he  said 
at  last.  "  A  man's  nae  great  mechanic 
wha  canna  ca'  thegither  four  white  d  als ; 
and  they  that  carry  to  the  grave  dinna 
trouble  ane  by  coming  back  to  ask  for 
their  fare,  as  other  carriers  do." 

''  SheMl  no  be  ill  to  carry,  puir  thing," 
said  John  Monilaws.  "  1  ha  only  weight 
about  her  will  be  that  o'  death,  whilk  tboy 
say  is  great  even  in  a  bird.  Whar  docs 
her  mither  lie  ?" 

"  Whar  should  she  lie  !"  replied  Cubby, 
again  put  into  a  state  of  agitation,  re- 
marked particularly  by  Carey.  "  Think 
ye  she's  no  in  her  grave  ?'^ 

"  1  hae  little  doot  o'  that,  Cubby,''  said 
the  other  ;  "  but  1  hope  puir  Jeanie  hears 
naethiug  o'  a'  this." 

On  lookins:  at  the  invalid,  all  parties 
were  surprised  to  see  her  looldng  up  in 
their  faces,  apparently  comprehending 
evei-y  word  they  said. 

"  Ye're  better,  I  think,  Jeanie,"  said 
John. 

'•  ]  dinna  k^n,"  replied  the  poor  maiden. 
"  Ask  my  faither.  1  can  say  naething 
about  mysel      He'll  answer  for  me.'' 

"  Hae  ye  been  gettin  ony  meat  except 
this  crowdy  an'  Adam's  wine  .^''  again  said 
the  other. 

"  My  faither  kens  best  what  kind  o' 
wine  I  hae  been  gettin,''  replied  she. 

"  Wine  !"  ejaculated.  Cubby—'-  God 
keep  me  an'  my  house  frae  sic  extrava- 
gance !  Mair  simls  an'  siller  hae  be  n 
drooned  in  tha-t  liquor  than  in  the  Dead 
Sea,  whilk  bauds  Sodom  and  Gomorrah." 

''  An  some  bodies  hae  been  saved  wi  t,'' 
said  John,  taking  out  a  sma'l  bottle  and  a 
glass,  and  emptying  some  wine,  which,  by 


holding  up  the  poor  invalid,  he  endeavored 
to  prevail  upon  her  to  taste. 

Cubby  turned  up  his  eyes  and  his  hands 
to  heaven.  Jeanie  looked  fearfully  at  her 
father,  and  refused  to  taste  the  wine, 
though  her  lips  were  as  withered  leaves. 

"  The  taste  o't  will  never  leave  her 
mouth,''  ejaculated  Cubby.  "  Awa  wi' 
you  an'  your  wine  !  Is  my  bairn  to  be 
corrupted,  an'  her  faither  lookin'  on  } 
What  can  be  expected  o'  ane  wha  has 
swallowed  three  hail  pennies  at  ae  gulp  .? 
God  hae  mercy  on  us  !" 

"  You  seem  to  want  yer  doehter  dead," 
said  the  eldor.  "■  The  Lord  has  sent  us 
thae  tilings  to  be  used,  and  no  abused. 
Paul  says,  ^  Drink  no  longer  water,  but 
use  a  little  wine  for  thy  stomach's  sake, 
and  thine  often  infirmities.'  " 

"I'll  no  take  that,"  replied  Cubby, 
"  on  the  faith  o'  ane  wha  said  he  cam  here 
wi  shune  to  mend,  when  his  true  errand 
was  to  corrupt  the  stamach  o'  my  doehter. 
Paul  had  mair  sense  than  to  learn  folk 
thae  evil  habits." 

"  Show  me  a  Bible,  an'  I'll  point  ye 
out  the  passage,"  said  the  elder. 

"  1  may  thank  the  Bible,"  repli'^d  Cub- 
by ;  "  for  the  auld  ane  1  ance  had,  an' 
whilk  i  sauld  for  half-a-crown  to  Geordie 
Bookless  o'  Dumfries,  kept  me  an'  .Jeanie 
livin'  for  five  weeks — sae  J  hae  naelhing  to 
say  against  that  guid  bulk  ;  but  1  haena 
been  able  to  buy  a  second.  Ye  may  noo 
gang  yer  ways.  Ye  see  that  neither  yer 
wine  nor  yer  text  is  o'  ony  use  in  this 
house." 

"  Will  3-0U  alloo  her  to  lak  onything 
else,  than.  Cubby,  if  raj-  wife  sends  it  to 
ye  .^"  said  John  Monilaws. 

"It's  no  often  ye  hear  0'  a  puir  penni- 
less cratur  like  me  refusin  onything  that 
wad  save  his  stock  0'  three  guid  farthins. 
1  wad  tak  ony  gift  but  luxuries,  provided 
the  giver  didna  want  entrance  to  my  hou?e ; 
but  (hat's  impossible.  A'  that  gie  think 
they  hae  a  licht  to  enter  yer  house  as  they 
like.  Sae  1  dispense  wi'  yer  gifts.  Awa 
wi'  you  and  them  baith  !" 


230 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


'*  It's  iu  vaiu  to  fecht  wi'  biin,"  whis- 
pered Carey  into  the  ear  of  John  Moni- 
laws.  "  it's  char  tha  lassij  will  dee  if  she's 
no  removed.  I  11  hand  Cubby,  if  you  an' 
the  elder  will  lift  the  truckle-bed  bodily, 
an'  carry  the  lassie  an'  it  thegither  into 
yer  ain  house," 

This  communication  was  approved  of, 
and  conveyed  to  the  elder.  A  sign  was 
given  by  Carey,  who  instantly  seized  Cub- 
by by  the  shoulders  ;  while,  the  door  being 
opened,  the  two  others  lifted  with  the 
greatest  ease  the  small  couch,  and,  to  the 
great  surprise  of  the  neighbors,  who  re- 
joiced in  the  proceeding,  carried  it  with 
the  poor  victim  into  John's  house,  where 
the  humane  mistress,  who  had  a  liking  for 
Jeanie,  received  her  with  pleasure,  and 
proceeded  to  contribute  to  her  ease  and 
recovery.  The  greatest  terror  was  evinced 
by  Cubby  on  being  let  free  from  the  pow- 
erful grasp  of  Carey.  He  flew  out  of  the 
house  like  one  distracted  (yet  locking, 
even  in  his  hurry,  the  door),  forced  him- 
self through  the  crowd  into  John  Moni- 
laws'  house,  and,  by  threats,  imprecations, 
supplications,  and  even  bribes,  endeavored 
to  get  possession  of  his  daughter.  His 
conduct  appeared  to  the  people  inexpli- 
cable. The  starvation  of  his  daughter, 
and  the  aiFection  (for  what  else  could  it  be 
that  produced  his  anxiety  .')  that  suggested 
such  means  of  regaining  possession  of  her, 
appeared  inconsistent ;  and  if  the  sanity 
of  the  individual  had  not,  by  his  conversa- 
tion, been  well  established,  he  would  have 
been  considered  a  madman.  His  violence 
arose  to  such  a  pitch  that  it  was  found 
necessary  to  guard  the  door  ;  and  it  was 
only  after  some  feigned  attempt  to  break 
into  his  own  house,  which  seemed  to  tcr- 
lify  him  even  more  than  the  detention  of 
his  daughter,  that  he  was  forced  home, 
and  the  poor  girl  was  left  unmolested  under 
the  charge  of  Mrs.  Monilaws. 

Meanwhile,  Jeanie,  being  kindly  treated 
and  attended  by  a  surgeon,  recovered  with 
a  quickness  proportioned  to  the  powers  of 
reaction  of  a  youthful  constitution,  acting 


on  a  system  once  more  restored  to  the  en- 
joyment of  what  Dr.  Leechman  called  the 
non-naturals.  Her  natural  beauty,  which 
had  never  yet  got  fair  play,  began  to  show 
itself ;  and  her  simple  and  timid  manners, 
produced  by  the  dreadful  tyranny  under 
which  she  had  lived,  excited  a  deep  inter- 
est in  her  protectors  and  preservers.  She 
never,  however,  could  be  prevailed  upon 
to  speak  of  her  father,  or  of  anything  con- 
nected with  the  house.  A  shudder  passed 
over  her  when  his  name  was  mentioned ; 
and  she  expressed  an  anxiety  either  to  be 
put  beyond  his  power  or  again  restored 
to  him,  an  alternative  which  was  not  well 
understood  by  her  protectors,  but  sufl5- 
ciently  explained  by  the  dangers  to  which 
she  would  be  exposed  if  she  were  made 
accessible  to  him  when  he  was  under  the 
influence  of  the  fits  of  terror,  excitement, 
and  anxiety,  he  had  exhibited  already  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  and,  perhaps, 
partly  to  be  accounted  for  by  some  secret 
cause  which  she  could  not  be  prevailed 
upon  to  divulge.  She  was  quite  agreeable 
to  go  to  Cubbertscroft  as  a  servant ;  and 
it  was  arranged  that  she  should  accord- 
ingly  proceed  there  as  soon  as  she  had 
totally  recovered.  Grieved  for  her  want 
of  education,  Mrs.  Monilaws  procured,  for 
her  instruction  in  reading;  and  writino;,  the 
services  of  the  village  schoolmaster,  who 
attended  her  daily  after  she  was  able  for 
the  exercise,  and  was  much  gratified  by 
the  rapid  progress  she  made  (for  she  was 
of  quick  parts)  under  his  zealous  tuition. 

During  all  this  period,  Jeanie  Grandison 
was  regularly  visited  by  Carey  Cuthbert, 
whose  interest  in  her,  though  he  had  not 
then  seen  her,  commenced  from  the  event- 
ful evening  when  he  made  the  awful  dis- 
coveries we  have  partly  detailed,  through 
her  father's  skylight :  and  had  increased 
fiom  the  moment  he  saw  the  first  tint  of 
the  bloom  of  returning  health  on  her  pal- 
lid cheek,  and  heard  the  sounds  of  her 
cl?ar  melodious  voice,  though  exercised 
only  in  the  expression  of  the  sentiments 
of  a  half-broken,  timid,  yet  grateful  heart. 


Thtu:    MISilK    Oi.^'   xNi-:  vVA^jbL:.^. 


231 


When  properly  restored  to  health,  Jeanie 
set  out,  under  the  protection  of  John  Mo- 
nilaws  and  Carey  (who,  however,  left 
them  before  he  approached  the  house),  to 
Cubbertscroft,  where  she  entered  upon 
her  service.  Nothing  was  said  to  any  one 
of  her  parentage  ;  all  that  was  told  to  Mrs. 
Cuthbert  or  the  other  servants,  being,  that 
she  had,  after  having  come  to  Mrs.  Moni- 
laws  to  be  engaged,  been  seized  with  a 
fever,  which  prevented  her  sooner  from 
entering  upon  her  service.  This  caution 
had  been  observed  in  accordance  with 
Jeanie'sown  wish  ;  but  her  curious  history 
reached  the  ears  o'  one  of  the  servants, 
and  very  soon  became  known  to  the  fami- 
ly, who  did  not  treat  her  any  bettar,  be- 
cause she  was  i-eputed  to  be  the  daughter 
of  one  already  notorious  in  that  part  of  the 
country  for  squalid  beggary  and  extraor- 
dinary and  mysterious  conduct.  Mrs. 
Cuthbert,  an  unfeeling  woman,  whose  con- 
tempt was  measured  by  the  humbleness  of 
the  birth,  circumstances,  and  education 
of  every  ouq  around  her,  treated  her 
harshly — not  hesitating,  in  her  moods  of 
spleen  and  passion,  to  taunt  her  with  her 
father's  abject  poverty,  and  her  own  ori- 
gin. The  protection  and  kindness  she 
received  from  Carey,  were  limited  by  his 
want  of  opportunity  and  power  ;  but  the 
early  interest  he  felt  in  her  soon  assumed 
a  n  w  character,  and  an  affection,  pure 
and  honorable  as  the  heart  that  entertained 
it,  took  possession  of  him,  with  all  the 
energy  of  a  youthful  passion.  The  op- 
portunities he  had  of  conversing  with  her, 
were  stolen  from  the  watchful  surveillance 
of  his  parents ;  who,  acquainted  with  his 
habits  of  humble  companionship,  had 
threatened  to  turn  him  from  tlie  house  if 
he  did  not  renounce  them  ;  but,  as  the 
mountains,  piled  by  the  daring  hand  of 
Titan,  are  not  able  to  stop  the  mountain 
stream,  many  dcvicos  were  fallen  upon  by 
Carey,  to  give  vent  to  a  pas>i,'n  whose 
course,  though  proverbially  crooked,  is 
also  proverbially  irresistible.  When  Jeanie 
was  supposed  to  be  visiting  her  fi lends  in 


Newabbey — a  place  she  dared  not  enter — 
she  was  along  with  Carey,  in  the  Wolfs 
Brake,  a  very  retired  place  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, whore  they  conceived  they  were 
perfectly  safe  from  the  disturbance  of  their 
cnomi  s  ;  but  they  were  discovered  by 
Carey's  parents,  who  cruelly  dismissed 
them  both  from  the  house.  Carey  was 
true  to  his  love  ;  and  they  proceeded  to- 
gether to  the  village,  where  they  were 
received  by  John  Monilaws  and  his  wife, 
to  whom  they  related  their  strange  story, 
with  kindn  ss.  Some  time  afterwards, 
they  were  married,  and  Carey  paid  little 
attention  to  the  remarks  of  the  neighbors, 
who  could  not  see  ^'  hoo  the  young  gen- 
tleman, without  a  trade  in  his  hand,"  was 
to  support  himself  and  a  wife.  Even 
John  Monilaws  thought  the  match,  in  the 
meantime,  imprudent,  and  recommended 
that  it  should  be  postponed  until  Carey 
had  learned  some  trade  or  profession. 
Carey  smiled  in  reply,  and  thought  of 
what  he  had  seen  from  the  sky-light  of  his 
father-in-law's  cottao-e. 

In  a  short  time  it  was  currently  re- 
ported, that  the  laird  of  Cubbertscroft 
was  over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  and  that 
the  property  was  to  be  brought  to  the 
hammer.  This  news  was  soon  but  too 
well  corroborated  by  large  printed  bills, 
posted  in  various  parts  of  the  county,  ad- 
vertising the  sale  of  the  property  of  Cub- 
bertscroft, in  the  town-hall  of  Dumfries, 
on  a  day  and  hour  set  forth.  One  of 
these  fell  into  the  hands  of  Carey.  He 
sallied  out  of  the  house  ;  and,  it  being  at 
the  time  dark,  he  sought,  and  forcibly  en- 
tered the  dark  and  dismal  habitation  of 
Cubby  Grindstane,  now  his  father-in- 
law. 

"  Ken  ye  the  law  against  hamesucken, 
sir  .'"  said  Cubby,  recognizing  bim. 

"  I  do,"  said  Carey  ;  "  but  it  is  a  sub- 
tle point  wi  the  lawyers  hoo  strong  a  rap 
(intended  to  let  folk  hear  ye,  but  haein 
the  by  effect  o'  op?nin  the  door)  amounts 
to  forcible  entry.  1  cam  to  ask  hoo  ye 
are.  Cubby  Grindstane." 


233 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


"  A'  sort  o'  impudence,"  said  CuLby, 
"  is  comprehended  by  that  cant.  If  folk 
want  to  borrow  frae  ye,  (whilk,  God  be 
praised  !  I'm  far  ayont,)  if  they  want  to 
steal  yer  time,  if  they  want  to  see  what's 
i'  yer  hoose,  or  what's  intended  to  be  in 
yer  stamaeh,  they  aye  cloak  their  inten- 
tions wi'  askin'  hoo  ye  are — the  maist  un- 
meanin'  o'  a'  questions.  Gang  yer  ways 
the  way  ye  cam,  sir  ;  an'  I'll  send  ye  a 
weekly  bulletin  o'  my  health." 

"  Bulletins  hae  been  issued  aboot  the 
health  o'  folk  o'  less  consequence,"  said 
Carey,  pointing  his  finger  to  the  small 
garret. 

"  What  mean  ye,  sir  .?"  said  Cubby, 
staring  at  him  with  his  eyes  at  their  full 
stretch,  and  showing  signs  of  great  agita- 
tion. 

"  Sit  down  Cubby,"  said  Carey—"  I 
want  to  speak  to  ye,  for  a  short  time,  ra- 
tionally and  quietly.  I  hae  nae  ill  inten- 
tions towards  ye  ;  an',  if  ye  are  discreet, 
ye'll  find  me  a  mair  sicker  freen  than  a 
safe  fae. 

Cubby  hesitated  to  sit  down.  He  had 
never  been  seen  in  that  position  when  any 
one  was  in  his  house  ;  for  he  found  he  got 
any  people  who  had  been  lucky  enough  to 
get  in,  out  again,  more  readily  by  keeping 
on  his  len-s. 

"  Tm  no  used  sittin'  wi'  strangers," 
said  he. 

Carey  again  lifted  his  finger  to  the  roof 
of  the  house,  and  Cubby's  agitation  in- 
creased. Trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
he  at  last  sat  down  on  a  three-footed  stool, 
opposite  to  Carey. 

''  Hae  ye  heard  ony  news  o'  late  .^"  be- 
gan Carey. 

"  I'm  no  i'  the  way  o'  hearin'  news," 
replied  Cubby,  "  an'  care  little  for  the 
world's  clavers  besides." 

"  But  when  things  concern  oorsels," 
said  Carey,  "  we  maun  care  aboot 
them.^' 

"  What  mean  ye  .^"  said  Cubby. 

"  It's  said,"  rcpliod  Carey,  looking  at 
him   attentively,  "  that  in  a  house  no    a 


hunder  miles  frae  the  sma'  villaofe  o'  New- 
abbey  there  lie  the  banes  o'  a  woman  an' 
a  bairn,  whase  coffins  never  saw  the  mort- 
claith  o'  ony  parish,  or  filled  the  graves  o' 
ony  buryin'  place.  When  deaths  are 
concealed,  suspicions  o'  murder  are  aye 
rife  ;  an'  I  hae  heard  it  even  said  that 
simple  concealment  itsel,  at  least  in  ae 
case,  is  a  guid,  if  no  the  only  proof  o' 
wilfu'  slaughter." 

"  What  hae  1  to  do  wi'  that,  sir.'"  said 
Cubby,  whose  agitation  still  increased. 

"  Silence  !"  said  Carey,  holding  up  his 
hand  to  the  roof — "  ye  may  at  least  hear 
the  gossip  o'  the  village.  The  banes  are 
in  the  hoose  o'  an  auld  cobbler  ;  an'  it's 
also  said,  that,  in  the  place  whar  they  lie, 
there  is  an  extraordinary  collection  o'  a 
miser's  treasure,  filling  nae  fewer  than  five 
big  kists,  strongly  clasped  wi'  bands  o' 
iron,  to  protect  the  gowd  guineas,  nae  less 
in  amount  than  fifteen  thousand  pounds. 
To  mak  the  story  mair  wonderfu',  the  gos- 
sips hae  added  to  the  inhabitants  o'  the 
strange  hoose,  a  grey  owl — nae  doot,  an 
invention  o'  their  ain  brains." 

"  It's  a'  an  invention  thegither,"  ejacu- 
lated Cubby,  rising  from  his  seat,  and 
trying  to  walk  through  the  apartment, 
which,  however,  his  trembling  and  agita- 
tion prevented  him  from  doing,  otherwise 
than  by  a  zig-zag  motion,  from  one  side  to 
another. 

"  I  think  sae  mysel,"  said  Carey ;  "  but 
we'll  see."  And  he  rose  and  seized,  in 
an  instant,  a  ladder  used  by  Cubby,  for 
the  purpose  of  mounting  to  his  Golgotha. 

"  Hauld,  sir  !"  cried  the  frantic  Cubby, 
as  he  flew  and  seized  Carey  by  the  legs, 
fallino;  at  the  same  time  on  his  knees,  and 
turning  up  his  grey  eyes,  now,  like  his 
own  owl's,  darting  forth  fire.  "  Wh:it  is 
this  ye're  aboot  ?  Wha  are  ye  .'  What 
ken  ye  o'  thac  dark  things  .- — I  mean  there 
is  naething  there.  Hauld,  sir !  or  ye'll 
kill  an  auld  man  wha  micht  be  yer  fai- 
ther.''  And  he  fell  on  the  floor,  groan- 
in«-  and  rollinir  about,  like  one  in  a  con- 
vulsion. 


THii    MISER   OF   NE\^^ABBEy. 


233 


"  I  will  lay  down  this  laddor,"  said 
Carey,  "  if  you  will  risy,  an' sit  down,  an' 
sp3ak  to  me  on  certain  subjects  that  con- 
cern me  and  yot*  " 

"  1  will,  I  will,''  replied  Cubby,  recov 
ering  slightly.  "  {'11  sit  qui.jtly  an'  h;;ar 
ye  speak  o'  onything  but  thae  village  gos- 
sips. Nao  lamb  will  bo  more  peaceable  ; 
an' — an'  ye'Il  hae  something  too— to  tak 
wi'  ye  when  ye  gae  awa." 

"  Ye  mean  ane  o'  yer  three  guid  far- 
thins,  I  suppose  .^"  said  Carey,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Ay,  ril  make  it  a  gowd  guinea,"  said 
the  other,  with  an  effort  like  to  choke 
him. 

"  Weel,  1st  that  alane,''  said  Carey; 
"  we'll  maybe  mak  it  mair.  Ye  now  see 
that  1  ken  a'  the  secret  that  lies  i'  that 
garret.  I  hae  seen  it  wi'  my  ain  een,  an' 
heard  it  frae  yer  dochter,  wha  is  noo  my 
lawfu'  married  wife — a  guid  match  to  her 
seein'  I  am  the  third  son  o'  William 
Cuthbert  o'  Cubbert^croft  " 

"  ?>'Iy  dochtor  married  to  ane  o'  the 
Cubberts  o'  Cubbertscroft !"  ejaculated 
Cubby.  "  Then  hae  the  tw^a  stocks  at 
last  joined.     Keaven  be  praised  !" 

"  It  is  clear,  then,"  continued  Carey, 
"  that  you  are  completely  in  my  power. 
On  going  to  Gilbert  Sleuthia,  the  j&scal  o' 
the  county,  an'  layin'  my  statement  afore 
him,  his  first  step  will  be  to  seize  the 
banes  an'  the  gowd.  Ye  will  be  tried  for 
the  murder  o'  the  unhappy  beings  whase 
bodies  they  ance  supported  ;  an\  whether 
ye  be  guilty  or  innocent,  j^e'll  hae  some 
difficulty  o'  getting  oot  o'  the  hands  o' 
the  law  the  fifteen  thousand  guineas  I  saw 
ye  count  wi'  my  ain  een  ;  an',  even  were 
ye  to  get  it  back,  it  will  spread  through- 
out the  country  that  Cubby  Grindstane 
has  £1  ■',0{  0,  an' a' the  stouthrievors  o' 
the  country  will  be  on  ye  like  bluid- 
hounds,  to  ease  ye  o'  the  burden  o' 
kcepin't. 

"  But  ye'll  no  gang  to  Gilbert  Sleu- 
thie,  the  fiscal  ?"  cried  Cubby,  rising 
ao-ain  into  one  of  his  paroxysms  of  terror, 


and  seizing  Carey  by  the  knees  "  It's  no 
in  the  heart  o'  ane  wi'  that  face  o'  yours 
to  ruin  a  puir  auld  man,  wha  you  say  is 
your  faither-in-law.  I  ken  ye  winna  do"t. 
The  guinea  I'll  mak  twa,  an'  maybe  a  half 
mair.  Say  ye  winna  gang,  an'  Til  mak 
it  three,      iviercy  !  mercy  !" 

With  the  greatest  difficulty  Carey  got 
him  to  bt  go  the  firm  grasp  he  had  of  his 
legs  ;  and  which  he  seemed  inclined  to 
hold  till  he  got  his  request  granted. 

"  It  isna  by  ony  sic  bribes  as  thae, 
Cuthbert  Grandison,  that  I  will  be  divert- 
ed frae  my  purpose." 

"  What  will  please  ye,  then .-"  cried 
Cubby,  earn'^stly. 

"  A  condition  for  yer  ain  benefit,"  re- 
plied Carey.  "  Have  ye  no  sense  enough 
to  see  that  the  money  ye  hoard  in  thae  kists 
yields  ye  nae  interest,  and,  besides,  rins 
the  risk  o'  being  taen  frae  ye  the  very 
moment  it  is  kenned  (an'  it's  already  sus- 
pected) ye  hae  t.'^ 

A  groan  w^as  all  the  answer  Cubby 
could  give  ;  for  denying  the  money  was 
now  out  of  the  question. 

"  Now  I  am  to  put  you  on  a  plan,"  con- 
tinued Carey,  "  wharby  ye  may  get  a  guid 
return  for  yer  money,  an'  nae  man  can 
tak  it  frae  ye." 

Another  groan  evinced  the  agony  of 
the  suffarer. 

"  Here,"  continued  Carey,  taking  from 
his  pocket  the  advertisement  of  Cubberts-- 
croft.  "  Here  is  my  father's  property  for 
sale  on  Wednesday  next.  It  will,  in  all 
likelihood,  be  thrown  awa.  Tak  yer  siller 
to  the  bank  o'  Dumfies,  an'  lodge  it 
there,  then  gang  to  the  Hall,  an'  buy 
Cubbertscroft ;  an'  wha  will  venture  to 
rin  awa  wi'  that  frae  ye  .^" 

"  But  ye  are  wrang  aboot  the  siller," 
cried  Cubby — "  there's  no  sae  muckle  o't 
as  ye  say." 

"  1  will  count  it  mvsol,"  cried  Carey, 
pointing  to  the  ladder.  "  I  heard  you 
count  it  before." 

"Weel,  wsel,"  repli-d  Cubby,  "I'll 
think  o'  what  ye've  said." 


234 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


"  ril  wait  yer  answer  the  morn,"''  said 
Carey.  "  if  ye  dinna  agree,  I'll  write  in- 
stantly to  Sleuthie." 

Carey  then  loft  him  ;  but,  with  the  de- 
termination of  watchino;  the  house  duiing 
the  night,  to  prevent  any  attempt  at  re- 
moving the  chests. 

"  Mercy  on  me  1"  said  Cubby  to  him- 
self, when  Carey  went  out,  "  what  am  I 
to  do  r  I  canna  remove  thae  kists,  an' 
whar  can  I  tak  them  .''  My  secrofs  oot  ; 
an',  whether  that  callant  tells  Sleuthie  or 
no,  it's  clear  I  canna  keep  langer  this  sil- 
ler in  a  ihatched  cotta2;e.  Let  me  see — 
buy  Cubbertscroft,  the  property  o'  the 
freens  o'  my  mither,  whase  name  I  bear  ? 
Aften  hae  1  heard  her  say,  puir  cratur  ! 
that  she  couldna  live  an'  see  Cubbertscroft 
sauld  and  gien  awa  to  strangers  ;  and  noo 
t~  at  is  aboot  to  be — at  a  time,  too,  when, 
strange  to  ssij  !  my  doehter  is  married  to 
a  Cubbert — the  callant's  no  far  wrang. 
The  banes  o'  my  wife  an'  bairn,  wham  1 
couldna  find  in  my  heart  to  bury,  hae 
kept  my  gowd  lang  safe  frae  the  ee  o'  my 
doehter  ;  but  they  may  noo  lead  Sleuthie 
to  my  coffers-  What's  to  be  done  ?  My 
gowd !  my  gowd  !  1  eanna  pairt  we  ye  ; 
for  ye  are  dearer  to  me  than  my 
heart's  blude.  But,  if  it  wad  pain  me  to 
gie  ye  awa  for  land  whilk  has  nae  king's 
face  on't,  what  wad  I  feel  to  hae  ye  taen 
frae  me  by  force  !  I  canna  bear  that 
thought.  Buy  Cubbertscroft  !  Cubby 
Grindstane  gie  awa  his  gowd  for  Cub- 
bertscroft ! — awfu'  thought !  But  it  was 
my  mither's  wish — an'  better  land  than 
nae  thing.      I  maun  think  niair  on't." 

Carey  called  next  day,  and  again  laid 
before  the  old  man  the  danger  of  not 
complying  with  the  request.  Cubby  him- 
self had  been  shaken  fearfully  during  the 
night  with  the  terror  of  losing  altogether 
his  wealth  ;  and  the  arguments  of  Carey 
almost  decided  him.  He  said  he  would 
again  consider  of  it,  and  if  he  came  to  the 
conclusion  of  buying  Cubbertscroft,  he 
would  be  at  the  place  of  sale  on  the  day 
and  hour  appointed.     Carey  left  him,  and 


continued  his  watch  at  night.  About 
twelve  o'clock,  he  observed  a  cart  and  a 
horse  standing;  at  the  door  of  the  cotta^re  ; 
and  when  all  the  inhabitants  of  th  j  villa'-'e 

c 

were  at  rest,  he  observed  the  miser  carry- 
ina;  out  his  coffers  and  placins;  them  on 
the  cart.  He  allowed  him  to  proceed. 
The  cart  was  loaded  ;  and,  in  a  short 
time,  he  saw  it  take  the  road  to  Dumfries. 
He  followed  close  behind,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Cubby  drove  straight 
up  to  the  house  of  the  cashier  of  the  prin- 
cipal bank  of  the  town.  By  knocking 
hard,  he  roused  the  servants ;  in  a  little 
time  the  banker  came  out,  the  cart  was 
unloaded,  and  a  transaction  finished. 

The  day  arrived  on  which  the  sale  of 
Cubbertscroft  was  to  take  place.  A  great 
number  of  people  was  collected.  Carey 
was  there,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find 
his  father  ;  who,  however,  had  attended 
with  the  hope  of  getting  some  friend  to 
buy  in  the  property  on  his  account.  The 
two  looked  at  each  other  without  speaking. 
John  Monilaws  was  also  present,  as  well 
as  some  others  of  the  inhabitants  of  New- 
abbey.  The  auctioneer  mounted  into  his 
desk  ;  and  d£12,000  had  been  ofi'ered  for 
the  property  by  a  neighboring  laird,  who 
wished  to  incorporate  it  with  his  own 
land.  Some  other  individuals  bade,  and 
the  bodes  had  arrived  at  £14,000 — no  one 
being  inclined  to  go  beyond  it.  At  this 
moment  the  door  of  the  room  opened, 
with  a  harsh  noise,  and  the  people  looked 
around,  to  observe  the  cause  of  the  inter- 
ruption. Cubby  Grindstane  entered.  A 
feeling  of  surprise  ran  through  the  crowd. 
John  Monilaws  stared,  and  Carey  smiled. 
Stepping  forward,  Cubby  watched  the 
voice  of  the  auctioneer.  The  latter  called 
out  £14,000. 

"  Five  shillings  mair  !"  cried  Cubby. 

"  You  must  make  it  five  pounds,  sir," 
said  the  auctioneer. 

"  Aweel,   aweel,   then,"  said  Cubby — 
"  let  it  be  five  pounds." 

The  surprise  of  the  people  increased  to 
wonder.     Every    one    whispered    to    his 


THE  PIRATE. 


235 


neighbor — "  Is  he  mad  ?  Why  does  the 
auctioneer  take  his  bode  ?"'  No  one  bade 
higher,  and  the  hammer  fell. 

"  Are  you  able  to  find  caution,  sir  r" 
said  the  auctioneer. 

''  No,"  replied  Cubby. 

"  Why  did  you  bid  for  the  land,  then  ?" 
rejoined  the  other. 

"  Because  I  wanted  it,"  replied  Cubby. 
'^  Will  ye  no  tak  the  siller  in  place  o' 
caution  ?'' 

"  Assuredly,"  replied  the  auctioneer, 
smiling — "  where  is  it .?" 

"  There,"  said  Cubby,  "  is  the  bank- 
er's check  for  i£14,000.  The  moment  I 
get  a  complete  right  to  the  land,  ye  may 
hae  the  siller.'' 

The  bargain  was,  accordingly,  soon  ar- 


ranged ;  and,  to  the  surprise  of  all  that 
part  of  the  country,  Cuthbert  Grandison 
became  the  laird  of  Cubbertscroft.  His 
feelings  subsequently  underwent  some 
change  for  the  better,  and  he  took  home 
his  daughter  Jeanie  and  her  husband,  to 
live  with  him  in  the  mansion-house,  where, 
however,  he  still  exhibited  a  great  portion 
of  his  original  avarice.  He  soon  died, 
and  the  property  was  left  to  Jeanie. 
Carey  Cuthbert  had,  by  the  right  of  cour- 
tesy, all  the  power  of  the  property.  He 
received  with  welcome  his  father  and 
mother,  and  maintained  them  during  their 
lives  in  the  mansion-house  from  which 
they  had  formerly  expelled  him,  and  from 
which  their  own  extravagance  had  driven 
themselves. 


THE    PIRATE. 


In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1705,  a  large 
square-rigged  vessel  was  seen  beating  up 
the  Frith  of  Forth.  She  was  yet  at  a 
considerable  distance  ;  but  her  large  size 
and  peculiarity  of  appearance  had  excited 
a  good  deal  of  curiosity  amongst  the 
idlers,  chiefly  old  seamen,  who  were  *saun- 
tering  on  the  pier. 

"  Can  you  make  her  out.  Bob  .=="  said 
one,  addressing  a  neighbor,  who  was  ear- 
nestly contemplating  the  approaching  ship 
through  an  old  spying-glass  which  he  had 
rested  on  the  bulwark  of  the  pier. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  replied  the  man  to  whom 
the  query  was  put.  "  She's  a  total  stran- 
ger ;  but  there  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of 
the  devil  about  her.  She  has  a  rakish 
look,  that  an  honest  ship  shouldn't  have. 
However,  she's  a  smart  craft,  be  she  what 
she  may." 

In  the  meantime,  the  subject  of  these 
remarks  was  rapidly  neariug  her  apparent 


destination,  Leith  Roads,  where,  in  less 
than  half  an  hour  after,  she  came  to  an- 
chor. 

The  stranger,  after  all,  however,  proved 
to  be  only  the  Worcester^  Captain  Green, 
an  East  India  trader,  on  her  way  to  that 
quarter  of  the  world,  and  who  had  put 
into  Leith  merely  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
curing a  further  supply  of  water  before 
proceeding  on  her  voyage. 

For  several  years  previous  to  this  pe- 
riod, the  Worcester ^  which  was  an  English 
ship,  had  been  emploj^ed  in  trading  to  and 
from  various  parts  of  the  East  Indies,  but 
chiefly  with  the  coast  of  Malabar,  from 
which  she  had  brought  several  rich  and 
valuable  cargoes  to  England. 

Her  purpose  in  coming  to  Leith  Roads 
being  merely  to  water,  it  was  intended 
that  she  should  sail  again  on  the  following 
day. 

On  the  following  day,  accordingly,  Cap- 


236 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


tain  Green  made  preparations  for  getting 
his  ship  under  weigh,  and  resuming  his 
voyage  ;  and  they  wore  thus  employed  on 
board  the  vessel,  when  a  boat  was  descried 
rowing  towards  them. 

She  came  alongside,  when  two  persons 
of  the  appearance  of  messengers  or  bai- 
liffs sprung  on  board,  and  asked  which  was 
the  captain. 

A  stout  thickset  man,  of  a  dark  swarthy 
complexion,  and  determined  countenance, 
rolled  up  in  a  huge  dreadnought  coat,  with 
immense  horn  buttons,  answered  the  query 
by  stepping  forward,  and  saying  in  a  gruff 
voice  — 

"I  am  captain  of  the  ship,  my  mas- 
ters;  what  dye  want?" 

"  To  inform  you,  captain,"  replied  one 
of  the  messengers,  "  that  we  lay  this  ship 
under  arrest,  by  virtue  of  a  precept  from 
the  Scotch  Court  of  Admiralty,  at  the 
instance  of  the  Indian  and  African  Com- 
pany of  Scotland." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  hearties,"  replied  Captain 
Green,  turning  an  enormous  quid  of  to- 
bacco in  his  mouth.  "  That's  your  game, 
is  it  ?  And  pray,  what  do  you  arrest  my 
ship  for  ?" 

"  You  will  learn  that  shortly,"  said  the 

first  speaker.     "  In  the  meantime" 

''  Nay,  nay,"  said  Green,  interrupting 
him — ''  1  must  know  it  presently." 

"  Well,  1  believe  then,"  replied  the 
man,  "  that  it  is  by  way  of  reprisal  for  the 
capture,  the  other  day,  of  a  Scottish  ship 
by  an  English  vessel." 

"  Umph,"  exclaimed  Green,  doggedly; 
"  and  I'm  to  be  made  the  scapegoat  of 
the  affair,  am  I  ?  Why,  see  ye  now,  my 
masters,''  continued  Green,  without  wait- 
ing for  any  reply,  "  it  would  be  an  easy 
matter  for  me,  and  1  have  a  great  mind  to 
do  it  too,  to  pitch  you  both  into  the  sea, 
and  get  under  weigh  in  defiance  of  your 
precept,  as  you  call  it ;  but,  as  that  mi.,ht 
lead  to  trouble,  and  as  I  expect  to  get 
swinging  damages  for  my  detention,  1  don't 
mind  your  clapping  a  stopper  on  me  for  a 
day  or  two." 


Having  thus  obtained  the  captain's  con- 
sent to  their  executing  their  duty — which 
last  they  would  have  found  somewhat  diffi- 
cult without  the  former — the  men  went 
through  the  forms  of  law  which  the  case 
demanded,  and  concluded  by  intimating  to 
Captain  Green  that  they  were  instructed 
to  have  the  vessel  conveyed  to  Burnt- 
island ;  and  thither  she  was  accordingly 
taken. 

Jn  the  meantime,  and  before  the  vessel 
arrived  at  the  latter  place.  Captain  Green, 
after  expressing  his  willingness  to  submit 
to  the  order  of  the  Scotch  Court  of  Ad- 
miralty, descended  to  the  cabin,  where  he 
found  his  steward,  whose  name  was  Haines, 
sitting  as  pale  as  death,  and  evidently  in  a 
state  of  dreadful  alarm. 

On  seeing  the  man  in  this  condition, 
Green  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  exclaim- 
ing;— 

"So,  I  suppose,  Haines,  you  thought 
we  were  had,  eh  ?  You  thought  these 
fellows  had  come  to  call  us  to  an  account 
and  reckoning  for  our  pranks." 

"  Is  it  not  so  .?"  said  Haines,  with  a 
ghastly  gravity  and  sepulchral  tone.  "  0 
thank  God  ! — thank  God !  I  did  think  in- 
deed, captain,  that  our  day  of  retribution 
was  come.  What,  then,  did  these  men 
want  r" 

Green  informed  him,  adding  sternly — 

"  Now,  Haines,  no  more  of  this  canting 
of  yours  ;  this  cowardly  trembling  and 
shadng  when  anything  in  the  slightest 
degree  out  of  the  way  occurs.  VVhy, 
man,  who  do  you  think  is  to  harm  us,  if 
we  don't  harm  ourselves  ?  None  to  bo 
sure.  But  that  infernal  face  of  yours, 
that  gets  as  white  as  a  newl}-bent  topsail, 
when  any  stranger  comes  suddenly  athwart 
you,  is  enough  to  blow  us  all." 

"  O  captaia,  captain  I"  exclaimed 
Haines,  who  seemed  to  be  laboring  undor 
some  dreadful  depression  of  mind,  which 
the  assurance  he  had  just  had  of  the  real 
purpose  of  their  visitors  had  relieved,  but 
I  could  not  entirely  remove,  "  how  can  I 
help  it  ?     How  can  a  man  with  such  a  loa  1 


THE  PIRATE. 


237 


of  guilt  on  his  conscience  as  I  have,  as  we 
all  have,  be  like  other  men  ?  How  can  he 
command  himself?  How  can  he  conceal 
the  dreadful  workino-s  of  a  tortured  soul  ? 
O  that  frightful  day,  captain  !  that  fright- 
ful day  !  Would  to  God  1  had  been  buried 
in  the  ocean,  a  thousand  fathoms  deep, 
before  that  dreadful  day  had  arisen." 

"  Bah,  you  jabbering  fool,"  exclaimed 
Green,  contemptuously ;  "have  you  be- 
gun your  old  croaking  again  ?  Are  you 
going  to  preach,  you  cowardly  scoundrel, 
eh  ?  Haines,  1  tell  you,  once  more,  what 
it  is,"  said  Green,  bursting  into  a  sudden 
fit  of  passion,  and  fiercely  striking  with  his 
huge  horny  fist  a  pistol-case  that  stood  on 
the  table,  "  1  tell  you  once  more  what  it 
is — if  you  don't  mend  your  manners — if 
you  don't  contrive  to  get  quit  of  that 
hang-dog  look  of  yours,  that  is  enough  of 
itself  to  brinjT;  a  dozen  better  men  than 
yourself  to  the  gallows — may  I  be  blasted 
if  I  be  not  the  death  of  you.  Yes,  by 
heavens!"  he  went  on,  at  the  same  time 
tearing  open  the  pistol  case,  and  drawing 
forth  one  of  the  deadly  weapons  it  con- 
tained, and  pointing  it  at  the  head  of  his 
steward,  "  I'll  blow  your  brains  out,  as 
sure  as  your  name  is  John  Haines,  and 
mine  is  Thomas  Green.  So  look  to  your- 
self.     I  give  you  fair  warning." 

Saying  this,  he  replaced  the  pistol  in 
its  case,  and  re-ascended  the  deck. 

Leavinfv  the  Worcester  in  the  harbor  of 
Burntisland,  under  the  arrestment  of  the 
Scotch  Court  of  Admiralty,  we  change 
the  scene  to  Edinburgh,  and  to  the  house 
of  one  Drummond,  a  respectable  tailor 
and  clothier,  who  resided  in  the  Lawn- 
market. 

This  person  had  a  son  who  followed  the 
profession  of  the  sea,  and  was  in  command 
of  a  brig  that  sailed  from  Newcastle  to 
foreign  parts. 

About  two  years  previous  to  the  com- 
mencement of  our  story,  Captain  Drum- 
mond had  sailed  for  the  East  Indies  ;  but 
no  tidinis  of  his  arrival  there  had  ever 
reached  his  owners.     Months  and  months 


flew  away,  and  still  no  intelligence  of  the 
missing  ship  couM  be  obtained.  The  last 
and  only  trace  of  her  that  had  yet  come 
to  the  knowledsre  of  those  interested  in 
her  fate  was,  her  having  been  spoken  off 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  by  a  homeward- 
bound  ship. 

At  that  time,  all  was  well  on  board  the 
Uxbridgey  the  name  of  Drummond's  ves- 
sel, and  she  was  pursuing  her  voyage  pros- 
perously. From  that  momenx,  however, 
no  more  had  been  heard  of  her  ;  and  fears 
were,  in  consequence,  beginning  to  be  en- 
tertained that  she  had  foundered  at  sea. 

It  was  while  matters  were  in  this  pain- 
ful situation  regarding  the  Uxbridge — 
when  all  those  who  had  friends  on  board 
of  her,  or  who  were  otherwise  interested  in 
her  fate,  were  living  in  a  state  of  the  most 
harrowing  suspense — that  information 
reached  Mr.  Drummond  s  family  in  Edin- 
burgh, that  there  was  a  vessel  in  Burnt- 
island that  had  lately  returned  from  the 
East  Indies ;  and  the  person  who  gave 
this  information  advised  Mr.  Drummond 
to  lose  no  time  in  seeing  the  captain,  as 
there  was  a  probability  that  he  might  be 
able  to  give  some  intelligence  of  the  Ux- 
bridge. 

Acting  on  this  advice,  although  with  no 
very  sanguine  hopes  of  learning  anything 
of  his  son,  Mr.  Drummond,  accompanied 
by  another  son  and  a  daughter,  immedi- 
ately set  out  for  Burntisland,  where  they 
found  the  Worcester,  which,  we  need  not 
say,  was  the  ship  alluded  to  by  Drum- 
mond's informant. 

The  party  now  went  on  board  of  the 
latter.  When  they  did  so.  Captain  Green 
was  standing  on  the  quarter-deck,  from 
which  he  eyed  them  with  a  look  of  sullen 
scrutiny,  and  without  attempting  advances 
of  any  kind. 

Mr.  Drummond,  leaving  his  son  and 
daughter  at  the  fore  part  of  the  vessel,  ad- 
vanced alons  towards  Green,  who  sulkily 
awaited  his  approach. 

"  Well,  friend,"  he  at  length  said, 
"  what  may  be  your  business  on  board  my 


238 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


ship  ?     Have  you  got  anything  to  say  to 
me  .'" 

Disconcerted  by  the  gruif  uncourteous 
ness  of  his  reception,  it  was  a  s-^cond   or 
two  before  Mr,   Drummond  could  reply. 
At  length — 

"  I  shall  be  sorry,  Sir,"  he  said,  ''  if 
my  coming  on  board  your  ship  is  consid- 
ered an  intrusion  ;  but,  I  think,  you  will 
excuse  me  when  1  tall  you  my  errand.  I 
have  a  son,  a  sailor  like  yourself,  Sir,  who 
left  Newcastle  some  two  years  ago,  on  a 

voyage  to  the  East  Indies,  and  " 

"  Ah  !"  exclaimed  Green,  interrupting 
him  ;  "  and  you  expect  me  to  be  able  to 
tell  you  all  about  him,  I  fancy.  Every- 
body seems  to  think  that  I  can  give  every 
information  about  every  ship  that  crosses 
the  line.  One  would  think  they  took  the 
high  seas  to  be  a  turnpike  road,  where 
you  can  hail  every  one  that  passes 
you." 

To  this  objurgation  Mr.  Drummond 
made  no  reply,  but  proceeded  to  say  that 
he  hoped  it  would  be  no  offc^nce  to  ask 
him  if  he  had  met  with  or  heard  anything 
of  a  vessel  called  the  Uxbridge,  Captain 
Drummond  of  Newcastle. 

The  question  was  apparently  a  simple 
enough  one,  yet  it  was  one  which  seemed 
to  have  a  very  strange  effect  on  him  to 
whom  it  was  addressed.  The  dark  blood 
rushed  to  his  swarthy  forehead,  while  his 
lips  became  pale  and  tremulous  ;  and  it 
was  some  seconds  before  he  could  make 
any  reply. 

At  length,  clearing  his  throat,  with  a 
short  cough  or  two,  from  the  huskiness 
which  his  sudden  agitation  had  caused, 
"  Drummond,"  he  said — "  one  Captain 
Drummond.  How  should  I  know  about 
Captain  Drummond  ?  What  do  you  come 
to  me  inquiring  about  Captain  Drummond 
for  ?" 

Silenced  by  this  brutal  treatment,  Mr. 
Drummond,  without  saying  another  word, 
left  Green,  a.nd  rejoined  his  son  and 
daughter,  who  were  waiting  in  great  anx- 
iety the  result  of  their  father's  interview 


with  the  captain  of  the  Worcester j  on  the 
fore  part  of  the  vessel. 

To  their  eager  inquiry  whether  he  had 
heard  any  tidings  of  thjir  brother,  Mr. 
Drummond  replied,  that  he  had  got  none 
whatever.  That  the  captain  either  would 
not,  or  could  not  tell  anything  at  all  about 
the  Uxbrid'je;  and  that  his  conduct, 
altogether,  was  brutal  and  ferocious. 

Disheartened  and  disappointed  by  this 
result  of  their  journey,  the  trio  now  left 
the  ship,  with  the  intention  of  returning 
immediately  to  Leith. 

On  making  inquhy,  however,  they  found 
that  no  passage  boat  would  cross  that 
night  and  that,  therefore,  they  should  be 
obliged  to  remain  in  Burntisland  until  the 
following  day. 

It  being  now  well  on  in  the  afternoon, 
the  party  began  to  look  around  them  for 
respectable  quarters  for  the  night,  and 
finally  fixed  on  a  clean  and  decent  public- 
house  kept  by  a  person  of  the  name  of 
Seaton. 

Into  this  house,  then,  they  accordingly 
went,  and  were  shown  into  a  respectably- 
furnished  apartment — a  sort  of  public 
room — where  they  had  some  refreshment. 
This  was  served  by  the  landlord  himself — 
a  circumstance  which  afforded  Mr.  D.um- 
mond  an  opportunity  of  making  some 
inquiries  of  him  regarding  the  U  orest<r 
and  her  captain,  the  subject  naturally  up- 
permost in  his  mind.  Having  informed 
the  landlord  of  the  purpose  of  his  vi^it  to 
Burntisland,  and  of  the  reception  he  had 
met  with  from  Green,  the  former  shook 
his  head,  and  said — 

"  Ay,  he's  a  strange  man  that  Green. 
I  never  saw  a  more  dangerous-looking  cus- 
tomer. He  comes  here  sometimes  ;  but 
my  people  are  all  afraid  of  him,  he  has 
such  a  boisterous  overbearing  way  with 
him.  His  crew,  too,  seem  to  me  to  be  all 
of  the  same  kidney.  1  hey  are  the  most 
reckless,  dare-devil  sort  of  follows  I  ever 
met  Avith." 

'^  Is  she  a  regular  trader  .^"  said  Mr. 
Drummond— meanins:  the  Worcester. 


THE   PIRATE. 


239 


The  landlord  shook  his  head,  and  smiled 
significantly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose 
she  is.  But  there  is  something  strange 
about  the  whole  concern — something  1 
don''t  quite  understand.  1  have  overheard 
such  things  passing  amongst  her  men, 
when  they  were  here  diinking,  that  I  can't 
tell  what  to  think  of  them." 

"  What  do  you  suspect  them  of  being  .^" 
said  Mr.  Drummond. 

"  Why,  it  wouldn't  be  just  safe  to  say 
that,"  replied  Soaton  ;  "  besides,  it 
migfitn't  be  true  ;  and  then  one  might  be 
brought  into  trouble,  you  know.  That 
man  Green,  were  I  to  say  anything  to  his 
prejudice,  would,  I  believe,  cut  my  throat 
as  fast  as  he'd  eat  a  biscuit ;  and,  I'm 
convinced,  there's  not  one  of  his  crew  but 
would  do  the  same  thing  just  as  readily." 

''  Ah !  I  see,"  replied  Drummond, 
laughingly  ;  "  you  suspect  them  of  pira- 
cy.    Don't  you,  landlord  .?" 

''  Perhaps  I  do,  and  perhaps  I  do  not," 
said  the  latter,  with  a  smile. 

At  this  moment,  the  ringing  of  a  bell 
called  the  landlord  away,  which  put  an 
end  to  the  conversation. 

It  was  about  an  hour  after  this,  that  a 
person  having  something  the  appearance 
of  a  sailor,  yet  not  having  altogether  the 
manner  of  one,  entered  the  apartment  in 
which  were  Drummond  and  his  son  and 
dau2:hter.  The  intruder's  look  and  bear- 
ins  had  somethinDr  in  them  odd  and  pecu- 
liar.  His  eye  was  restless,  and  constant- 
ly glancing  about  with  an  expression  of 
suspicion  and  alarm.  He  said  not  a  word 
on  entering ;  but,  with  downcast  look  and 
stealthy  step,  slunk  into  a  seat  at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  table  at  which  Drummond 
and  his  son  and  daughter  were  sittino;. 

Having  taken  his  place,  he  ordered  in 
a  large  measure  of  brandy  and  water.  On 
its  being  produced,  he  mixed  it  up  in  a 
large  rummer,  and  swallowed  the  whole 
at  one  draught  with  desperate  eagerness. 
He  then  ordered  another  measure  of  liquor 
to  be  brought  him,  which  he  also  tossed 


off  with  the  same  greedy  appetite — his 
object,  apparently,  being  to  get  drunk  as 
fast  as  possible.  Still  he  had  not  spoken 
a  word  beyond  the  necessary  orders  to  the 
servant  who  attended ;  but  the  scowlins;  and 
furtive  glances  he,  from  time  to  time,  took 
of  the  persons  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
showed  not  only  that  he  was  keenly  alive 
to  their  presence,  but  that  he  viewed  them 
with  some  anxiety  and  suspicion,  although 
what  the  latter  coulS  refer  to  none  but 
himself  could  conjecture. 

In  a  short  time,  the  effects  of  the  liquor 
which  the  stranger  had  swallowed  became 
apparent  in  his  manner,  which  underwent 
a  sudden  but  not  unpleasant  change. 
From  being  morose  and  sullen,  he  be- 
came lively  and  cheerful ;  held  up  his 
head  boldly  and  frankly,  and  contempla- 
ted his  fellow-guests  with  an  open  and 
conciliatory  look.  The  brandy,  in  short, 
seemed  to  have  driven  out  the  evil  spirit 
which  had  hitherto  oppressed  and  born-e 
him  down. 

"  Fine  night,  master,''  he  now  said, 
addressing  the  elder  Drummond. 

"  Fine  night.  Sir,"  repeated  the  latter. 
"  I  dare  say  you  belong  to  the  Worces- 
ter?'" 

"  Yes  I  do,"  said  the  stranger.  '*  I  am 
steward  of  her,  and  my  name's  Jack 
Haines  all  the  world  over.  Known  at  Porto 
Rico  ;  known  at  Juan  Fernandez  ;  known 
at  Telicherry  ;  known  at  Bombay  ;  known 
at  Sumatra  ;  known  at  every  corner  of  the 
world.  1  have  gathered  cocoa-nuts  at 
Otaheite  ;  hunted  alligators  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi ;  chased  monkeys  on  the  rock  of 
Gibraltar  ;  gathered  gold-dust  on  the  coast 
of  Guinea  ;  and  heaven  knows  where  all." 

"  Ay  ;  you  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  the 
world,  no  doubt,"  replied  Mr.  Drummond. 
"  Aren't  you  from  the  Indian  seas  lately  .^" 
he  added. 

"  Yes — to  be  sure  we  are,"  said  Haines, 
with  an  air  as  if  suddenly  brought  on  his 
guard  ;  "and  what  of  that .?" 

"  Oh,  nothing — only  that  I  was  going 
to  ask  you  if  you  could  give  me  any  infor- 


240 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


mation  regarding  a  ship  that  went  to  those 
S3as  about  two  years  ago." 

"  Oh,  1  know  nothing  about  ships — 
nothing  about  any  ship  but  my  own,"  re- 
plied HaineSj  with  a  contemptuous  indif- 
ference. 

"  But,  probably,  you  may  have  heard 
something  of  this  ship,  nevertheless," 
persevered  Mr.  Drumraond — "  the  Ux- 
bridge,  Captain  Drummond  .^''' 

"The  what!"  shouted  Haines,  in  a 
tone  where  vehemence  seemed  intended  to 
conceal  or  distract  attention  fjom  a  sud- 
den trepidation  of  which  the  speaker  be- 
came conscious,  and  which  was  also  evi- 
dent to  those  present. 

Mr.  Drummond  repeated  the  name  of 
the  missing  vessel  and  her  captain. 

Haines  instantly  relapsed  into  his  for- 
mer sullcnness,  hung  down  his  head,  and, 
in  a  low  gruff  tone,  muttered  that  be  knew 
nothino-  of  her.  From  this  moment,  he 
seemed  acjain  lost  in  thouj!;ht,  and  took  no 
fiirther  notice  of  the  pa  ty  present.  In 
tliis  musing  fit  he  continued  for  some  time, 
with  his  hands  thrust  into  his  breeches' 
pockets,  his  legs  stretched  out  at  full 
length,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  empty 
drinking  vessels  that  stood  before  him. 

At  the  end  of  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  however,  he  again  wakened  sudden- 
ly up  ;  and,  gazing  on  the  party  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  table  with  a  look  in 
which  distraction  and  intoxication  appear- 
ed in  fearful  combination,  exclaimed,  in  a 
solemn  voice — 

"  The  vengeance  of  heaven  shall  surely 
overtake  the  wicked !  the  blood  of  the 
murdered  will  rise  in  judgment  against  the 
murderer  !"  Then  rising  from  his  seat,  and 
advancino;  towards  the  elder  Drummond, 
he  took  him  by  the  arm,  and,  conducting 
him  to  the  window,  pointed  to  the  Worces- 
ter^ which  was  lying  in  the  harbor  direct- 
ly opposite  the  house,  and  said  in  a  low 
whisper — "  See  you  that  ship  there — that 
old,  black,  hell-smoked  hulk  !  Well,  there 
has  been  a  deed  done  onboard  that  thrice- 
accursed  vessel,  during  this  last  voyage, 


that  was  enough  to  have  sunk  her  to  the 
lowest  depths  of  perdition  ;  and  to  render 
it  a  marvel  beyond  all  comprehension,  that, 
■since  the  sea  has  not  engulfed  us,  the 
ground,  since  we  came  ashore,  has  not 
opened  up  and  swallowed  us  !  Oh  !  it  was 
a  foul  deed  !  We  did  it  with  hatchets. 
We  struck  them  down,  one  after  the  other, 
like  bullocks.  We  clove  their  skulls,  be- 
spattering our  bulwarks  with  their  brains, 
and  drenchino;  our  decks  with  their  blood. 
There  now,"  added  Haines,  throwing  off 
his  auditor  with  some  violence — "  there's 
a  story  for  you.  But  it  is  a  secret ;  men- 
tion it  to  no  one."  Then  again  calling 
Mr.  Drummond  Towards  him,  he  whisper- 
ed in  his  ear — "  I'll  tell  you  another  se- 
cret. You  will  be  curious  to  know  who 
they  were  whom  we  butchered  with  our 
hatchets  .''  It  was' — and  here  his  voice 
sunk  lower  still — "  It  was  Captain  Drum- 
mond and  his  crew — Captain  Drummond 
of  the  Uxbridge  y  the  very  man  you  were 
inquiring  about.  As  sure  as  heaven,  he 
was  the  man  " 

Haines  here  withdrew  a  pace,  and  nod- 
ded and  smiled  to  Mr.  Diummond,  as  if 
to  repeat  assurance  of  the  truth  of  his 
statement.  Believing  the  man  to  be  either 
drunk  or  mad,  or  buth,  Mr.  Drummond 
did  not  take  that  alarm  at  the  wild  and 
incoherent  statements  which  had  been  just 
made  to  him  that  he  would  otherwise  have 
done,  yet  he  could  not  help  their  making 
a  very  painful  impression  on  him  ;  neither, 
putting  everything  together  that  he  had 
seen  and  heard  since  he  came  to  Burnt- 
island, could  he  help  thinking  that  some 
deed  of  darkness  or  other  hung  over  the 
Worcester  and  her  crew.  That  that  deed 
included  the  murder  of  his  own  son,  how- 
ever, he  did  not  for  a  moment  imagine  ; 
for  he  deemed  that  Haines  had  merely 
made  use  of  the  names  because  he  himself 
had  given  them. 

INIr.  Drummond's  son  and  daughter  had 
overheard  the  most  of  what  had  passed 
between  their  father  and  Haines,  but  not 
the  latter's  declaration  that  their  brother 


THE  PIRATE. 


241 


was  one  of  the  murdered  victims  ;  and  tins 
part  of  his  communication  their  father 
thought  it  as  well  for  the  present  to  con- 
ceal from  them.  In  the  meantime,  Haines 
had  left  the  apai-tment,  and  they  saw  no 
more  of  him. 

On  the  following  day,  Mr.  Druramond 
and  his  son  and  daughter  returned  to 
Edinburgh.  It  was  the  former's  intention, 
at  first,  to  take  no  farther  notice  of  what 
had  occurred  at  Burntisland  ;  but  the 
more  he  thought  of  t-he  strange  conduct  of 
both  the  captain  and  steward  of  the  Wor- 
cester^ and  of  the  dreadful  language  of  the 
latter,  the  more  alarmed  and  uneasy  he 
became. 

Urged  by  this  feeling  and  the  painful 
state  of  his  mind,  he  at  length  determined, 
without  mentioning  the  matter  to  any  one 
else,  on  seeking  a  personal  interview  with 
the  Lord  Advocate,  and  of  stating  to  him 
all  that  had  occurred.  This  he  accord- 
ingly did.  The  Lord  Advocate  was  struck 
with  the  relation,  and  at  once  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  an  atrocious  crime  of  some 
kind  or  another  had  been  committed,  and 
that  the  matter  ought  instantly  to  be  in- 
quired into. 

Acting  on  this  opinion,  such  inquiries 
were  immediately  set  on  foot,  and  a  case 
of  strong  suspicion  of  piracy  and  murder 
was  made  out.  The  consequence  was,  ihat 


a  strong  party  of  men,  accompanied  by 
several  criminal  officers,  were  immediate- 
ly dispatched  to  Burntisland  ;  when  Cap- 
tain Green,  his  steward,  Haines,  and  the 
whole  crew  of  the  Worcester ,  amounting 
to  thirteen  in  number,  were  apprehended 
and  brought  over  prisoners  to  Edinburgh. 

On  the  following  oth  March,  1705,  they 
were  brought  to  trial ;  when  it  was  proven 
against  them,  that  they  had  attacked  and 
captured,  on  the  coast  of  Malabar,  a 
Scotch  vessel  called  the  Uxbridge,  Cap- 
tain Drummond.  That,  having  taken  this 
vessel,  they  carried  her  crew  aboard  the 
Worcester,  where  they  murdered  them 
one  by  one  with  hatchets,  and  threw  their 
bodies  into  the  sea ;  and  that,  thereafter, 
they  carried  the  Uxbridge  into  a  port  on 
the  coast  of  INIalabar,  and  sold  the  vessel 
and  cargo  to  a  native  merchant  there. 

These  charges  being  proven,  the  whole 
were  condemned  to  death  ;  but  three  of 
the  number  only  were  subsequently  exe- 
cuted— namely.  Captain  Green,  his  first 
mate,  and  the  gunner,  who  were  hung  on 
Leith  Sands  on  the  4th  April,  1705.  The 
remainder  of  the  crew,  including  Haines 
— the  chief  instrument  in  bringing  this 
atrocious  case  to  light — were  respited  from 
time  to  time,  in  consideration  of  certain 
extenuating  circumstances,  and  finally 
pardoned. 


\r^ 


242 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


THE    LAI  11 D     OF     BALLACHIE. 


The  gentleman — we  give  him  a  title  by 
way  of  courtesy — whose  designation  heads 
our  story,  was  one  of  the  wealthiest  land- 
ed proprietors  in  the  north  of  Scotland. 
His  possessions  were  extensive,  and  in- 
cluded some  of  the  most  valuable  land,  as 
well  as  finest  scenery  of  which  the  High- 
lands can  boast. 

In  person,  the  Laird  of  Ballachie  was 
extremely  handsome.  He  stood  about  six 
feet  high,  was  well  made,  and  possessed 
great  physical  strength.  His  countenance 
was  manly,  and  pleasing  in  its  expression, 
and  his  manner  singularly  fascinating — 
frank,  free,  and  open.  Unfortunately, 
however,  the  character  and  disposition  of 
Ballachie  but  little  corresponded  with  those 
agreeable  qualities  :  he  was  an  immoral 
and  wild  living  man  ;  in  the  worst  sense 
of  the  word,  a  profligate ;  and  so  notori- 
ous for  his  hbertinism,  that  he  was  con- 
sidered by  the  neighboring  gentlemen,  as 
by  no  means  a  fit  person  to  associate  with 
theu'  wives  or  daughters,  or  to  be  admitted 
as  a  guest  at  their  tables. 

Ballachie,  at  the  time  we  take  up  his 
story,  was  about  thirty-five  or  forty  years 
of  ao-e.  He  was  unmarried,  and  kept 
Bachelor  Hall  at  a  place  called  M'^ny- 
garvin,  his  famUy  residence— a  fine  old 
mansion,  delightfully  situated  on  the  brow 
of  a  hill  that  overlooked  the  sea.  The 
housekeeping  of  the  laird  was  rude  and 
boisterous  in  the  last  degree.  Huge  eating 
and  deep  drinking  closed  each  uproarious 
day  ;  and  never  were  there  wanting  guests 
enow  to  keep  the  master  of  the  feast  in 
countenance  in  his  wildest  debaucheries. 
These  flocked  around  hmi  in  dozens,  as 
vultures  congregate  around  the  carrion  of 
the  battle-field ;  and  no  day  passed  that 
the  Laird  of  Ballachie 's  dinner  table  was 
not  thronged  with  a  crowd  of  guests,  as 
reckless  and  as  dissipated  as  himself. 


At  this  period  there  lived  on  the  estate 
of  the  laird  a  tenant  of  the  name  of  Mur- 
doch Morrison,  a  man  generally  reputed 
of  rather  weak  intellect,  but  of  a  simple, 
harmless,  and  inofi'ensive  disposition.  ]n 
person  Murdoch  was  the  very  opposite  of 
his  landlord  :  he  was  of  low  stature,  and 
of  a  slender,  weakly  frame.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  this,  Murdoch  had  wooed  and  won 
— by  what  sort  of  necromancy  we  cannot 
tell — one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  the  parish. 
This  girl  became  his  wife.  People  won- 
dered much  at  the  marriage  ;  they  won- 
dered that  so  handsome  a  young  woman 
should  have  married  so  wretched  a  iookingr 
being  as  Mui'doch  Morrison — a  man  so 
contemptible  as  regarded  both  mind  and 
body.  But  Mui'doch  made  a  good  hus- 
band— kind,  affectionate,  and  indulgent ; 
and  it  would  have  been  well  had  his  wife 
more  fully  appreciated  his  worth  in  these 
respects,  and  looked  with  a  more  lenient 
eye  than  she  did  on  his  deficiencies  in 
others. 

It  was  not  until  the  lapse  of  many 
months  after  his  marriage,  and  until  he 
had  found  the  Laird  of  Ballachie  a  very 
frequent  visitor  at  his  house,  on  occasions 
when  he  himself  was  absent,  that  vague, 
indefinite  suspicions  of  the  purpose  of  the 
laird's  visits  began  to  glimmer  on  the  mind 
of  Murdoch  Morrison.  It  was  not  until 
he  had  marked  these  visits  throughout  a 
series  of  months,  and  had  noted  many 
other  circumstances  of  an  equivocal  na- 
ture, that  INIui'doch  began  to  suspect  the 
fidelity  of  his  wife.  For  a  long  time  the 
shnple  and  unsuspecting  man  had  deemed 
the  laird's  visits  an  honor.  His  dull  intel- 
lect and  unsuspicious  nature  were  long  im- 
pervious to  impressions  from  circumstances 
which  would  have  pierced  another  to  the 
quick,  like  the  stings  of  so  many  adders. 
But  their  constant  recurrence  at  length 


THE   LAIRD   OF  BALLACHIE. 


243 


aroused  liis  sluggish  perceptions,  and 
awakened  in  him  a  sense  of  the  injury  in- 
flicted on  him.  Yet  might  this  never 
have  happened,  had  not  the  guilty  pair 
themselves  presumed  too  far  on  the  sim- 
plicity and  stupidity  of  the  injured  hus- 
band ;  and  treating  him  with  utter  con- 
tempt, negbcted  the  most  ordinary  mea- 
sures of  circumspection. 

Excepting,  however,  in  a  slight  unwont- 
ed reservedness  of  manner,  Murdoch  ex- 
hibited no  indication  of  the  discovery  he 
had  made.  He  said  nothino;  to  his  wife 
on  the  subject ;  and  to  the  laird,  his  man- 
ner, with  the  exception  above  referred 
to,  was  unaltered.  But  Murdoch  was 
secretly  brooding  over  his  wrongs,  and 
slowly  but  steadily  working  up  his  mind 
to  revenge. 

It  was  while  matters  were  in  this  state, 
that  the  Laird  of  Ballachie  gave  a  splendid 
entertainment  to  a  number  of  his  friends, 
if  such  term  vdll  apply  to  the  companions 
of  such  a  man.  The  number  of  guests 
assembled  on  this  occasion  was  unusual, 
and  many  of  them  were  from  a  considera- 
ble distance.  It  was  midsummer,  and  the 
day  of  the  feast,  as  it  might  be  called,  ex- 
tremely sultry.  To  obviate  the  inconve- 
nience of  the  weather,  of  which  all  present 
complained,  the  windows  of  the  banqueting 
hall  were  thrown  open  ;  and,  thus  refresh- 
ed by  the  breeze  from  without,  the  up- 
roaiious  party  went  joyously  on  celebrating 
the  orgies  of  the  night.  The  laird  was  at 
the  head  of  his  own  table,  and  had  just 
risen  with  the  goblet  of  wine  in  his  hand 
to  propose  some  crack  toast,  when,  the 
window  by  which  he  sat  being  open,  his 
eye  fell  on  the  figure  of  old  Archia  Downie 
wending  his  way  towards  the  house. 

Downie  was  a  very  old  man — nearly 
eiglity  years  of  age.  In  his  youth  he  had 
been  a  soldier  in  the  Highland  Watch, 
and  still  drew  a  small  pension  from  the 
government  he  had  served  ;  but  his  chief 
resource  was  in  the  benevolence  of  the  in- 
habitants of  his  native  disti-ict,  with  whom 
he  was  a  great  favorite. 


The  principal  of  those  qualifications 
which  recommended  Archie  to  public 
patronage,  was  a  knack  of  story- telling, 
and  the  gift  of  the  S2Cond  sight,  which  he 
was  believed  to  possess  in  great  perfection, 
besides  great  skill  in  divining  the  future 
by  various  other  modes  and  means. 

On  seeing  the  old  man  approaching, 
the  Laird  of  Ballachie  announced  the  cir- 
cumstance to  his  company,  all  of  whom 
knew  Downie  well,  with  a  shout  of  hilarity, 
and  proposed  that  he  should  be  introduced, 
to  amuse  them  with  some  specimens  of  his 
skill  in  the  art  of  divination.  The  propo- 
sal was  hailed  by  an  unanimous  shout  of 
applause  ;  and,  in  the  next  minute,  the 
old  man,  hat  in  hand  with  his  lono;  flaxen 
hair  streaming  down  his  back,  and  led  by 
a  serving-man,  entered  the  banqueting 
apartment.  He  was  received  with  noisy 
demonstrations  of  welcome,  which  he  ac- 
knowledged by  two  or  three  simple  obei- 
sances, but  without  uttering  a  word. 

The  laird  now  beckoned  Archie  towards 
him.  The  old  man  moved  up  quietly  to 
the  upper  end  of  the  table.  The  former 
ordered  a  chair  to  be  placed  for  him  be- 
side himself;  and,  on  Archie  taking  his 
seat,  presented  him  with  a  tumbler  of  wine. 
The  latter  rose  to  his  feet,  drank  to  the 
health  of  the  company,  and  resumed  his 
chair. 

''  Now,  Archie,"  said  the  Laird  of 
Ballachie,  "  will  you  favor  the  gentlemen 
here  present,  and  I,  with  a  specimen  of 
your  second  sight  ?  Select  your  man,  and 
see  if  you  can  foretell  anything  with  re- 
gard to  him.  You  may  begin  with  myself 
if  you  like," 

The  old  man  smiled,  but  seemed  rather 
reluctant  to  put  his  art  in  practice  on  the 
present  occasion.  On  being  pressed,  how- 
ever, Downie  said  that,  if  the  shoulder- 
blade  of  a  sheep  were  brought  him,  he 
would  see  what  he  could  do. 

The  article  he  named — and  which,  it  is 
well  known,  was  in  great  use  in  the  High- 
lands as  an  instrument  of  divination — was 
immediately  brought,  when  the   old  man. 


244 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


wiping  it  clean  with  the  skirt  of  his  old 
tattered  greatcoat,  held  it  up  between  him 
and  the  light,  and  looked  steadily  through 
the  semi-transparent  bone  for  several 
minutes,  carefully  noting  the  dark  spots 
and  lines  which  it  exhibited — the  com- 
pany, meanwhile,  waiting  with  silent  curio- 
sity for  the  result. 

Becoming,  at  length,  impatient  with  the 
delay,  Ballachie  began  urging  the  old  man 
to  hasten  his  proceedings.  The  latter, 
however,  was  too  intent  on  the  investiga- 
tion in  which  he  was  engaged,  to  pay  any 
attention  to  the  lairds  importunities.  He 
still  continued  to  hold  up  the  bone  be- 
tween him  and  the  light,  and  to  peer  into 
it  with  an  apparently  deep  and  anxious 
interest. 

At  length,  however,  the  old  man  drop- 
ped the  hand  which  held  the  shoulder- 
blade,  but  no  word  followed  the  proceed- 
ing. He  did  not,  as  was  expected,  begin 
to  inform  the  company  of  what  he  had 
seen. 

Marking  this,  "  Archie,"  said  the  laird, 
with  a  slight  smile  of  derision,  "  have  ye 
nothing  to  tell  us,  man  }  No  deaths,  no 
marriages — eh  ?" 

*'  Perhaps  more  of  the  first  than  the 
last !"  slowly  replied  the  old  man,  and 
with  evident  reluctance  to  speak  on  the 
subject. 

''  Well,  well,  come  tell  us  all  about  it, 
Archie,  man,"  cried  the  kiird.  "  Tell  us 
all  that  ye  have  seen.  You  see  the  gentle- 
men are  curious  to  hear." 

"  It  doesn't  signify.  I  had  rather  not. 
I  have  seen  things  that  I  did  not  expect  to 
see,  and  am  very  sorry  for  !"  replied  the 
old  man,  gravely. 

"  What  have  ye  seen  ;  what  have  ye 
seen,  Archie  .'"  shouted  one  after  another 
of  the  half- inebriated  party. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  again  replied 
Archie.  "  I've  seen  the  strong  overcome 
by  the  weak.  I  have  seen  the  deer  de- 
stroyed by  the  fumart.  I  have  seen  the 
jutting  crags  of  the  precipice  dabbled  with 
blood,  and  the  mangled  corpse  rebounding 


from  point  to  point  as  it  went  down,  down 
into  the  depths  below."* 

"  What  means  all  this,  Archie  r"  said 
the  Laird  of  Ballachie,  in  a  husky  voice, 
yet  affecting  to  laugh  at  the  mysterious 
language  of  the  old  soothsayer.  "  Who 
point  ye  at  ?"  continued  the  laird. 
"  Which  of  us  is  to  meet  the  dismal  fate 
to  which  you  allude  ."' 

"  I  will  not  say,  Laird  of  Ballachie," 
replied  the  old  man,  "  which  of  you  is  to 
dree  the  doom  I  have  foretold,  although  I 
have  seen  his  face,  and  know  him  well. 
But  this  I  will  say  :  if  there  be  one  of  you 
who  has  an  enemy  whom  you  despise  for 
his  weakness,  whom  you  contemn  for  his 
feebleness;  one  whom  you  have  injured 
deeply,  yet,  whose  resentment  you  fear  as 
little  as  that  of  the  worm  on  which  you 
have  trod  ;  I  say,  beware  of  that  enemy, 
for  his  vengeance  will  be  sure  and  fatal. 
A  moment  of  power  will  be  given  him,  of 
which  he  will  avail  himself  to  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  man  who  has  injured  him.  I 
will  say  no  more." 

"  Very  good,  Archie,"  exclaimed  Bal- 
lachie, with  a  loud  but  affected  laugh. 
"  So,  I  fancy,  we  are  to  fear  the  weak  and 
despise  the  strong,  eh  .?" 

"  As  you  please,  laird,"  replied  the  old 
man  coolly,  "  1  have  said  my  say,  and 
have  done.'' 

Although  there  were  but  few  of  those 
present  on  this  occasion  who  put  much 
faith  in  such  divinations  as  Archie  Dow- 
nie's,  and  none  who  despised  them  more 
than  Ballachie  himself,  yet  could  none  of 
them  stay  the  influence  of  a  certain  un- 
pleasant feeling  which  the  old  man's  prog- 

♦The  perfect  fulfilment  of  this  prophecy,  which 
the  sequel  of  the  tale  exhibits,  will  naturally  sug- 
gest to  the  enlightened  reader  the  reflection  that 
such  coincidence  must  either  have  been  the  result 
of  pure  accident,  as  exemplified  in  man)''  similar 
cases,  or,  what  is  equally  likely,  and  has  equally 
often  happened,  have  proceeded  from  previous 
knowledge.  In  all  probabilirj',  the  soothsayer,  in 
the  present  case,  was  aware  of  the  injury  done  to 
Morrison,  and  knew  that  he  was  meditating  ven- 
geaiice, — Ed. 


THE  LAIRD    OP   BALLACHIE. 


245 


nostications  had  given  rise  to.  All  felt  it ; 
and,  notwithstanding  his  contempt  for 
such  things,  none  more  strongly  than  the 
laird. 

Some  further  attempts  were  made  to 
induce  Archie  to  point  out  the  individual 
to  whom  his  mysterious  divinations  refer- 
red, but  to  no  purpose.  This  particular 
the  old  man  would  on  no  account  disclose. 
Shortly  after  he  left  the  apartment,  being 
despatched  by  the  laird  to  the  kitchen  to 
get  some  refreshment. 

For  some  time  after  the  departure  of 
old  Archie  Downie,  the  damp,  which  his 
prophetic  warning  had  thrown  on  the 
spirits  of  the  company,  continued  to 
oj)erate,  and  to  suggest  some  grave  re- 
marks on  the  subject  of  divination.  It 
also  produced  some  very  curious  and  some 
very  appalling  anecdotes  of  the  realization 
of  such  prognostications. 

During  this  time,  every  one  present  was 
busy  running  over  in  his  mind  the  list  of 
his  real  or  supposed  enemies,  to  see  if 
there  was  one  amongst  them  who  answered 
the  description  given  by  Downie  ;  but 
none,  excepting  one,  could  recollect  of 
any  particularly  despicable  person  with 
whom  they  stood  in  a  hostile  relation. 
This  one,  this  exception,  was  the  Laird  of 
Ballachie  ;  and  he  immediately  thought  of 
Murdoch  Morrison  ;  but,  it  was  only  to 
laugh  at  the  idea  of  that  person's  ever  be- 
ing able  to  do  him  an  injury. 

In  the  meantime,  the  spirits  of  the  com- 
pany gradually  returned  ;  and,  ere  another 
half-hour  had  passed  away,  Archie  Downie 
and  his  shoulder-blade  were  forgotten,  and 
the  uproarious  hilarity  which  they  had 
temporarily  interrupted,  again  rang 
thiough  the  banqueting  hall  of  Mony- 
garvin. 

The  party  sat  late,  and  drank  deep  ; 
but  before  they  separated  for  the  night, 
the  laird  proposed  that  they  should  de- 
vote the  following  day  to  a  hunting  match. 
The  proposal  was  acceded  to  with  shouts 
of  applause  ;  and  soon  after  the  debauchees, 
one  after  another,  began  to  reel  oflf  to  bed  ; 


it  having  been  previously  arranged  that 
they  should  all  remain  where  they  were  for 
the  night. 

A  noisy  and  joyous  crew  they  were  who 
surrounded  the  Laird  of  Ballachie 's  break- 
fast table  on  the  followinir  morning; :  but, 
merry  as  they  all  were,  there  was  none 
half  so  merry  as  the  laird  himself.  He 
was  in  high  spirits  ;  and  his  loud  voice, 
boisterous  laugh,  and  rough  jest,  rose 
above  all  the  similar  efforts  of  his  guests. 

It  was  a  delightful  day,  and  everything 
seemed  favorable  for  the  most  perfect  en- 
joyment of  the  noble  sport,  hunting  the 
red  deer,  in  which  the  party  were  about  to 
be  engaged. 

A  number  of  the  sportsmen  armed 
themselves  with  rifles ;  and  two  couple  of 
huge  shaggy  stag  hounds,  which  were  led 
out  to  the  front  of  the  house  by  the  laird's 
forester,  completed  the  means  of  destruc- 
tion intended  to  be  employed  against  the 
mountain  deer. 

In  high  glee  the  party  soon  after  started 
for  the  hills.  The  distance  they  had  to 
go,  before  reaching  the  usual  haunts  of 
the  deer,  was  considerable,  and  included 
several  wild  and  dangerous  passes. 

It  was  while  winding  their  way  through 
one  of  these,  that  the  Laird  of  Ballachie, 
happening  to  look  up  to  the  dizzy  heights 
above,  saw  the  figure  of  a  man  perched  on 
the  summit  of  one  of  the  highest  cliffs, 
and  apparently  contemplating  with  great 
earnestness  the  party  below. 

"  Who  is  that,  Duncan  .^"  said  the  laird, 
turnino;  to  his  forester,  who  was  beside 
him  at  the  moment,  not  being  able,  from 
the  distance,  to  recognise  the  person  who 
occupied  the  height. 

Duncan  looked  for  some  time  at  the 
figure ;  but,  at  length,  said  he  thought  it 
was  Murdoch  Morrison. 

"  I  half  thought  so  too,"  replied  Bal- 
lachie, "  but  was  not  sure.  What  brings 
the  fool  idling  here,  in  place  of  being  at 
the  plough  tail,  as  he  ought  to  be,  on  such 
a  day  as  this  P"* 

The  laird  said  no  more  on  the  subject, 


•246 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


but  passed  on  with  his  party  ;  and   Mur- 
doch Morrison  was  soon  lost  sight  of. 

For  another  hour,  the  sportsmen  held 
on  their  way  over  hills  and  through  val- 
leys, without  anything  worthy  of  notice 
occurring.  At  the  end  of  about  this  time, 
however,  the  attention  of  the  Laird  of 
Ballachie  was  again  attracted,  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  human  figure  outlined  on  the 
sky,  as  it  stood  on  the  extreme  ridge  of  a 
hill  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  or  two. 

"  That  fellow  Morrison,  again  !"  ex- 
claimed the  laird  in  some  surprise,  as  his 
eye  fell  on  the  little  atom  of  humanity 
that  appeared  upon  the  height.  "  What 
does  the  idiot  mean  by  hanging  on  our 
skirts  this  way  ?  He  is  evidently  dogging 
us.  Is  it  the  love  of  the  sport  that  brings 
the  stupid  ass  away  from  his  business  ?" 

"  Very  likely,"  said  the  laird's  forest- 
er, to  whom  this  query  was,  although  in- 
directly, put.  "  Very  likely,"  he  said, 
"  althouo;h  1  never  knew  Murdoch  come 
so  far  before  after  a  deer  hunt.  He  never 
used  to  care  anything  at  all  about  them.'' 
Again  the  party  went  on,  and  again 
Murdoch  was  lost  sight  of  and  forgotten. 

The  sportsmen  had  now  nearly  reached 
the  ground  which  the  deer  usually  fre- 
quented. On  doing  so,  there  was  a  gene- 
ral halt,  and  a  ioadino;  of  rifles.  The  doors 
were  placed  in  the  slips,  and  everything 
put  in  readiness  for  the  appearance  of  the 
quarry. 

The  party  now  advanced  slowly,  cau- 
tiously, and  quietly  along  a  deep  hollow, 
at  the  upper  extremity  of  which  they  ex- 
pected to  find  two  or  three  '"  hearts  of 
grease."  They  were  thus  proceeding 
along,  when,  just  as  they  opened  a  small 
ravine  on  their  left,  they  came  suddenly 
upon  Murdoch  Morrison.  He  was  crouch- 
ing behind  a  rock — a  situation  which  he 
had  evidently  chosen  as  a  place  of  con- 
cealment ;  for  he  seemed  taken  by  sur- 
p:  ise  when  the  party  discovered  him. 

On  perceiving  that  he  was  seen,  how- 
ever, he  rose  from  the  ground  on  which  he 
had  been  extended  at  full  length,  and,  ad- 


vancing towards  the  laird,  touched  his 
bonnet  respectfully,  but  without  saying  a 
word.  There  was  something  at  the  mo- 
m^nt  peculiar  in  the  man's  look  ;  it  was 
sullen  and  ferocious.  In  his  eye  too  there 
was  an  unwonted  wildness  of  expres.sion, 
which  did  not  escape  the  laird. 

"  Come  to  see  the  sport,  Murdoch," 
said  the  latter,  in  his  usual  frank  man- 
ner. 

"  With  your  leave,"  replied  Murdoch, 
morosely ;  and  at  the  same  time  scanning 
the  others  of  the  party  with  a  sinister 
look. 

'^  Oh,  surely,  surely,"  said  Ballachie  ; 
"  but  why  didn't  you  join  us  at  once,  man, 
instead  of  running  round  us  as  you  have 
been  doing  for  the  last  two  hours  ;  appear- 
ing here  and  disappearing  there  like  a 
spunkie.'' 

To  this  piece  of  jocularity,  Morrison 
made  no  reply,  nor  did  it  move  a  muscle 
of  his  countenance  beyond  what  produced 
a  very  faint  and  equivocal  smile. 

The  laird  and  his  party  now  moved  on  ; 
and  Murdoch  dropped  behind  and  attach- 
ed himself  to  the  forester  who  was  follow- 
ing with  the  dogs. 

"  1  never  knew  you  take  any  interest  in 
the  chase  before,  Murdoch,"  said  the  for- 
mer, on  Murdoch's  placing  himself  beside 
him. 

"  Pei'haps  there's  a  reason  for  my  doing 
it  now,  Duncan,"  replied  the  latter. 

''  Oh,  no  doubt,  Murdoch,  no  doubt," 
said  the  forester.  "  I  hope,  however,  we 
shall  have  good  sport." 

"  We'll  have  more  sport  this  day,  Dun- 
can, than  some  here  are  aware  of,"  said 
JNIurdoch,  emphatically. 

''  The  more  the  better,"  replied  the 
forester,  gaily. 

His  companion  smiled  grimly,  but  said 
no  more. 

A  cry  from  some  of  the  foremost  of  the 
party,  at  this  moment,  announced  that  a 
deer  had  been  discovered.  The  forester, 
leavins:  Murdoch,  hurried  forward  to  the 
front  with  his  dogs,  when 


THE  LAIRD  OF   BALLACHIE- 


247 


**  The  antlered  monarch  of  the  waste, 

Sprung  fom  his  heathery  couch  in  haste  ; 

But,  ere  his  first  career  he  took. 

The  dew  drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook — 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky  ; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snufted  the- tainted  gale,- 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh  ; 

Then  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared, 

"With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared  ; 

And,  stretching  forward,  fiee  and  far, 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var." 

Snch  was  the  scene  that  now  took  place. 
The  deer  was  oiF ;  the  dogs  slipped  and  in 
full  career  after  him  over  hill  and  dale. 

All  was  now  confusion  and  excitement. 
The  sportsmen  were  whooping  and  yelling, 
and  runnino;  in  all  directions  to  2:ain  such 
eminences  as  might  enable  them  to  keep 
the  chase  in  view.  The  party  were  thus 
dispersed  in  every  way,  and  in  several  in- 
stances widely  separated. 

When  this  di.-^persion  took  place,  how- 
ever, it  was  observed,  but  without  exciting 
any  attention,  that  Murdoch  Morrison 
hastened  in  the  direction  the  laird  had 
taken,  and  afterwards  closely  followed  him 
wherever  he  went.  The  latter,  too  much 
engrossed  by  the  sport  to  notice  the  cir- 
cumstance, or,  if  he  had,  to  think  anything 
of  it,  held  on  his  way  to  gain  the  ridge  of 
a  rano-e  of  cliff,  called  Craiii;  More — a  tre- 
mendoUuS  precipice  of  many  hundred  feet 
of  perpendicular  rock,  and  the  summit  of 
which  commanded  an  extensive  view  of  the 
surrounding  country. 

The  ascent  to  the  summit  of  Crai"-  More 
was  gradual  on  one  side,  and  of  easy  ac- 
complishment. Yet  so  sudden  was  the 
plunge  of  the  precipice  in  which  it  termi- 
nated, that  the  mountain  wanderer  came 
upon  it  unawares,  and,  unless  previously 
acquainted  with  the  locality,  never  dream- 
ed of  the  frightful  gulf  he  was  approaching 
until  he  stood  upon  its  very  edge.  It  was 
then  that  his  stejD  was  arrested  in  terror. 
Then,  when  he  suddenly  found  himself  on 
th3  brink  of  this  appalling  abyss,  adown 
which  a  foot  farther,  and  he  had  been  in- 
evirably  precipitated.  Then,  when  he 
found  himself  on   the   edge  of  this    dizzy 


height  and  looked  on  the  sheer  gray  wall 
of  rock  that  dropped  below  him  to  a  aepth 
that  rendered  all  objects,  at  the  base,  faint 
and  indistinct  to  the  eye. 

It  was  for  the  summit  of  this  precipice, 
then,  that  the  Laird  of  Ballachie  now 
made,  heedless  of  everything  but  the  chase 
in  which  his  whole  soul — for  he  was  a  keen 
sportsman — was  wrapped  up.  He  had, 
at  that  moment,  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for 
anything  else.  Had  he  had  the  former 
even,  he  would  have  been  struck,  if  not 
alarmed,  at  the  stealthy,  yet  eager  pace 
with  which  he  was  followed  by  Murdoch 
Morrison,  who  kept  at  the  distance  of 
eight  or  ten  paces  behind  him  ;  and  still 
more  would  he  have  been  alarmed,  had  he 
marked  the  wild  and  distracted  look  with 
which  that  person  kept  his  eye  constantly 
fixed  on  him. 

The  laiid,  however,  marked  none  of  these 
things,  but  held  on  his  way  until  he  had 
gained  the  extreme  edge  of  Craig  More. 
Here,  gratified  by  a  sight  of  the  chase, 
which  was  at  the  moment  sweeping  the 
strath  below,  he  stood  intendy  gazino-  on 
the  interesting  scene,  and  shouting  aloud 
in  the  excitation  of  his  feelings. 

At  this  moment,  Murdoch  Morrison 
was  about  two  or  three  yards  behind  him. 
Ho  had  suddenly  stopped  short  on  the 
laird's  reaching  the  edge  of  the  precipice, 
and  had  unconsciously  thrown  himself  into 
an  attitude  somewhat  resemblino-  that  of  a 
tiger  v/hen  about  to  spring  on  his  prey. 

In  this  attitude  he  remained  for  several 
seconds,  his  glaring  eyes  fixed  with  a  dead- 
ly stare  uj)on  his  ill-fated  landlord.  He 
seemed  to  be  watching  the  proper  moment 
for  some  desperate  deed.  That  moment 
came  and  the  deed  was  done. 

IMorrison  made  a  sudden  rush  on  the 
laird,  who  was  still  gazing  intently  ovsr 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  planted  his  two  ex- 
tended hands  full  and  forcibly  on  his  back, 
and  hurled  him  headlong  over  the  preci- 
pice. Down,  down,  went  the  body  of  the 
unfortunate  man  with  frightful  lapidity 
,  into  the  depths  below,  bounding  from  crag 


048 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


to  crag  in  its  horrible  descent,  until  it 
reached  the  bottom  a  torn  and  mangled 
muss,  in  which  scarce  a  trace  of  humanity 
remained. 

On  the  edge  of  the  cliflf,  with  his  hands 
still  extended  at  their  full  stretch  over  the 
abyss,  as  when  they  had  perpetrated  the 
appalling  deed  just  recorded,  stood  Mur- 
doch Morrison,  marking,  with  savage 
eagerness  and  exultation,  the  descent  of 
the  body  of  the  unhappy  Laird  of  Balla- 
chie  ;  and  thus  he  stood  for  some  minutes, 
even  after  the  body  had  reached  the  bot- 
tom of  the  precipice,  as  if  gloating  over 
the  mano-led  carcass  of  his  victim. 

From  this   position,  however,    he  at 


length  suddenly  withdrew,  and  bounding 
down  the  hill  with  the  speed  of  the  deer, 
of  whose  flight  he  had  so  lately  been  a 
witness,  was  never  more  seen  in  that  part 
of  the  country. 

It  was  said,  and  we  believe  truly,  that 
after  committing  the  murder,  Morrison 
made  directly  for  the  low  country,  pro- 
ceeded to  Greenock,  and  there  embarked 
for  America. 

From  this  tale,  we  think,  both  the  liber- 
tine and  the  knave,  who  would  injure  the 
weak  because  they  are  so,  may  read  a 
lesson  not  unworthy  of  their  most  se- 
rious consideration. 


THE    SEEKER. 


Amongst  the  many  thousand  readers  of 
these  tales,  there  are,  perhaps,  few  who 
have  not  observed  that  the  object  of  the 
writer  is  frequently  of  a  higher  kind  than 
that  of  merely  contributing  to  their  amuse- 
ment. He  would  wish  "  to  point  a  moral,'' 
while  he  endeavors  to  "  adorn  a  tale."  It 
is  with  this  view  that  he  now  lays  before 
them  the  history  of  a  Seeker.  The  first 
time  he  remembers  hearing,  or  rather  of 
noticing  the  term,  was  in  a  conversation 
with  a  living  author  respecting  the  merits 
of  a  popular  poet,  when  his  religious  opi- 
nions being  adverted  to,  it  was  mentioned 
that,  in  a  letter  to  a  brother  poet  of  equal 
celebrity,  he  described  himself  as  a  Seek- 
er. I  was  struck  with  the  word  and  its 
application.  I  had  never  met  with  the 
fool  who  saith  in  his  heart  that  there  is  no 
God  ;  and,  though  I  had  known  many  de- 
niers  of  Revelation,  yet  a  Seeker,  in  the 
sense  in  which  the  word  was  applied,  ap- 
peared a  new  character.  But,  on  reflec- 
tion, I  found  it  an  epithet  applicable  to 


thousands,  and  adopted  it  as  a  title  to  our 
present  story. 

Richard  Stoiie  was  the  eldest  son  of  a 
Dissenting  minister,  who  had  the  pastoral 
charge  of  a  small  congregation  a  few  miles 
from  Hawick.  His  father  was  not  what 
the  world  calls  a  man  of  talent,  but  he 
possessed  what  is  far  beyond  talents — piety 
and  humility.  In  his  own  heart  he  felt 
his  Bible  to  be  true — its  words  were  as  a 
lamp  within  him — and  from  his  heart  he 
poured  forth  its  doctrines,  its  hopes,  and 
consolations,  to  others,  with  a  fervor  and 
an  earnestness  which  Faith  only  can  in- 
spire. It  is  not  the  thunder  of  declama- 
tion, the  pomp  of  eloquence,  the  majesty 
of  rhetoric,  the  rounded  period,  and  the 
glow  of  imagery,  which  can  chain  the  lis- 
tening soul,  and  melt  down  the  heart  of 
the  unbeliever,  as  metals  yield  to  the  heat 
of  the  furnace.  Show  me  the  hoary- 
headed  preacher,  who  carries  sincerity  in 
his  very  look  and  in  his  very  tones,  who  is 
animated  because  faith  inspires  him,  and 


THE  SEEKER. 


249 


out  of  the  fulness  of  his  own  heart  his 
mouth  speaketh,  and  there  is  the  man 
from  whose  tongue  truth  floweth  as  from 
the  lips  of  an  apostle  ;  and  the  small  still 
voice  of  conscience  echoes  to  his  words, 
while  hope  burns  and  the  judgment  be- 
comes convinced.  Where  faith  is  not  in 
the  preacher,  none  will  be  produced  in  the 
hearer.  Such  a  man  was  the  father  of 
Richard  Storie.  He  had  fulfilled  his 
vows,  and  prayed  with  and  for  his  children 
He  set  before  them  the  example  of  a 
Christian  parent,  and  he  rejoiced  to  per- 
ceive that  that  example  was  not  lost  upon 
them. 

We  pass  over  the  earlier  years  of  Rich- 
ard Storie,  as  during  that  period  he  had 
not  become  a  Seeker,  nor  did  he  differ 
from  other  children  of  his  age.  There 
was,  indeed,  a  thoughtfulness  and  sensi- 
bility about  his  character  ;  but  these  were 
by  no  means  so  remarkable  as  to  require 
particular  notice,  nor  did  they  mark  his 
boyhood  in  a  peculiar  degree.  The  truths 
which  from  his  childhood  he  had  been  ac- 
customed to  hear  from  his  father's  lips,  he 
had  never  doubted  ;  but  he  felt  their  truth 
as  he  felt  his  father's  love,  for  both  had 
been  imparted  to  him  together.  He  had 
fixed  upon  the  profession  of  a  surgeon, 
and,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  was  sent  to 
Edinburgh  to  attend  the  classes.  He  was 
a  zealous  student,  and  his  progress  re- 
aliz-3d  the  fondest  wishes  and  anticipations 
of  his  parent.  It  was  during  his  second 
session  that  Richard  was  induced,  by  some 
of  his  fellow  collegians,  to  become  a  mem- 
ber of  a  debating  society.  It  was  composed 
of  many  bold  and  ambitious  young  men, 
who,  in  the  confidence  of  their  hearts, 
rashly  dared  to  meddle  with  things  too 
high  for  them.  There  were  many  amono"st 
them  who  regarded  it  as  a  proof  of  manli- 
ness to  avow  their  scepticism,  and  who 
gloried  in  scoffing  at  the  eternal  truths 
which  had  lighted  the  souls  of  their  fa- 
thers, when  the  darkness  of  death  fell 
upon  their  eyelids.  It  is  one  of  the  be- 
setting sins  of  youth  to  appear  wise  above 


what  is  written.  There  were  many  such 
amonsrst  those  with  whom  Richard  Storie 
now  associated.  From  them  he  first  heard 
the  truths  which  had  been  poured  into  his 
infant  ear  from  his  father's  lips  attacked, 
and  the  ton";ue  of  the  scoffjr  rail  ao-ainst 
them.  His  first  feeling  was  horror,  and 
he  shuddered  at  the  impiety  of  his  friends. 
He  rose  to  combat  their  objections  and 
refute  their  arguments,  but  he  withdrew 
not  from  the  society  of  the  wicked.  Wei'li 
succeeded  week,  and  he  became  a  leadii  g 
member  of  the  club.  He  was  no  longer 
filled  with  horror  at  the  bold  assertions  of 
the  avowed  sceptic,  nor  did  he  manifest 
disgust  at  the  ribald  jest.  As  night  si- 
lently and  imperceptibly  creeps  through 
the  air,  deepening  shade  on  shade  till  the 
earth  lies  buried  in  its  darkness,  so  had  the 
gloom  of  Doubt  crept  over  his  mind,  deep- 
ening and  darkening,  till  his  soul  was  be- 
wildered in  the  sunless  wilderness. 

The  members  acted  as  chairmen  of  the 
society  in  rotation,  and,  in  his  turn,  the 
of&ce  fell  upon  Richard  Storie.  For  the 
first  time,  he  seemed  to  feel  conscious  of 
the  darkness  in  which  his  spirit  was  en- 
veloped ;  conscience  haunted  him  as  a 
hound  followeth  its  prey ;  and  still  its 
small  still  voice  whispered — 

"  Who  sitteth  in  the  scorner's  chair." 

The  words  seemed  burning  on  his  memory. 
He  tried  to  forget  them,  to  chase  them 
away — to  speak  of,  to  listen  to  other 
things  ;  but  he  could  not — "  Who  sitteth 
in  the  scorner''s  chair^''  rose  upon  his  mind 
as  if  printed  before  him — as  if  he  heard 
the  words  from  his  father's  tongue — as 
though  they  would  rise  to  his  own  lips. 
He  was  troubled — his  conscience  smote 
him — the  darkness  in  which  his  soul  was 
shrouded  was  made  visible.  He  left  his 
companions — he  hastened  to  his  lodgings 
and  wept.  But  his  tears  brought  not 
back  the  light  which  had  been  extinguished 
within  him,  nor  restored  the  hopes  which 
the  pjide  and  the  rashness  of  reason  had 
destroyed.  He  had  become  the  willing 
prisoner  of  Doubt^  and  it  now  held  him  in 


250 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


its  cold  and  iron  grasp,  struggling  in  des- 


)air. 


Reason,  or  rather  the  self-sufficient 
arrogance  of  fancied  talent  which  fre- 
quentlj  assumes  its  name,  endeavored  to 
suppress  the  whisperings  of  conscience  in 
his  breast ;  and  in  such  a  state  of  mind 
was  Richard  Storie,  when  he  was  sum- 
moned to  attend  the  deathbed  of  his  father. 
It  was  winter,  and  the  snow  lay  deep  on 
the  ground,  and  there  was  no  conveyance 
to  Hawick  until  the  following  day  ;  but, 
ere  the  morrow  came,  eternity  might  be 
between  him  and  his  parent.  He  had 
wandered  from  the  doctrines  that  parent 
had  taught,  but  no  blight  had  yet  fallen  on 
the  affections  of  his  heart.  He  hurried 
forth  on  foot ;  and,  having  travelled  all 
night  in  sorrow  and  in  anxiety,  before  day- 
break he  arrived  at  the  home  of  his  infan- 
cy. Two  of  the  elders  of  the  congregation 
stood  before  the  door. 

"  Ye  are  just  in  time,  Mr.  Richard," 
said  one  of  them  mournfully,  ^'  for  he'll  no 
be  lang  now  ;  and  he  has  prayed  earnestly 
that  he  might  only  be  spared  till  ye  ar- 
rived." 

Richard  wept  aloud. 

"  Oh,  try  and  compose  yoursel,  dear 
Sir,"  said  the  elder.  "  Your  distress  may 
break  the  peace  with  which  he's  like  to 
pass  away.  It's  a  sair  trial,  nae  doubt — 
a  visitation  to  us  a' — but  ye  ken,  Richard, 
we  must  not  mourn  as  those  who  have  no 
hope." 

"  Hope  !"  groaned  the  agonized  son  as 
he  entered  the  house.  He  went  towards 
the  room  where  his  father  lay — his  mother 
and  his  brethren  sat  weeping  around  the 
bed. 

"Richard!"  said  his  afflicted  mother, 
as  she  rose  and  flung  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  The  dying  man  heard  the  name  of 
his  first-born,  his  languid  eyes  brightened, 
h^  endeavored  to  raise  himself  upon  his 
pillow,  he  stretched  forth  his  feeble  hand. 
— 'Richard! — ^my  own  Richard!"  he 
exclaimed  ;  "  ye  hae  come,  my  son — my 
prayer  is  heard,  and  I  can  die  in  peace  ! 


I  longed  to  see  ye,  for  my  .spirit  was  trou- 
bled upon  yer  account — sore  and  sadly 
troubled  ;  for  there  were  expressions  in 
yer  last  letter  that  made  me  tremble — that 
made  me  fear  that  the  pride  o'  human 
learning  was  lifting  up  the  heart  o'  my 
bairn,  and  leading  his  judgment  into  the 
dark  paths  o'  error  and  unbelief — but,  oh  ! 
those  tears  are  not  the  tears  of  an  unbe- 
liever !" 

He  sank  back  exhausted.  Richard 
trembled.     He  again  raised  his  head. 

"  Get  the  books,"  said  he,  feebly,  "  and 
Richard  will  make  worshiD.  It  is  the  last 
time  we  shall  all  join  together  in  praise  on 
this  earth,  and  it  will  be  the  last  time  I 
shall  hear  the  voice  o'  my  bairn  in  prayer, 
and  it  is  long  since  I  heard  it.  Sing  the 
hymn, 

'  The  hour  of  my  departure's  come,' 

and  read  the  twenty-third  psalm." 

Richard  did  as  his  dying  parent  request- 
ed ;  and,  as  he  knelt  by  the  bedside,  and 
lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer,  his  conscience 
smote  him,  agony  pierced  his  soul,  and  his 
tongue  faltered.  He  now  became  a  Seeker, 
seeking  mercy  and  truth  at  the  same  mo- 
ment :  and,  in  the  agitation  of  his  spirit, 
his  secret  thoughts  were  revealed,  his 
doubts  were  manifested  !  A  deep  groan 
issued  from  the  dying  bed.  The  voice  of 
the  supplicant  failed  him — his  Amen  died 
upon  his-  lips — he  started  to  his  feet  in 
confusion. 

"  My  son  ! — my  son  !"  feebly  cried  the 
dying  man,  "  ye  hae  lifted  yer  eyes  to  the 
mountains  o'  vanity,  and  the  pride  o'  rea- 
son has  darkened  yer  heart,  but,  as  yet,  it 
has  not  hardened  it.  O  Richard  !  remem- 
ber the  last  words  o'  yer  dying  faither — 
'  Seek,  and  ye  shall  find.'  Pray  with  an 
humble  and  a  contiite  heart,  and  in  yer 
last  hour  ye  will  hae,  as  I  hae  now,  a  licht 
to  guide  ye  through  the  dark  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death." 

He  called  his  wife  and  his  other  children 
around  him — he  blessed  them — he  strove 
to  comfort  them — he  committed  them  to 
His  care,  who  is  the  Husband  of  the  widow, 


TEIE  SEEKER. 


251 


and  the  Father  of  the  fatherless.  The  lustre 
that  lighted  up  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  as 
he  besought  a  blessing  on  them,  vanished 
away,  his  head  sank  back  upon  his  pillow, 
a  low  moan  was  heard,  and  his  spirit  passed 
into  peace. 

His  father's  death  threw  a  blight  upon 
the  prospects  of  Richard.  He  no  longer 
possessed  the  means  of  prosecuting  his 
studies  ;  and,  in  order  to  support  himself, 
and  assist  his  mother,  he  engaged  himself 
as  tutor  in  the  family  of  a  gentleman  in 
East  Lothian.  But  there  his  doubts  fol- 
lowed him,  and  melancholy  sat  upon  his 
breast.  He  had  thoughtlessly,  almost  im- 
perceptibly, stepped  into  the  gloomy  paths 
of  unbelief,  and  anxiously  he  groped  to 
retrace  his  steps  ;  but  it  was  as  a  blind 
man  stumbles  ;  and,  in  wading  through 
the  maze  of  controversy  for  a  guide,  his 
way  became  more  intricate,  and  the  dark- 
ness of  his  mind  more  intense.  He  re- 
pented that  he  had  ever  listened  to  the 
words  of  the  scoffer,  or  sat  in  the  chair  of 
the  scorner  ;  but  he  had  permitted  the 
cold  mists  of  scepticism  to  gather  round 
his  mind,  till  even  the  affections  of  his 
heart  became  blighted  by  their  influence. 
He  was  now  a  solitary  man,  shunning  so- 
ci.3ty  ;  and  at  those  hours  when  his  pupils 
were  not  under  his  charge,  he  would  wan- 
der alone  in  the  wood  or  by  the  river, 
brooding  over  unutterable  thoughts,  and 
communing  with  despair — for  he  sought 
not,  as  is  the  manner  of  many,  to  instil  the 
poison  that  had  destroyed  his  own  peace 
into  the  minds  of  others.  He  carried  his 
punishment  in  his  soul,  and  was  silent 
—  in  the  soul  that  was  doubting  its  own 
existence  !  Of  all  hypochondriacs,  to  me 
the  unbeliever  seems  the  most  absurd. 
For,  can  matter  think,  can  it  reason,  can 
it  doubt  }  Is  it  not  the  thins;  that  doubts 
which  distrusts  its  own  being .?  Often  when 
he  so  wandered,  the  last  words  of  his 
father — "  Seek,  and  ye  shall  find" — were 
whispered  in  his  heart,  as  though  the  spirit 
of  the  departed  had  breathed  them  over 
him.     Then  would  he  raise  his  hands  in 


agony,  and  his  prayer  rose  from  the  soli- 
tude of  the  woods. 

After  acting  about  two  years  as  tutor, 
he  returned  to  Edinburgh  and  com- 
pleted  his  studies.  Having,  with  diffi- 
culty, from  the  scantiness  of  his  means, 
obtained  his  diplomas,  he  commenced 
practice  in  his  native  village.  His 
brothers  and  his  sisters  had  arrived  at 
manhood  and  womanhood,  and  his  mother 
enjoyed  a  small  annuity.  Almost  from 
boyhood,  he  had  been  deeply  attached  to 
Agnes  Brown,  the  daughter  of  a  neighbor- 
ing farmer  ;  and,  about  three  years  after 
he  had  commenced  practice,  she  bestowed 
on  him  her  hand.  She  was  all  that  his 
heart  could  wish — meek,  gentle,  and  af- 
fectionate— and  her  anxious  love  threw  a 
gleam  of  sunshine  over  the  melancholy  that 
had  settled  upon  his  soul.  Often,  when 
he  fondly  gazed  in  her  eyes,  where  affec- 
tion beamed,  the  hope  of  immortality  would 
flash  through  his  bosom — for  one  so  good, 
so  made  of  all  that  renders  virtue  dear,  but 
to  be  born  to  die  and  to  be  no  more,  he 
deemed  impossible.  They  had  been  mar- 
ried about  nine  years,  and  Agnes  had 
become  the  mother  of  five  fair  children, 
when,  in  one  day,  Death  entered  their 
dwelling,  and  robbed  them  of  two  of  their 
little  ones.  Their  neighbors  had  gathered 
together  to  comfort  them,  and  the  mother 
in  silent  anguish  wept  over  her  babes  ;  but 
the  father  stood  tearless  and  stricken  with 
grief,  as  though  his  hopes  were  sealed  up 
in  the  coffin  of  his  children.  Jn  his  agony, 
he  uttered  words  of  strange  meaning. 
The  doubts  of  the  Seeker  burst  forth  in 
the  accents  of  despair.  The  neighbors 
gazed  at  each  other.  They  had  before  had 
doubts  of  the  religious  principles  of  Dr. 
Storie — now  those  doubts  were  confirmed. 
In  the  bitterness  of  his  grief,  he  had  spo- 
ken of  the  grave  as  the  eternal  prison  of 
the  dead — and  of  futurity  and  a  resurrec- 
tion as  things  he  hoped  for,  but  believed 
not. 

His  words  were  circulated  through  the 
village,   and    over   the    country — and,  as 


252 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


they  spread,  they  were  exaggerated. — 
iVJany  began  to  regard  him  as  an  unsafe 
man  to  visit  a  death-bed,  where  he  might 
attempt  to  rob  the  dying  of  the  everlasting 
hope  which  enables  them  to  triumph  over 
the  last- enemy.  His  practice  fell  off,  and 
the  wants  of  his  family  increased.  He 
was  no  longer  able  to  maintain  an  appear- 
ance of  respectability  ;  his  coat  had  as- 
sumed a  melancholy  hue  ;  and  he  gave  up 
assembling  with  his  family  amidst  the 
conorregation  over  which  his  father  had 
been  pastor.  His  circumstances  aggra- 
vated the  gloom  of  his  mind  ;  and,  for  a 
time,  he  became  not  a  Seeker,  but  one 
who  abandoned  himself  to  callousness  and 
despair.  Even  the  affection  of  his  wife — 
which  knew  no  change,  but  rather  increas- 
ed as  affliction  and  misfortune  came  upon 
them — with  the  smiles  and  affection  of  his 
children,  became  irksome.  Their  love  in- 
creased his  misery.  His  own  house  was 
all  but  forsaken,  and  the  blacksmith's  shop 
became  his  consulting  room,  the  village 
alehouse  his  laboratory.  Misery  and  con- 
tempt heightened  the  "  shadows,  clouds, 
and  darkness,"  which  rested  on  his  mind. 
To  his  anguish  and  excitement  he  had 
now  added  habits  of  intemperance — his 
health  became  a  wreck,  and  he  sank  upon 
his  bed,  a  miserable  and  a  ruined  man. 
The  shadow  of  death  seemed  lowering  over 
him,  and  he  lay  trembling,  shrinking  from 
its  approach,  shuddering  and  brooding  over 
the  cheerless,  the  horrible  thought — anni- 
hilation !  But,  even  then,  his  poor  Agnes 
watched  over  him  with  a  love  stronger 
than  death.    She  strove  to  cheer  him  with 


the  thought  that  he  would  still  live — that 
they  would  again  be  happy.  "  O  my  hus- 
band!" cried  she,  fondly,  "  yield  not  to 
despair — seek^  and  ye  shall  find  .'" 

'' O  heavens,  Agnes!"  exclaimed  he, 
"  I  have  sought  ! — 1  have  sought !  I  have 
been  a  Seeker  until  now  ;  but  Truth  flees 
from  me,  Hope  mocks  me,  and  the  terrors 
of  Death  only  find  me  !" 

"  Kneel  with  me,  my  children,^'  she 
cried  ;  "  let  us  pray  for  mercy  and  peace 
of  mind  for  your  poor  father  .^" — And  the 
fond  wife  and  her  offspring  knelt  around 
the  bed  where  her  husband  lay.  A  gleam 
of  joy  passed  over  the  sick  man's  counte- 
nance, as  the  voice  of  her  supplication 
rose  upon  his  ear,  and  a  ray  of  hope  fell 
upon  his  heart.  "  Amen  .'"  he  uttered  as 
she  arose  ;  and  '■'■Ainen  .'"  responded  their 
children. 

On  the  bed  of  sickness,  his  heart  had 
been  humbled  ;  he  had,  as  it  were,  seen 
death  face  to  face,  and  the  nearer  it  ap- 
proached, the  stronger  assurances  did  he 
feel  qf  the  immortality  he  had  dared  to 
doubt.  He  arose  from  his  bed  a  new  man 
— hope  illumined,  and  faith  began  to  glow 
in  his  bosom.  His  doubts  were  vanquish- 
ed, his  fears  dispelled.  He  had  sought, 
and  at  length  found — found  the  joys  and 
the  hopes  of  the  Christian.  He  regained 
the  esteem  of  men,  and  again  prospered  ; 
and  this  was  the  advice  of  the  Seeker  to 
his  children — ''  Avoid  trusting  to  reason, 
when  it  would  flatter  you  with  your  own 
wisdom  ;  for  it  begetteih  doubt — doubly 
unbelief — unbeliefs  despair — and  despair, 
death .'" 


-♦-<^>^»- 


PEDEN'S  FAREWELL  SERMON. 


253 


PEDEN'S     FAREWELL    SERMON. 


We  believe  there  never  was  sucli  a  sad 
Sabbath  witnessed  as  that  upon  which 
nearly  four  hundred-  of  the  established 
clergy  of  Scotland  preached  their  farewell 
sermons  and  addresses  to  their  several 
congregations.  It  was  a  day,  as  the  his- 
torians of  that  period  express  it,  of  "wail- 
ing, and  of  loud  lamentation,  as  the  weep- 
ing of  Jazer,  when  the  lords  of  the  heath- 
en had  broken  down  her  principal  plants  ; 
and  as  the  mourning  of  Rachel,  who  wept 
for  her  children,  and  would  not  be  com- 
forted." 

On  the  4th  day  of  October  1662,  a 
council,  under  the  commission  of  the  infa- 
tuated and  ill-advised  Middleton,  was  held 
at  Glasgow  ;  and,  in  an  hour  of  brutal  in- 
toxication, it  was  resolved  and  decreed 
that  all  those  ministers  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland  who  had  by  a  popular  election, 
entered  upon  their  cures  since  the  year 
1649,  should,  in  the  first  instance,  be  ar- 
rested, nor  permitted  to  resume  their  pul- 
pits, or  draw  their  stipends,  till  they  had 
received  a  presentation  at  the  hands  of  the 
lay  patrons,  and  submitted  to  induction 
from  the  diocesan  bishop.  In  other  words, 
Presbytery,  which  had  been  so  dearly  pur- 
chased, and  was  so  acceptable  to  the  peo- 
ple of  Scotland,  was  to  be  superseded  by 
Prelacy ;  and  the  mandate  of  the  prince, 
or  of  his  privy  council,  was  to  be  consi- 
dered in  future  as  law^  in  all  matters  whe- 
ther civil  or  ecclesiastical.  It  was  not  to 
be  supposed  that  the  descendants  and  ad- 
mirers of  Knox,  and  Hamilton,  and  Welsh, 
and  Melville  would  calmly  and  passively 
submit  to  this  ;  and  accordingly  the  20th 
day  of  October — the  last  Sabbath  which, 
without  conformity  to  the  orders  in  coun- 
cil, the  proscribed  ministers  were  permit- 
ted to  preach — was  a  day  anticipated  with 
anxious  feelings,  and  afterwards  remem- 


bered to  their  dying  day,  by  all  who  wit- 
nessed it.  It  was  our  fortune,  in  our 
early  life,  to  be  acquainted  with  an  old 
man,  upwards  of  ninety,  an  inhabitant  of 
the  village  of  Glenluce,  whose  grandfather 
was  actually  present  at  the  farewell  or 
parting  sermon  which  Mr.  Peden,  the  au- 
thor of  the  famous  prophecies  which  bear 
his  name,  delivered  on  this  occasion  to  his 
parishioners.  \Ye  have  conversed  with 
this  aged  chronicler  so  frequently  and  so 
fully  upon  the  subject,  that  we  believe  we 
can  give  a  pretty  faithful  report  of  what 
was  then  delivered  by  Peden. 

"  I  remember  well.,"  continued,  accord- 
ing to  my  authority,  the  old  chronicler, 
"  I  mind  it  well — it  seems  but  as  yester- 
day, the  morning  of  this  truly  awful  and 
not-be -forgotten  day.  It  had  been  rain 
in  the  night-time,  and  the  raornino-  was 
dark  and  cloudy — the  mist  trailed  like  the 
smoke  o'  a  furnace,  white  and  ragged, 
alang  the  hill  taps.  The  heavens  above 
seemed,  as  it  were,  to  scowl  upon  the 
earth  beneath.  I  rose  early,  as  was  my 
wont  on  the  Sabbath  morning,  and  hitched 
away  towards  the  tap  o'  the  Briock.  I 
had  only  continued,  it  micht  be,  an  hour, 
in  private  meditation  and  prayer,  when  I 
heard  the  eight  o'clock  bells  beginning  to 
toll.  Indeed,  I  could  hear,  from  the  place 
where  I  was,  I  may  say,  every  bell  in  the 
Presbytery.  The  sound  o'  these  bells  is 
still  in  my  ears — it  was  unusually  sweet 
and  melodious  ;  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing very  melancholy  in  the  sound.  I 
thought  on  the  blood  of  the  saints  by  which 
these  bells  had  been  purchased  ;  upon  the 
many  souls,  now  gone  to  a  better  place, 
who  had  been  summoned  to  a  preached 
gospel  by  these  bells  ;  and  I  thought,  too, 
on  the  sad  alteration  which  a  few  hours 
would  produce,  when  the  pulpit  would  be 


254 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


deserted  bj  tlae  Worthy  Presbyterian  min- 
isters who  filled  them,  and  be  filled,  it 
might  be,  by  Prelatical  curates— wolves 
in  sheeps'  clothing,  and  fushionless  preach- 
ers at  the  best.  Even  at  this  early  hour, 
I  could  see,  every  here  and  there,  blue 
bonnets,  and  black  and  white  plaids,  and 
scarlet  mantles,  mixing  with  and  coming 
forth  every  now  and  then  from  the  broken 
and  creeping  mist.  The  Lord's  own  co 
venanted  flock  were  e'en  gaun  awa  to 
pluck  a  mouthfu  (it  micht  be  the  last)  o' 
halesome  and  sanctified  pasture. 

*'  The  doors  of  the  kirk  of  New  Luce 
had  been  thrown  open  early  in  the  morn- 
inn-  ;  but,  owinsi;  to  the  immense  concourse 
of  people,  a  tent  had  been  latterly  erected 
on  the  brow  face,  immediately  opposite  to 
the  kirk-stile,  and  the  multitude  had  set- 
tled, and  were,  when  wo  arrived,  settling 
down,  like  bees  around  their  queen,  on  all 
s'd-^s  of  it.  Having  advanced  suddenly 
over  the  height,  and  come  all  at  once  with- 
in view  of  this  goodly  assembly,  I  found 
them  engaged,  as  was  their  customary,  till 
the  minister's  appearance,  in  psalm-sing- 
ing. A  portion  of  the  thirty-second 
psalm  had  been  selected  by  the  precen- 
tor, and  he  was  in  the  act  of  giving  out^ 
as  it  is  termed,  these  appropriate  and  com- 
forting lines — 

"  '•  Thou  art  my  liiding-place  ;  thou  shalt 

From  trouble  set  me  free  ; 
And  with  songs  of  deliverance 

About  shall  compass  me  "— 

when  Peden  made  his  appearance  above 
the  brow  of  the  adjoining  linn,  where  he 
had  probably  been  engaged  for  some  time 
in  preparatory  and  private  devotion.  He 
advanced  with  the  pulpit  bible  under  his 
arm,  and  with  a  rapid,  though  occasionally 
a  hesitating  step.  All  eyes  were  at  once 
turned  upon  him  ;  but  he  seemed  lost  in 
meditation,  and  altogether  careless  or  un- 
conscious of  his  exposed  situation.  His 
figure  was  diminutive,  but  his  frame  ath- 
letic, and  his  step  elastic.  He  wore  a  blue 
bonnet,  from  beneath  which  his  dark  hair 
flowed  out  over  his  shoulders,  long,  lank, 


and  dishevelled.  His  complexion  was  sal- 
low, but  his  eyes  dark,  keen,  and  penetrat- 
ing. He  had  neither  gown  nor  band  ;  but 
had  his  shirt  neck  tied  up  with  a  narrow 
stock  of  uncommon  whiteness.  Thus  ha- 
bited, he  approached  the  congregation, 
who  rose  up  to  make  way  for  him  ;  as- 
cended the  ladder  attached  to  the  back- 
door of  the  tent  ;  and  forthwith  proceeded 
to  the  duties  of  the  day. 

''  '  Therefore  watch  and  remember  ; 
for  the  space  of  three  years  I  ceased  not 
to  warn  every  one,  night  and  day  with 
tears.' 

"  These  words  of  the  text  were  read 
out  in  a  firm,  though  somewhat  shrill  and 
squeaking  tone  of  voice  ;  and  as  he  lifted 
up  his  eyes  from  the  sacred  page,  and 
looked  east  and  west  around  him,  there 
was  a  general  preparatory  cough,  and  ad- 
justment of  position  and  dress,  which 
clearly  bespoke  the  protracted  attention 
which  was  about  to  be  given.  And,  truly, 
althoujxh  he  continued  to  discourse  from 
twelve  o'clock  till  dusk,  I  cannot  say  that 
I  felt  tired  or  hungry.  IVor  did  it  appear 
that  the  speaker's  strength  or  matter  failed 
him — nay,  he  even  rose  into  a  degree  of 
fervid  and  impressive  eloquence  towards 
the  close,  which  none  who  were  present 
ever  heard  equalled. 

"  '  And  now,  my  friends,'  continued 
he,  in  a  concluding  appeal  to  their  con- 
sciences— '  and  now  I  am  gaun  to  warn  ye 
anent  the  future,  as  weel  as  to  admonish 
you  of  the  past.  Ye '11  see  and  hear  nae 
mair  o'  puir  Sandy  Peden  after  this  day's 
wark  is  owre.  See  ye  that  puir  bird  ' — 
(at  this  moment  a  hawk  had  darted  down, 
in  view  of  the  whole  congregation,  in  pur- 
suit of  its  prey) — '  see  ye  that  puir  pant- 
ing laverock,  which  has  now  crossed  into 
that  dark  and  deep  linn,  for  safety  and  for 
refuge  from  the  claws  and  the  beak  of  its 
pursuers  }  Pll  tell  ye  what,  my  friends, 
j  the  twasome  didna  drift  down  this  way, 
1  frae  that  dark  clud,  and  along  that  bleak 
heathery  brae-face,  for  naething.  They 
I  were  sent,  they  were   commissioned  ;  and 


r 


PEDEN'S    FAREWELL  SERMON. 


255 


if  ye  had  a'  risen  to  your  feet,  ere  they 
passed,  and  cried  '  Shue  !'  ye  couldnahae 
frightened  them  oot  o'  their  mission. 
They  cam  to  testify  o'  a  persecuted  rem- 
nant, an'  o'  a  cruel  pursuin  foe — of  a  kirk 
which  will  soon  hae  to  betak  hersel,  like  a 
bird,  to  the  mountains,  and  of  an  enemy 
whic4i  will  not  allow  her  to  rest,  by  night 
nor  by  day,  even  in  the  dark  recesses  o' 
the  rocks,  or  amidst  the  damp  an'  cauld 
mosses  o'  the  hills.  They  cam,  an'  they 
war  welcome,  to  gie  auld  Sandy  a  warnin 
too,  an'  to  bid  him  tak  the  bent  as  fast  as 
possible  ;  to  flee,  even  this  very  night,  for 
the  pursuer  is  even  nigh  at  hand.  But, 
hooly,  sirs,  we  maunna  pairt  till  oor  wark 
be  finished  ;  as  an  auld  writer  has  it — '  till 
our  work  is  finished,  we  are  immortal.'  I 
hae  e'en  dune  my  best,  as  saith  an  apostle, 
amang  ye ;  an'  1  hae  this  day  the  consola- 
tion, an'  that's  no  sma',  to  think  that  my 
puir  exertions  hae  been  rewarded  wi'  some 
sma'  success.  An'  had  it  been  His  plan, 
or  His  pleasure,  to  have  permitted  me  to 
lay  doon  my  auld  banes,  whan  I  had  nae 
mair  use  for  them,  beneath  ane  o'  the 
through-stanes  there,  1  canna  say  but  I 
wad  hae  been  content.  But,  since  it's  no 
His  guid  an'  sovereign  pleasure,  I  hae  ae 
request  to  mak  before  we  separate  this 
nicht,  never  in  this  place  to  meet  again.' 
(Hereupon  the  sobbing  and  the  bursting 
forth  of  hitherto  suppressed  sorrow,  was 
almost  universal.)  '  Ye  maun  a'  stand 
upon  your  feet,  an'  lift  up  your  hands,  an' 
swear,  before  the  great  Head  an'  Master 
o'  the  Presbyterian  Kirk  of  Scotland,' 
(there  was  a  general  rising  and  show  of 
hands,  whilst  the  speaker  continued,) 
'  thai  till  an  independent  Presbyterian 
minister  ascend  the  pulpit,  you  will  never 
enter  the  door  o'  that  kirk  mair  ;  an'  let 
this  be  the  solemn  league  an'  covenant 
betwixt  you  an'  me,  an'  betwixt  my  God 
an'  your  God,  in  all  time  coming.  Amen  ! 
— so  let  it  be  !* 

*'  In  this  standing  pofsition,  which  we 
had  thus,  almost  insensibly  assumed,  the 
last  prayer  or  benediction  was  heard,  and 


the  concluding  psalm  in  the  afiecting  ser- 
vices was  suns: — 

"  '  For  he  in  his  pavilion  shall 

Me  hide  in  evil  days, 
In  secret  of  his  tent  me  hide, 
And  on  a  rock  me  raise.' 

I  never  listened  to  a  sound,  or  beheld  a 
spect^icle  more  overpowering.  The  night 
cloud  had  come  down  the  hill  above  us — 
the  sun  had  set.  It  was  twilight ;  and  the 
united  and  full  swing  of  the  voice  of  praise 
ascended  through  the  veil  of  evening,  from 
the  thousands  of  lips,  even  to  the  gate  of 
heaven.  Whilst  we  continued  sinjrino;, 
our  venerable  pastor  descended  from  the 
tent — the  Word  of  God  in  his  hand,  and 
the  accents  of  praise  on  his  lips  ;  and,  at 
the  concluding  line,  he  stood  fairly  and 
visibly  out  by  himself,  upon  the  entry  to- 
wards the  east  door  of  the  kirk.  Having 
shut  the  door  and  locked  it,  in  the  view 
and  in  the  hearing  of  the  people,  he 
knocked  upon  it  thrice  with  the  back  of 
the  pulpit  Bible,  accompanying  this  action 
with  these  words,  audibly  and  distinctly 
pronounced — 

"  '  I  arrest  thee,  in  my  Master's  name, 
that  none  ever  enter  by  thee,  save  those 
who  enter  by  the  door  of  Presbytery.'  So 
saying,  he  ascended  the  wall  at  the  kirk- 
stile  spread  his  arms  abroad  to  their  ut- 
most stretch,  and,  in  a  solemn  and  impres- 
sive manner,  dismissed  the  multitude." 

Although  Peden  was  thus  banished  from 
that  pulpit  to  which,  during  the  civil  wars, 
he  had  been  elected  by  the  unanimous 
voice  of  a  most  attached  people,  he  did 
not  thereupon,  or  therefore,  refrain  entire- 
ly from  exercising  his  function  as  a  minis- 
ter of  the  Gospel ;  but,  having  betaken 
himself  to  those  fastnesses  which  lie  be- 
twixt Wigton  and  Ayrshire,  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  assembling,  occasionally,  around 
him,  the  greater  part  of  his  congregation, 
as  well  as  many  belonging  to  the  neighbor- 
ino"  parishes.  In  the  meantime,  after  se- 
veral months'  vacancy,  a  young  and  half- 
educated  lad  from  Aberdeen  was  appointed 
by  the  government  in  the  capacity  of  cu- 


=ri 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


rite.  This  person  Avas,  of  course,  hated 
bj  the  parish  ;  but  this  hatred  was  exalted 
to  abhorrence,  in  consequence  of  his  im- 
moral and  unclerical  life  and  conver- 
sation. 

William  Smith  and  Jessie  Lawson, 
were  the  children,  the  first  of  a  respecta- 
ble farmer,  and  th-3  other  of  a  pious, 
thouorh  poor  widow  woman.  There  had 
boon  some  difficulties  in  the  way  of  the 
lovers  — 

"For  the  course  of  true  love  never  yet  run  smooth  ;" 

but  these  had  at  last  been  removed,  and 
the  young  couple  were  about  to  be  united, 
with  the  consent  of  relatives,  in  the  honor- 
able bands  of  matrimony.  But  the  young 
and  dissolute  curate  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Jessie  ;  and  having  been  fascinated  by 
her  beauty,  had  not  been  backward  in  sig- 
nifying, both  to  mother  and  daughter,  his 
honorable  (for  they  really  were  so  in  this 
case,)  intentions.  Janet,  however,  was 
too  sound  a  Covenanter  to  give  her  con- 
sent. 

"  Na,  na,"  she  continued  ;  "  my  bairn, 
I  wot  weel,  has  been  baptized  by  the  holy 
Mr.  Welsh,  and  she  has  lano;  sucked  in 
the  milk  of  the  true  and  covenanted  word, 
frae  worthy  and  godly  Mr.  Peden,  and  it 
will  ill  become  her  to  turn  her  back  on 
her  first  lover,  for  the  sake  o'  any  yearthly 
concern  whatever." 

In  the  meantime  winter  drew  on,  with 
its  frosts,  and  its  blasts,  and  its  snows,  and 
the  lovers  became  more  and  more  anxious 
to  be  united  in  the  bands  of  hallowed  love, 
in  consequence  of  the  pressing  and  impor- 
tunate addresses  of  the  curate.  Here, 
however,  a  difficulty  occurred  ;  which  was, 
however,  overcome  by  bribing  the  school- 
master, as  session  clerk,  to  proclaim  them 
to  empty  benches,  and  by  obtaining  Pe- 
den's  consent  to  perform  the  marriage 
ceremony  on  their  producing  the  requisite 
evidence  of  proclamation.  The  place  ap- 
pointed was  the  Bogle  Glen,  and  the  time 
midnight,  on  the  second  day  of  January, 
16S4.  The  night  —  for  such  meetings 
were    usually  held    during    night  —  was 


stormy— there  being  a  considerable  de- 
gree of  snow-drift  ;  but  Peden  was  not 
easily  diverted  from  his  purpose  ;  nor  was 
his  audience  unaccustomed  to  such  expo- 
sures. So  the  nis^ht-meetinor  for  relio-ious 
worship  took  place  beneath  the  Gleds' 
Craig,  from  the  brow  or  apron  of  which 
the  minister  officiated.  Beneath  him, 
huddled  together  under  plaids,  stood  his 
devoted  and  attentive  congregation,  whilst 
the  moon  looked  down,  at  intervals,  on  a 
landscape  over  which  a  frosty  wind  was 
ever  and  anon  carrying  the  snow-drift. 
Beside  the  speaker  were  arranged,  on 
chairs  and  stools,  some  young  women 
bearing  children  to  be  baptized,  and  the 
youthful  couple  about  to  be  united  in 
marriage.  The  usual  service  proceeded  ; 
and  the  voice  of  psalms  was  heard  amidst 
the  solemn  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour. 
The  children  were  next  baptized  from  an 
adjoining  well,  which  presented  itself  op- 
portunely, like  the  waters  of  Meribah,  from 
a  cleft  of  the  rock.  The  young  people 
had  just  been  united,  and  Peden  was  in 
the  act  of  pronouncing  the  usual  benedic- 
tion, when  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet  was 
suddenly  heard,  and  in  an  instant  a  dis- 
charge of  muskets  indicated  but  too  surely 
the  nature  of  the  assault.  All  was  chal- 
lenge, capture,  and  dispersion  ;  through 
which  the  screams  of  the  young  bride  and 
the  menacing  voice  of  the  curate  were  dis- 
tinctly heard. 

About  four  o'clock  of  the  same  eventful 
niffht,  the   manse   of  New  Luce  was  di 


is- 


covered  to  be  on  fire,  and  some  hundreds 
of  fiijures  were  seen  confrreirated  in  frantic 
and  menacing  attitudes  around  it.  At 
last  a  form  was  discovered,  bearing  off 
from  the  flames  something  which  appeared 
to  be  inanimate.  The  curate's  screams 
were  heard  from  his  bed-room  window ; 
and,  by  the  assistance  of  the  military, 
who  had  now  arrived,  he  was  relieved,  by 
a  rope,  from  his  critical  situation ;  and 
the  young  lovers  were  next  morning  dis- 
covered, safe  and  uninjured,  in  their  own 
home,  and  in  each  other's  arms. 


THE  PERSECUTION  OF  THE   M'MICHAELS. 


257 


THE  PERSECUTION   OF   THE   M^MICHAELS. 


The  miseries  of  war  are  not  confined  to 
the  battle-field  and  the  actual  retuin  of 
the  killed  and  wounded.  There  is  an  at- 
mosphere of  wo  and  intense  suffering, 
which  hangs  dense  and  heavy  over  the 
whole  theatre  of  war — the  devastation  and 
horrors  of  a  wide  marching  enemy,  ad- 
vancing like  the  simoom  of  the  desert,  and 
convertino;  into  a  howlino;  wilderness  the 
peopled  and  rejoicing  district.  Life  is 
extinguished  by  terror  and  deprivation  as 
well  as  by  the  sword ;  and  with  this  dif- 
ference, too,  that  the  former  process  is  so 
much  the  more  severe  that  it  is  protracted 
and  defenceless.  Civil  war  is,  in  this  re- 
spect in  particular,  the  most  revolting  of 
all.  The  animosities  and  resentments  of 
opposing  parties  arc  greatly  exasperated 
by  proximity  of  situation  and  community 
of  country  ;  and  the  revenge  of  the  strong- 
er directed  upon  the  weaker  party  is  uni- 
formly marked  by  many  atrocities.  Of 
this  character,  was  unhappily  the  latter 
period  of  the  domination  of  Charles  II., 
together  with  the  whole  four  years  of  the 
Papistical  infatuation  of  the  second  James. 
Men,  women,  and  children  were  not  only 
shot,  drowned,  and  spiked  ;  but  thousands, 
who  escaped  this  extreme  fate,  were  so 
worn  out  by  watchings,  and  cold,  and  hun- 
ger, and  mental  anxieties,  as  to  fall  under 
the  power  of  diseases  from  which  they 
never  recovered. 

An  instance  illustrative  of  these  remarks 
occurred,  according  to  invariable  tradition 
(partly  oral,  and  partly  written),  in  the 
Pass  of  Dalveen,  one  of  the  wildest  and 
most  sublime  localities  in  Dumfries-shire. 
In  the  days  of  which  we  speak,  there  were 
no  mail-coaches,  nor  did  the  public  road 
from  Edinburgh  to  Dumfries  pass,  as  now, 
through  that  most   fearfully  sublime  ra- 

VOL.  II.  17 


vine ;  all  then  was  seclusion  and  solitude 
in  that  mountain  retirement,  where  the 
winds  met  and  mingled  from  many  a  con- 
verging glen ;  and  the  eagle  and  the  raven 
divided  the  supremacy  above.  The  site 
of  the  shepherd's  shelling  is  indeed  still 
ascertainable,  by  the  depth  of  the  verdure 
which  marks  the  departed  walls ;  and  the 
traveller  may  see  it  by  the  burn  side,  al- 
most half  way  down  the  pass  The  family 
which,  during  the  latter  period  of  the 
eight-and  twenty  years'  persecution,  occu- 
pied this  humble  dwelling,  was  named 
M'Michael.  There  were  two  brothers  of 
that  name  ;  Daniel,  who  was  a  bachelor, 
and  Gilbert,  who  was  married,  and  the 
father  of  a  son,  now  a  lad  of  ten  or  twelve, 
and  two  daughters,  still  younger.  The 
mother  of  these  children  was  a  M'Caio;,  a 
name  immortalizad  in  the  annals  of  perse- 
cution. The  two  brothers,  Gilbert  and 
Daniel,  had  rendered  themselves  peculiarly 
obnoxious  to  the  spite  and  revenge  of  the 
curate  of  Durrisdeer,  by  their  refusing  to 
attend  ordinances ;  and  their  obtainino: 
baptism,  and  even,  as  times  and  occasions 
offered,  the  sealing  ordinance  of  the  Sup- 
per, from  the  hands  of  worthy  Mr.  Welsh. 
Besides  all  this,  when  hard  pursued  one 
day  in  the  pass,  Daniel  and  Gilbert  had 
defended  themselves  against  a  whole  troop 
of  Douglas'  dragoons,  by  occupying  the 
rocky  summits  of  the  Lowther  Hills,  and 
precipitating  loose  and  rebounding  rocks 
on  the  pursuers  beneath.  It  was  on  this 
occasion  that  "  Red  Rob,'^  of  persecuting 
notoriety,  bad  his  shoulder-blade  dislocat- 
ed :  and  that  Lieutenant  James  Douaflas 
himself,  in  his  extreme  eagerness  to  scale 
the  steep,  had  two  of  his  front  teeth  dis- 
lodged. 

Winter  1686  was  peculiarly  severe,  and 


258 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


the  p-ioximif.y  of  Drumlanrig  Castle,  the 
residence  of  the  Queensberry  Douglases, 
rendered  it  exceedingly  unsafe  for  the  two 
obnoxious  brothers,  in  particular,  to  visit 
their  home,  unless  it  were  by  snatches, 
and  at  the  dead  hour  of  night.  The  na- 
tural consequence  of  all  this  was,  that 
both  brothers  lost  their  health,  and  that 
Gilbert,  in  particular,  who  was  constitu- 
tionally infirm,  contracted,  or  rather  ex- 
asperated, a  bad  cough,  which  threatened 
serious  consequences.  It  is  quite  true 
that  a  warm  bed  and  the  comforts  of  home 
might  have  done  much  for  the  complaint ; 
but  Gilbert's  ordinary  bed-room  was  the 
damp  extremity  of  a  hollow  in  a  rock, 
without  fire,  and  with  his  plaid  alone  as  a 
nightly  couch  and  covering.  It  was  on  a 
cold  and  drifty  day  in  the  month  of  Janu- 
ary, that  Gilbert,  in  the  presence  of  his 
family,  and  under  houi'ly  apprehension  of 
a  visit  from  the  barbarous  Douglas,  called 
his  family  around  him,  and,  leaning  upon 
the  bosom  of  his  beloved  wife,  addressed 
them  in  words  to  the  following  effect : — 

"  My  dearest  wife,  my   dear  children, 
and  my  beloved  Daniel,  stand  round  me, 
for  I  am  dying."     Thereupon,  there  was 
much  weeping,  and  the  poor  woman  had 
to  be  carried  out  of  the  room,  nearly  in- 
sensible.    This  pause  was  employed  by 
Gilbert  in  secret  prayer  and  ejaculation — 
"  Lord,  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart 
In  peace  ! — Lord,  comfort  the  widow  and 
the   fatherless, — Lord,  give   strength  for 
trial,  and  faith  for  dying  like  a  Christian  !" 
When  the  poor  widow  had  been  so  far 
recovered  as  to  be   able  to  return  to  the 
bedside,  the  dying  man  proceeded,  with  fre- 
quent pauses  and  much  weakness,  thus  : — 
"  I  hope  I  may  say,  though  at  an  infi- 
nite distance,   with  the   Apostle   Paul,  I 
have  fought  a  good   fight.     I  have  kept 
the  faith — the  faith  of  my  Savior,  of  his 
holy   Apostles,    and   of    our    covenanted 
Kirk.     1  have  kept  it  in  bad  report,  as 
well  as  in  good— in  the  day  of  her  extreme 
suffering,  as  well  as  when  godly  Mr.  Brown 
was  minister  of  Durrisdeer.     They  have 


driven  me  from  my  humb)le  but  happy 
home,  and  from  my  wife  and  children,  to 
the  mountain  and  the  cave ;  but  I  have 
ever  said — 

''  '  I  to  the  hills  will  lift  mine  eyes, 

From  vhence  doth  come  mine  ai3 
My  safety  cometh  from  the  Lord.' 

And  I  have  ever  found  it  so.  I  have 
been  shot  at,  pursued,  hunted  like  a  wild 
beast,  and  exposed  to  disease,  and  pain, 
and  extreme  weakness — whilst  I  was,  un- 
less at  intervals,  denied  the  voice  that 
soothes,  the  truth  that  cheers,  and  the 
looks  of  sympathy  that  mitigate  in  the 
extremest  suffering ;  and  I  am  now,  if  it 
shall  please  God  to  withhold  for  a  little 
the  foot  of  the  merciless  and  the  ungodly 
— I  am  now  about  to  close  my  testimony 
by  sealing  it  with  my  latest  breath," 

This  exertion  was  too  much  for  his  ex- 
hausted strength  ;  and  it  seemed  to  all 
that  life  had  fled ;  when,  after  a  few  short 
and  heavy  respirations,  he  again  proceeded 
— "  Lord,  give  me  strength  for  this  last, 
this  parting  effort  in  this  our  covenanted 
cause  ! — Now,  my  dearly  beloved,  I  leave 
you ;  for  I  hear  my  Master's  call ;  and 
the  Spirit  and  the  bride  say.  Come  !  I 
leave  you  with  this  last,  this  dying  advice  : 
Let  nothing  deprive  you  of  your  crown, 
hold  fast  your  integrity ;  for  He  whom 
you  serve  will  come  quickly,  and  terrible 
will  His  coming  be  to  all  his  enemies." 

"  Enemies,  indeed  !"  vociferated  Lieu- 
tenant Douglas,  who  had  unperceived  en- 
tered the  apartment — "  those  enemies, 
friend  Gibby,  are  nearer,  I  trow,  than  ye 
wot,  and  ready,  with  leave  of  this  good 
company  here,  to  take  special  care  that 
his  Majesty's  enemies  shall  be  suitably 
provided  for.  Come,  budge,  old  Benty, 
and  you  too  of  the  lion's  den.  Come — 
my  lambs,  here,  will  be  more  difficult  to 
manage  tlian  the  lions  of  your  Jewish 
namesake.  Come,  Mr.  Dan — up,  and  be 
going  ;  for  the  day  breaketh  apace,  and  it 
will  be  pleasant  pastime  just  to  give  us  a 
stave  of  the  death  psalm  under  the  old 
thorn,   on   the   brae    face   yonder.     Red 


THE  PERSECUTION  OF  THE  M'MICHAELS. 


259 


Rob's  shoulder,  here,  has  sworn  a  solemn 
league  and  covenant  against  you  ;  and  as 
to  my  two  front  teeth,  they  are  complete 
non-conformists  to  Whigs-  and  Whiggcry, 
throuo;h  all  generations.      Amen  !" 

In  vain  was  all  this  profane  barbarity 
poured  on  the  ears  of  the  dead  man  :  old 
Gilbert  had  breathed  his  last  at  the  very 
first  preception  of  Douglas'  presence — 
his  God  had  in  mercy  withdrawn  hknirom 
his  last  and  most  severe  trsal. 

"  Look  there,  look  there,  look  there  !" 
were  the  first  articulate  accents  which 
crossed  the  lips  of  the  distracted  widow — 
"  look,  ye  sons  o'  Belial — ye  men  o'  bluid 
— on  the  pale  an'  lifeless  victim  o'  yer 
horrid  persecution.  Ay,  aff  wi'  him  !" — 
(for  Douglas  had  now  approached  the  bed, 
as  if  to  ascertain  that  no  deception  had 
been  practised  upon  him) — "  aff  wi'  him, 
to  the  croft,  or  to  the  maiden,  or  to  the 
thorn-tree  ;  shoot  him,  head  him,  hang  him 
— ha  ! — ha  ! — ha  ! — ha  !" —  (Hysterically 
screaming.)  "  He  has  escaped  ye  a'.  Yer 
bullets  canna  pierce  him  ;  yer  flames  canna 
scorch  him;  yer  malice  canna  reach  him, 
yonder."  (Pointing  at  the  same  time  up- 
wards.) "  There,  even  there,  whar  ye  an' 
yer  band  shall  never  enter,  the  wicked 
cease  from  troubling,  an'  the  weary — ay, 
thank  God  ! — the  weary  are  at  rest.  Rest, 
here^  indeed,  they  had  none  ;  but  there  they 
shall  rest,  when  ye  shall  lie  tormented  !" 

"  Come,  come.  Mother  Testimony,  give 
us  no  more  of  your  blarney.  Let  us  only 
over  the  shank  yonder,  and  you  and  your 
whelps  there  may  yelp  and  howl  till  the 
day  of  judgment,  if  you  please.  But,  as 
for  you,  friend  Dan,"  (speaking  ironical- 
ly, and  imitatino;  the  Covenantino;  languao-e 
and  manner,)  "  does  the  Spirit  move  thee 
to  budge  f — has  the  Lord  dealt  bountifully 
with  thee  ? — and  will  He  '  save  thee  from 
six  troubles,  yea,  from  seven  .^'  Come, 
come,  friend,"  taking  him  rudely  by  the 
arm,  and  pulling  him,  with  the  assistance 
of  Red  Rob,  towards  the  door.  "  '  The 
Spirit  and  the  bride  say.  Come  ;'  there  is 
a  maiden  longing  for  thy  embrace — yea,  a 


maiden  whose  lovers  have  been  many,  and 
whose  embrace  is  somewhat  close.  But 
she,  having  taken  up  her  residence  in  the 
guid  town  of  Edinburgh,  is  afar  off;  but, 
lest  thou  shouldst  fijol  disappointment,  my 
lambs,  here,  have  become  somewhat  frisky 
of  late,  and  they  will  be  most  happy  to 
give  thee  a  little  matrimonial  music,  to  the 
tune  of  'Make  ready,  prcssnt,  fire  !'  " 

Daniel  M' Michael  had  long  been  accus- 
tomed to  view  death  as  a  messenger  of 
peace.  His  days — now  manifestly  num- 
bered— had  been  sarely  troubled.  His 
faith  in  his  Savior  was,  with  him,  not  a 
fluctuating,  but  a  fixed  principle ;  like 
Stephen,  he  might  ascend  to  see  heaven 
opsned — and  his  soul  was  long  absent  in 
feryent  prayer.  He  prayed  for  a  perse- 
cuted kirk,  for  a  persecuted  remnant,  for 
his  friends  and  for  his  enemies,  even  those 
whose  hands  were  raised  ag-ainst  his  life. 

'•The  guid  Lord,"  said  he,  '-forgive 
ye,  for  ye  know  not  what  ye  do  !  The 
thief  on  the  cross  was  forgiven  ;  David, 
the  murderer,  was  forgiven  ;  and  e'en  Ju- 
das himself  may  have  obtained  mercy. 
Go,  ye  puir,  infatuated,  godless  band  !  it 
is  not  for  myself  that  I  pray — it  is  for 
you ;  for  when  the  day  of  wrath  arrives, 
where  will  ye  flee  to.  To  the  hills  ? — 
they  will  be  cast  into  the  sea.  To  the 
rocks  ? — they  will  have  melted  with  fer- 
vent heat.  To  the  linns  and  the  glens  r 
— but  where  will  ye  find  them,  in  that 
great  and  notable  day  of  the  Lord .?" 

Daniel  was  proceeding  thus,  when  Red 
Rob  struck  him  over  the  head  with  the 
handle  of  his  sword. 

"  Down  to  the  earth  with  thee  and  thy 
everlasting  jaw '  We  want  none  of  thy 
prayers  and  petitionings.  We  are  King 
Charles'  men,  and  our  god  is  our  captain, 
our  reward  our  pay,  om-  heaven  is  our 
mess-room,  and  our  eternity  an  hour's 
kissing  of  a  bonny  lass." 

Here  the  commander  interfered,  and 
the  poor  victim  was  raised,  though  scarce- 
ly able  to  stand  on  his  legs  from  the  stun 
of  the  blow. 


260 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  And  now,"  said  Douglas,  "  for  the 
last  time,  wilt  thou  conform  and  preserve 
thj  life,  or  die  r" 

The  poor  man  groaned,  and  fell  on  his 
knees.  The  band  was  removed  to  a  dis- 
tance ;  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  the  smoke 
rose  white  and  whiiling  from  the  hill-side  ! 
The  work  of  death  was  done  ! 

There  is  a  small  clump  of  old  thorns 
which  faces  the  high  road  from  Dumfries 
to  Edinburgh,  as  it  enters  the  Pass  of 
Dalveen  from  the  south.  At  the  lower 
extremity  of  this  woodland  patch,  there 
is  a  grey  rock  or  stone,  covered  with  a 
thick  coating  of  moss.  It  was  whilst  rest- 
ins:  ao-ainst  this  stone,  that  Daniel  M'Mi- 
chael  was  shot,  about  half-an-hour  poste- 
rior to  the  cruelties  which  have  been  nar- 
rated. 

A  stone,  with  a  suitable  inscription,  has 
been  placed  over  the  mangled  remains  of 
this  good  man,  in  the  churchyard  of  Dur- 
risdeer,  whilst  a  marble  and  gilt  monu- 
ment, of  the  most  elegant  and  tasteful 
character,  occupies  the  whole  of  the  aisle 
or  nave  of  the  church.    The  latter  monu- 


ment perpetuates  the  memory  and  the 
virtues  of  the  noble  family  of  Douglas  ; 
whilst  the  former  rud^  and  now  mutilated 
flagstone  mentions  an  act  of  atrocity  per- 
petrated by  a  cadet  of  the  family.  In 
that  day  when  the  secrets  of  families  and 
individuals  shall  be  made  known,  it  shall 
be  manifested  whose  memory  and  virtues 
best  deserve  to  be  perpetuated. 

The  eldest  daughter  of  Mrs.  Janet 
M'Michael,  or  M'Caig,  was  married,  after 
the  Revolution,  to  the  second  son  (John) 
of  Thomas  Harkness  of  Mitchelslacks, 
from  whom,  in  a  lineal  descent,  the  author 
of  these  scraps  derives  his  birth.  Is  it  to 
be  wondered  at,  then,  that  we  feel,  through 
every  drop  of  blood  and  ramification  of 
nerves,  a  devotedness  to  the  great  cause 
of  constitutional  freedom  and  rational  re- 
form .''  But  we  hope  the  cause  of  politi- 
cal liberty  may  never  be  mixed  up  with 
the  concerns  of  that  Church  which  our 
ancestors  founded  on  the  dead  bodies  of 
martyrs,  and  cemented  with  their  blood. 
We  may  return  to  this  subject  again,  for 
we  have  yet  many  recollections  to  record. 


-^HI^IH^ 


THE    PEHSECUTEDELECTOR 


OR,  PASSAGES   FROM  THE  LIFE  OF  SIMON  GOURLAY. 


Be  not  afraid,  most  courteous  reader :  you 
will  find  nothing  of  party  politics  in  the 
foUowino;  Passasjes  from  the  Life  of  Simon 
Gourlay.  Know,  then,  that  Simon  was  a 
douce,  respectable  member  of  the  town- 
council  in  the  burgh  of  L ;  and  it  was 

his  lot  or  his  misfortune,  as  he  affirmed, 
to  be  a  sorely  persecuted  elector.  But  we 
must  allow  Simon  to  narrate  the  history 
of  his  persecutions  in  his  own  words. 
"  Weel,"  he  was  wont  to  begin,  *'  though 


I  verily  believe  I  am  ane  o'  the  most  mode- 
rate men  breathing,  and  although  I  seldom 
or  never  Wished  my  head  about  either 
Whig  or  Tory,  I  am  firmly  persuaded 
there's  no  a  man  living  that  has  suffered 
mair  frae  baith  parties  ;  they  hae  kicked 
me  about  as  thouorh  I  had  been  a  sort  o' 
political  footba'.  Ye  must  understand 
that  I  am  ane  o'  the  principal  men  in  our 
toun-council,  o'  which  my  faither  was  a 
distinguished  member  afore  me.    By  virtue 


THE  PERSECUTED   ELECTOR. 


261 


o"*  my  office,  I  had  a  vote  for  a. member  o' 
parliament  to  represent  our  ancient  burgh ; 
and  it  had  been  the  advice  o'  my  worthy 
faither  to  me,  owrc  an'  owre  again — '  Si- 
mon,' he  usedlo  say,  '  if  ye  some  day  live  to 
hae  the  honor  o'  being  called  to  the  coun- 
cil, r:member  my  maxim — aye  vote  for  the 
winning  side.  Mind  ye  this,  if  ye  wish 
yer  kail  to  be  weel  lithed,  or  to  enjoy  the 
respect  o'  yer  neighbors.'  Now, as  1  hae 
said,  my  faither,  was  a  very  respectable 
man  ;  he  was  meikle  looked  up  to  in  the 
toun,  and  his  word,  I  may  say,  was  the 
law  o'  the  council  ;  indeed,  he  had  a  most 
wonderfully  impressive  manner  o'  deliver- 
ing hiraseP  !  and  when  he  began  to  speak, 
ye  wad  said  it  was  a  minister  preaching  ; 
but,  in  the  coorse  o'  nature,  he  died,  hav- 
ing; adhered  to  his  maxim  throug-h  life,  and 
I  succeeded  him  in  the  business.  Now,  it 
was  some  years  after  this,  and  after  1  had 
been  called  to  the  council,  there  was  an 
election  took  place  for  the  burgh.  There 
were  two  candidates — a  Mr.  Wood,  and  a 
Captain  Oliver  belonging  to  the  navy. 
They  were  both  remarkably  pleasant  weel- 
spoken  gentlemen  ;  as  to  their  politics,  i 
knew  very  little  about  them,  for,  as  my 
faither  used  to  observe,  it  was  a  very  un- 
becomino;  thino;  for  the  like  o'  us,  that  had 
only  ae  vote,  to  ask  ony  gentleman  about 
his  principles.  Weel,  it  was  at  this  elec 
tion  that  my  persecutions  began  ;  and  sorry 
am  I  to  say  that  they  had  their  beginning, 
too,  in  my  own  family.  One  day  1  was  in 
the  shop  serving  some  customers,  and, 
before  1  was  aware,  Mr.  Wood's  carriage 
stopped  at  the  door.  For  onything  I  ken, 
his  politics  were  the  same  as  those  o'  Cap- 
tain Oliver  ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  he 
was  exceedingly  popular  in  the  toun,  and 
the  laddies  had  *  Wood  for  ever  ."  written 
on  the  wa's  and  window-shutters,  wi'  bits 
o'  chalk.  There  was  a  crowd  came  rin- 
ning,  and  cheered  round  about  the  carriage 
at  the  shop  door  ;  for  Mr.  Wood  generally 
threw  awa  a  handful  or  twa  o'  siller  amono-st 
them.  I  wad  hae  slipped  into  the  parlor 
to  been  out  o'  the  way,  had  it  no   been 


that  folk  were  in  the  shop,  and  I  saw  there 
was  naethincr  for  it  but  to  stand  fire. 
Weel,  as  Fm  telling  ye,  Mr.  Wood  and 
twa  or  three  ither  gentlemen  came  into  the 
shop  ;  and  really  he  was  a  very  pleasant, 
affable  gentleman,  wi  a  great  deal  o'  man- 
ners and  condescension  about  him.  I  was 
much  interested  wi'  his  look,  and  a  good 
deal  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  There  was  nae 
pride  about  him  whatever  ;  but  he  just 
came  in,  and  took  my  hand  as  familiarly 
as  if  I  had  been  his  equal,  and  we  had  been 
acquainted  for  twenty  years. 

'  I  have  the  honor  of  soliciting  your  vote 
and  interest  at  the  approaching  election, 
Mr.  Gourlay,'  says  he. 

'  Weel,  really,  sir,'  says  I,  '  as  my  fai- 
ther afore  me  used  to  observe,  I'll  tak  the 
matter  into  consideration — it's  best  no  to 
be  in  a  hurry  ;  but  I'll  be  very  happy — 
that  is,  it  will  aSbrd  me  a  great  deal  o' 
pleasure — if  I  can  obleege  ye  ;  but — Fm 
rather  unprepared — ye  hae  ta'en  me  un- 
awares.' 

'  Well,  I  trust  I  may  reckon  upon  you 
as  a  friend,'  said  he — '  I  shall  be  very  proud 
of  Mr.  Gourlay 's  support.' 

'  Why,  sir,'  says  1,  '  as  my  worthy  fai- 
ther'  And  just  as  I  said  this,  some  o' 

the  youngsters  about  the  door  set  up  a 
titter  and  a  hiss.  It  was  very  provoking 
for  a  magistrate  to  be  lauerhed  at  in  his  ain 
shop,  by  a  parcel  o'  idle,  blackguard,  half- 
grown  laddies  ;  an',  'Ye  young  scoundrels,' 
says  I,  '  Fll  put  half-a-dizen  o'  ye  into  the 
blackhols.'  And,  wi'  this,  the  young 
persecutors  hissed  and  tittered  the  mair, 
and  set  up  a  shout  o'  derision.  It  was 
vexatious  be3^ond  measure  ;  and,  as  I  was 
saying,  I  didna  ken  weel  what  to  do,  for 
there  were  folk  in  the  shop  ;  and,  as  Mr. 
Wood  and  the  gentlemen  that  were  wi' 
him,  pressed  me  to  say  definitely  whether 
I  wad  gie  him  a  vote,  I  observed  Persecu- 
tion also  shaking  its  nieve  at  me  frae  the 
parlor  !  For,  ye'll  observe,  that  it  was 
also  my  misfortune  to  be  plagued  wi'  ane  o' 
the  sairest  trials  o'  Job — an  ill-tempered, 
domineering  woman  for  a  wife.     She  was 


262 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


my  second  wife,  and  mony  a  time  hae  I 
said,  when  she  vexed  rae  beyond  what  my 
spiiit  could  bear,  that  I  could  gang  to  the 
kiikyard,  and  pick  the  remains  o'my  dear 
first  partner  fiae  the  cauld  grave,  bane  by 
bane,  could  it  restore  her  to  my  bosom 
again,  or  free  me  frae  the  persecution  o' 
her  that  had  succeeded  her.  Weel,  as  1 
was  saying,  whila  Mr,  Wood  and  his 
friends  were  pressing  me,  I  threw  a  glent 
at  the  parlor  door,  which  was  half  glass, 
wi'  a  curtain  ahint  it,  and  got  a  glance  o' 
Mrs.  Gourlay  standing  shaking  her  head 
and  her  nieve,  as  meikle  as  to  say,  '  Gie 
him  a  vote  at  your  peril,  Simon  !'  Whe- 
ther my  face  betrayed  ony  visible  tokens 
o'  my  inward  agony  or  no,  I  canna  say, 
but  it  so  happened  that  the  confounded 
callants  had  got  a  peep  at  Mrs.  Gourlay 
ahint  the  parlor  door,  as  weel  as  me,  and 
the  young  rascaLs,  having  seen  her  man- 
oeuvres, cried  out — '  Three  cheers  for  Mrs. 
Gourlay  V  The  cheers  gaed  through  my 
ears  like  a  knife — weel  did  I  ken  that  they 
would  be  rung  through  them  for  a  week  to 
come  !  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  Mr. 
Wood  and  the  gentlemen  left  the  shop  ; 
but  their  backs  werena  weel  turned  till  a 
quick  rap  cam  upon  the  glass  at  the  parlor 
window  ;  and  a  quicker  voice  cried — 
'  Gourlay,  ye 're  wanted.'  J  desired  the 
lads  to  attend  to  the  customers,  and  1  slip- 
ped awa  ben  to  the  parlor.  There  sat  her 
leidyship,  just  like  a  tempest  ready  to 
burst. 

'  Ay,  man  ! — ye  sitnpleton  ! — ye  nosie- 
wax  !'  ciied  she  ;  'and  ye'll  hae  the  im- 
pudence to  gie  a  vote  without  consulting 
me  ! — ye'll  say,  as  yer  silly  auld  feither 
said ' 

*  Come,  Mrs.  Gourlay,'  says  I,  ^  ye  may 
cary  yer  cantrips  upon  me  as  far  as  ye 

ik;;,  but  ye  shanna,  in  my  hearing,  breathe 
a  word  against  the  memory  o'  my  worthy 
fait'ier.' 

*  And  ye  sha"na  vote  for  "Wood,'  cried 
she  — '  or  I  11  keep  ye  in  het  water  to  the 
end  o'  yer  days.' 

*  Really,  my  dear,'  says  I,  '  I  think  ye 


keep  me  in  het  water  as  it  is.  But  I  hae 
gien  nae  vote  as  yet ;  and,  as  my  worthy 
faither  used  to  observe' 

'  The  mischief  tak  ye  and  yer  faither  !' 
cried  she  ;  '  can  ye  no  speak  without  aye 
bleth'rin'  aboot  him  !' 

'  Mrs.  Gourlay  !'  says  I,  *  I've  warned 
ye' 

'  Simon    Gourlay  !'    cried    she,     '  I've 


cautioned  ye' 

And  just  as  the  altercation  was  like  to 
run  very  high,  and  to  become  very  unseem- 
ly, another  carriage  drew  up  to  the  door, 
and  out  came  Captain  Oliver  and  his 
friends.  The  Captain  was  a  pleasant 
gentleman,  also,  and  very  honest  like. 
My  wife  flew  and  opened  the  parlor  door  ; 
and  in  an  instant  she  put  on  such  a  hypo- 
critical, weel  pleased  look.  *  Mercy  !' 
thinks  I,  '  what's  that  o't  i — a  woman  can 
change  her  countenance  quicker  than  a 
northern  light,  which  glimmers  and  van- 
ishes before  you  can  say,  Jock  Robinson  !' 
Weel,  I  hastily  rubbed  my  face  wi'  my 
pocket  handkerchief,  and  made  a  step  for- 
ward to  the  glass  to  see  how  I  looked  ; 
for  I  thought  it  would  be  very  unbecoming 
in  a  member  o'  the  council,  and  a  magis- 
trate o'  the  burgh,  to  be  seen  in  a  flurry, 
or  as  if  he  had  been  flytiu'.  I  watna  whe- 
ther the  Captain  had  heard  that  '  the  grey 
mare  was  the  better  horse,'  in  my  house 
or  no  ;  for  there  were  evU-disposed  per- 
sons malicious  enou:};h  to  say  such  a  thing  ; 
but  he  came  straight  forward  to  Mrs.  Gour- 
lay ;  and — 

'  I  am  most  happy  to  see  you,  Mrs. 
Gourlay,'  said  he  ;  'I  trust  1  shall  have 
the  honor  of  your  interest.  I  know  1  have 
nothing  to  fear  if  1  have  the  good  wishes 
of  the  ladies  upon  my  side  ;  and,  without 
vanity.  Ma'am,  1  believe  I  have  them.' 

My  termagant  smiled  and  curtsied  to 
the  very  floor.  ^  Pray,  step  in,  Captain,' 
said  she — *  step  in,  gentlemen  ;  Mr.  Gour- 
lay is  within.  I  am  sure  you  have  our 
vote  ;  I  answer  for  that.' 

My  blood  boiled ;  I  fjlt  indignation 
warm  upon  my  face.     I  was  stepping  for- 


THE   PERSECUTED   ELECTOR. 


263 


ward  to  pull  her  bj  the  gown,  wheu  the 
Captaia  and  his  friends  entered. 

'  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Gourlay,'  said  he,  '  for  the  very  hand- 
some manner  in  which  you  have  given  me 
your  support.' 

'  Not  at  all  obliged  to  me,  sir,'  said  I  ; 
'  but — but' 

Mrs.  Gourlay  gave  me  a  look ;  and 
its  meaning  needed  no  words  to  interpret 
it. 

'  Thank  you,  sir — thank  you,'  said  the 
Captain  ;  '  I  am  indeed  obliged,  very 
much  obliged,  for  the  frank  and  hand- 
some manner  in  which  you  have  given  me 
your' 

'  Excuse  me.  Captain,'  says  I ;  '  but  I 
would  wish  a  little  time  just  to  consider 
— to  mak  up  my  mind,  as  it  were  ;  for,  as 
my  faither' 

'  Dinna  detain  the  Captain,'  interrupted 
my  wife  ;  '  he  didna  ken  yer  faither ;  ye 
must  not  mind  my  goodman,  gentlemen,' 
said  she  ;  '  he  wad  aye  be  considering  and 
considering — but  just  put  down  his  name, 
and  nae  mair  about  it.  He  daurna  but 
vote  for  ye.' 

'  Daurna  !  Mrs.  Gourlay,'  says  I;  'thafs 
very  improper  language  t-o  use  to  the  like 
o'  me.' 

'Ay,  help  us  !  the  like  o'  you,  indeed, 
Simon  !'  said  she.  '  Just  put  doAvn  his 
name,  as  I'm  telling  ye,  gentlemen.' 

I  kenned  it  would  be  imprudent  in  a 
man  o'  my  respectability  to  flee  into  a 
passion,  and  so  held  my  tongue  ;  and  the 
Captain,  turning  to  me,  said — 

'  Good  mornino;,  sir  ;  and  I  assure  you 
I  am  much  obliged  to  you.'  And,  turning 
round  to  my  wife,  and  shaking  her  hand, 
he  added — '  And  many  thanks  to  you^ 
ma'am.' 

'  You  are  welcome,  sir,'  said  she  ;  '  very 
welcome  to  half  a  dozen  votes,  if  we  had 
them.' 

What  took  place  between  us  after  the 
Captain  and  his  party  left,  I  will  not  re- 
late to  ye,  for  it  was  very  disgracefu' — 
I'm  ashamed  o't  until  this  day  ;  indeed,  I 


carried  the  marks  o'  her  nails  upon  my 
face  for  the  space  o'  a  fortnight,  which 
looked  particularly  ill  upon  the  counte- 
nance o'  a  magistrate.  Weel,  it  was  in 
the  afternoon  o'  the  same  day,  ane  o'  the 
gentlemen  belonging  to  Mr.  Wood's  party, 
called  again  at  the  shop  ;  and,  me  being 
in  the  haberdashery  line,  he  wished  to 
purchase  a  quantity  o'  ribbons  for  election 
favors.  To  the  best  o'  my  recollection, 
he  bought  to  the  amount  o'  between  twa 
and  three  pounds'  worth  ;  and,  to  my 
surprise,  he  pulled  out  a  fifty  pound  bank 
note  to  pay  for  them. 

'  I  fear,  sir,'  says  I,  'I'm  short  o'  change  : 
an'  ye  can  pay  for  the  ribbons  ony  day  as 
ye're  passing.'" 


'  Oh,  no,'  says  he,  '  don't  talk  about 
the  change — it  can  be  got  at  any  time.' 
And  he  laid  the  fifty  pound  note  upon  the 
counter.  '  I  trust,'  added  he,  '  we  may 
now  reckon  upon  Mr.  Gourlay 's  support.' 

'  Really,  sir,'  says  I,  '1  have  not  had 
time  to  weigh — that  is,  to  turn  over  the 
subject  in  my  mind  properly  ;  but  I  will 
consider  of  it.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Wood  has 
my  good  wishes.' 

'  Thank  you,  sir,'  said  the  gentleman, 
leaving  the  shop,  '  I  shall  inform  Mr. 
Wood  that  he  may  reckon  upon  you.' 

Now,  I  would  have  called  after  him, 
that  he  was  by  no  means  to  reckon  upon 
ony  thing  o'  the  sort,  for  I  had  not  made 
up  my  mind  ;  but  1  thought  it  would  look 
ill,  and  I  suffered  him  to  leave  with  the 
impression  that  I  was  a  supporter  o'  his 
party.  I  couldna  think  for  a  moment 
that  he  proposed  onything  to  a  man  like 
me  by  no  taking  the  change  o'  the  note  ; 
and  1  intended  to  send  it  to  the  inn  in  the 
morning  as  soon  as  the  bank  opened  ;  but 
1  happened  to  say,  in  the  course  o'  conver- 
sation to  a  neebor  that  dropped  into  the 
shop  a  short  while  after,  that  I  thought 
Mr.  Wood  was  very  liberal  and  flush  o' 
his  siller  ;  and  I  unthinkingly  mentioned 
the  circumstance  o'  the  fifty  pound  note, 
and  the  change,  and  the  ribbons.  Weel, 
the  person  left  the   shop  without  making 


264 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


any  particular  remark  upon  the  circum- 
stance that  I  observed  ;  but  what  was  my 
horror,  I  may  say  my  confusion  and  aston- 
ishment, when,  just   on  the   edge  o'  the 
evening    (for  it  was  in  the  summer  time), 
and  just  as  we  were  shutting  up  the  shop, 
here's  a  great  gih-avishing  and  a   shouting 
at  the  end  o'  the  street,  and  alang  comes 
twa  or  three  hundred  callants,  and  some 
young  chields  that  were  never  out  o'  mis- 
chief, wi'  the   effigy   o'  a  man  tied  to   a 
pole ;     and    they   had    the    odious     thing 
dressed  as  like  me  as  possible  ;  but  what 
was  worse  than  a',  they  had  a  great  label 
on  its  breast,  wi'  the  words,  '  Fifty  pounds 
for  a  pirn  o  ribbons  f  written  on  it;  and 
they  had   the   audacity  to   stand   shouting 
and  yelling,  and  to  burn  it  afore  my  door. 
I  was  in  such  a  passion  as  1  believe  man 
aever  was  in  afore  !     Me  !    a  magistrate, 
and  ane  o'  the  principal  men  o'  the  town- 
council,  to  be  thought  guilty  o'  takin  a 
bribe  !     It  was  horrible  !  horrible  I     I  first 
seized   the   yardwand,  and   I  rushed  into 
the  crowd,  and  laid  round  me  right  and 
bft,  until  it  was  shivered  to   pieces  ;  and 
then  I  ran  into  the   shop,  while  the   mob 
kept  hissing  and  yelling  ;  and   I  took   the 
fifty  pound  note,  and  gisd  it  to  ane  o'  the 
shop-lads — '  Rin,'  says  I,  '  rin  wi'  that  to 
Mr.    Wood,    or     to    the  gentleman    that 
brought  it,  and  tell  them  I  neither  wish  to 
see  their  money  nor  their  custom.' 

So  the  lad  ran  wi'  the  note  to  the  inn, 
and  did   as    I    ordered  him.     But,  oh  !   1 
had    an  awfu'  nicht    wi'   Mrs.     Gourlay. 
There  wasna  an  ill  name   that   she   could 
set  her  tono-ue  about  that  she   didna  ca' 
me.     '  Silly  Simon  !'    and    '  Simple   Si- 
mon !'  were   the  gentlest  terms  that  she 
used.     I  was  ashamed  to  show  my  face  at 
the  door,  for  I  was  the  toun's  talk.     But, 
still,  notwithstanding  a'  the  persecution  1 
was   sufferin',  I  was  in  a  swither  hoo  to 
act,  for   1  vvas   determined,  if  possible,  to 
abide   by  my  worthy  faither's  advice,  an' 
vote  wi'  the  winning:   side.     However,  it 
was  hard  to  say  which  would  be  the  win- 
aiug  side ;  for,  though   Mr.  Wood  was  a 


great    favorite    wi'    a     majority    o'     the 
working-classes,  and  even  with   a  number 
o'  the   council,  an'  though   he  was   very 
liberal  an'  lavish  wi'  his  money,  as  I  have 
said,  yet  there  was   a  great  number  o'  re- 
spectable folk  took  a  very  warm   interest 
for   Captain  Oliver.     There  were  a  vast 
o'  my  best  customers  on  baith  sides,  and 
it  was  really  a  very  delicate  matter  for  me 
to  decide  hoo  to  act— for  ye  will  observe 
I  am  the  last  man  in  the  world  that  would 
ofiend  onybody ,  and  especially  a  person  that 
I'm  obleeged  to.     Weel,  just  while  1  was 
pondering  the  matter,  and   considering  in 
which  way  my  worthy  faither  would  have 
acted  under  similar   circumstances,  1  re- 
ceived a  letter  in  the   name   o'  three  or 
four  leddies,  from  whom  1  had,  first  and 
last,  received  a  great  deal  o'  siller — and 
who,  at  the  same  time,  were  gey  deeply 
in  my  books — and  they  plainly  informed 
me,  that,  unless  1  voted  for  Captain  Oli- 
ver, they  never,  while  they  lived,  would 
buy  a  sixpence  worth  o' goods  in  my  shop 
again.     1   thought  it  was  very  hard  for  a 
respectable  merchant  and  a  toun-council- 
lor  to  be  so   persecuted  and  beset ;  and 
just  while  I  was    sitting    very    sair    per- 
plexed, in  comes  the  postman  wi'  another 
letter.     It  was   frae   a   Glasgow  manufac- 
turer that  I  had  lang  had  dealings  wi'  ; 
and  he  trusted  that  I  would  oblige  him  by 
voting   for   his  friend,  Mr.  Wood  ;  or,  if 
not,  that  I  would  make   it  convenient  to 
pay  off  his  bill  within  three  days,  or  that 
he  would  find  it  necessary  to  adopt  means 
to   obtain  payment.     This  was  worse  and 
worse  ;  and  1  must  inform   3'ou   that  the 
account  which  he   had  against  me  never 
would  have  been  due  but  for  the  extrava- 
gance 0'  my  second  Mrs.  Gourlay.     I  was 
in    a    state    0'  misery   indescribable.     I 
wished  frae  the  bottom   d'  my  heart  that 
I  had  been  a  hand-loom  weaver,  workin' 
for    a    shilling  a-day,  rather  than    toun- 
councillor  ;  for  then  I  micht  hae  been  in- 
dependent.    However,   my   wife    seemed 
determined  to  tak  the  masterskep   in  the 
business  a'thegither ;    an',    what  wi'  the 


THE  PERSECUTED  ELECTOR. 


2G5 


talkin'  o'  the  toun,  the  threatenin'  o'  cus- 
tomers and  creditors,  and  her  everlasting 
scolding,  I  rcfilly  was  greatly  to  be  pitied. 
The  youngslers  had    bonfires    round   the 
toun  in  honor  o'  the  different  candidates, 
and  J  had  an  excellent  peat-stack  behind 
the   house.     Weel,   when  I  gaed    out  in 
the    morninsr,  what    should    be    the  first 
thing  1  observed,  but  that  the  half  o'  my 
peat-stack  was  carried  off  bodily  !     '  Con- 
found   ye    for    a    parcel    o'  persecuting 
thieves,'  said  I  to  mysel,  '  but  some  o'  ye 
shall  get   transportation   for   this,  as  sure 
as  I  am   a  magistrate  !'     Kowever,  upon 
second  thoughts,  and  as  I  had  nae   doubt 
but  they  had  been  carried  off  for  the  bon- 
fires, and  as  it  was  likely  that  they  would  be 
kindlino'  them  that  ni2;ht  ao-ain — '  Sorrow 
tak  ye,'  thinks  I,  '  but  I'll  gie  some  o'  ye 
a  snifter  !'     So  what  does  I  do,  but  sends 
the  shop-laddie  awa  to   an   ironmonger's 
for  a  pound   o'  pouther  !     '  Mortal  man 
canna  stand  it !'  says  I ;  'I'll  blaw  up  the 
scoundrels  !'     I  acknowledge  it  wasna  just 
becoming  the   dignity  o'  the  leading  man 
in  the    toun-council  to    tak  sic   revenge. 
But  I  slipped  awa   round  to   the   back  o' 
the   house  wi'  a  big  gimlet   in  my  hand, 
and  I  bores  holes  in  a  dozen  or  twa  o'  the 
peats,  on  the  north  side  o'  the  stack,  and 
filled  them  wi'  pouther  ;  and  having  closed 
the  holes,  I  was  first  gaun  to  tell  them 
in  the  house  no   to   tak  ony  peats  off  the 
north   side   o' stack,  when  a  circumstance 
occurred  that  drove  it  completely  out  o' 
my  memory.     Mrs.  Gouilay  had  an  idle, 
worthless,  half-gentleman   sort   o'  a   bro- 
ther, and,  to   my  utter  astonishment  and 
dismay,  I  found  him  sitting  in  the  parlor 
when  I  went  in.     '  Brother   Simon,'  said 
he,  stretching  out  his  hand, '  1  shall  never 
forget  your  kindness.' 

'  My  kindness  !'  says  I — '  what  do  yon 
mean  P 

'  Mean  !'  said  my  wife,  in  her  usual 
snappy,  disdainful  manner  ;  '  on  account 
of  0  ir  vote — which,  it  is  believed,  will 
be  the  casling  vote— think  o'  that,  Si- 
mon Gourlay — Captain    Oliver    has  pro- 


mised my  brother  a  place  under  govern- 
ment !' 

'  My  stars  !'  says  T,  '  a  place  under 
government ! — our  vote  !— I  think,  ma'am, 
ye  micht  hae  consulted  me  before  ye 
bought  a  place  for  your  brother  wi'  my 
vote  ;  and,  as  my  woithy  faither  used 
to  observe,  1  maun  be  sure  about  the 
winning  side  before  I  promise  ony  thing  o' 
the  sort.' 

'  Consult  you  P  cried  she,  like  a  fire- 
brand— '  consult  i/OM,  indeed  ! — I'll  tell 
ye  what,  Councillor  Gourlay,  if  ye  had  a 
spark  o'  natural  a'ffection,  as  you  ought  to 
have,  for  your  lawful  wife,  ye  wad  scoin 
to  stand  higgling  about  a  paltry  vote. 
But  allow  me  to  tell  ye,  sir,  the  thing  is 
settled — ye  shall  vote  for  Captain  Oliver  ; 
and,  mair  than  that,  I  expect  him  and 
his  friends  to  dine  here  this  afternoon  !' 

'  Dine  here  !'  says  I,  and  was  perfectly 
dumfoundered,  as  if  a  clap  o'  thunder  had 
burst  on  my  head.  I  felt  I  really  was 
becoming  a  cipher  in  my  ain  house. 

'Yes,  sir  — dine  here,' continued  she; 
'  and  see  that  ye  mak  them  welcome,  and 
be  proud  o'  the  honor.' 

I  slipped  awa  into  the  shop,  and  I  took 
out  the  Glasgow  manufacturer's  letter, 
and  I  thought  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to 
be  in  debt,  but  still  warse  to  be  hen- 
pecked ;  but  to  be  baith  henpecked  and 
in  debt,  was  worse  than  death  itsel'.  1 
remained  in  a  state  of  stupefaction  until 
about  three  o'clock,  when  1  was  ordered 
to  dress  for  dinner.  Between  four  and 
five  o'clock,  Captain  Oliver  and  seveial 
of  his  friends  made  their  appearance. 
How  1  conducted  myssP,  I'm  sure  I  canna 
say — I  was  dowie  enough,  but  I  tried  to 
put  the  best  face  upon  it  that  I  could. 
Everything  passed  ower  weel  enough  until 
after  the  cloth  was  withdrawn  ;  and  then 
wine  was  set  upon  the  table,  and  speerits 
for  them  that  preferred  them,  and  the  ket- 
tle was  put  upon  the  fire  to  keep  boiling 
for  the  ti)ddy.  The  servant  lassie  put  twa 
or  three  peats  on  the  fire  ;  and  just  as  she 
was  gaun   out  o'  the  room,  I  remembered 


26: 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


about  the  pouther  !  Never  was  human 
being  in  such  a  mortal  state  o'  perturba- 
tion before.  The  sweat  broke  a'  owre  me. 
I  rose  and  intended  to  rin  down  stairs,  just 
to  say  that  '  1  hoped,  in  the  name  o'  safe- 
ty she  hadna  taen  the  peats  off  the  north 
side  o'  the  stack !'  However,  I  had 
hardly  reached  the  stair-head,  and  the 
sneck  o'  the  door  was  still  in  my  hand, 
when — good  gracious  ! — sic  an  explosion  ! 
— sic  a  shout  o'  terror  ! — sic  a  tumblin' 
o'  chairs  and  a  breakin'  o'  glasses !  I 
banged  into  the  room  ;  it  was  full  o' 
smoke,  and  the  smell  o'  sulphur  was 
dreadfu'.  '  Aie  ony  o^  ye  hurt  ?'  says 
I.  There  was  groanin'  and  swearin' 
on  i'ka  hand  ;  and  some  o'  them  cried 
'  Seize  him  !' — Seize  me  !'  cried  I — 
'  goodness,  sirs  !  wad  ye  seize  a  magis- 
trate in  his  ain  house  !'  The  lid  o'  the 
kettle  was  blawn  up  the  chimney,  the  ket- 
tle itssP  was  driven  across  the  table,  wi' 
its  boilino;  contents  scattered  ri^-ht  an' 
left,  an  nae  small  portion  o'  them  poured 
over  the  precious  person  o'  Captain  Oli- 
ver !  Oh  !  it  was  terrible  ! — terrible  ! — 
sic  a  dilemma  as  I  never  witnessed  in  my 
born  days.  I  was  in  a  situation  that  was 
neither  to  be  explained  nor  described. 
Some  o'  them  were  fearfully  scalded  and  j 
scorched,  too  ;  an'  naething  would  satisfy 
them,  but  that  I  intended  to  blaw  up  the 
Captain  and  the  company  !  It  was  a  sec- 
ond '  Gunpouther  Plot '  to  secure  the 
election  of  Wood  !  '  How  did  I  answer,' 
said  they,  '  for  the  pouther  being  in  the 
peats  at  all  ?  and  why  did  I  leave  the 
room  in  confusion,  at  the  very  moment  it 
was  about  to  take  place  .?'  'Oh!'  thought 
I,  as  they  put  the  questions,  'what  a  la- 
mentable situation  is  mine  for  ony  man, 
but  especially  a  magistrate,  to  be  in  !' 
As  for  Mrs  Gouilay,  instead  of  sympa- 
thizing for  my  distress,  she  flew  at  me 
like  a  teeger,  an'  seized  me  by  the  hair  o' 
the  head,  b3fore  them  a'.  Weel,  the  up- 
shot was,  that  I  was  taen  before  my  bro- 
ther magistrates  :  and,  sinking  wi'  shame 


as  I  was,  I  tauld  the  naked  truth,  an'  was 
very  severely  admonished.  I  admitted 
that  I  had  acted  very  indiscreetly,  an' 
very  unbecoming  a  member  o'  the  coun- 
cil ;  but  I  assured  them,  on  my  solemn 
oath,  that  1  hadna  dune  sae  wi'  malice  in 
my  heart.  They  a'  kenned  me  to  be  a 
very  quiet,  inoffjnsive  man ;  an'  the  Cap- 
tain s  party  agreeing  that,  if  I  voted  for 
him  the  next  day,  they  would  push  the 
matter  no  farther,  I  gied  him  my  hand  an' 
promise,  an'  the  business  was  dropped. 
But  the  next  day,  the  great  day  of  elec- 
tion, came.  Until  I  had  promised,  the 
numbers  o'  the  candidates  were  equal ; 
and,  sure  enough,  mine  was  the  impor- 
tant— the  casting  vote.  Weel,  just  as  I 
was  stepping  down  to  the  toun-house,  wi' 
my  een  fixed  upon  the  ground — for ^I- was 
certain  that  everybody  was  looking  at  me 
— some  person  tapped  me  upon  the  shoul- 
der, an'  I  looked  up  an'  there  was  a 
sheiiff's  officer!  A  kind  o'  palsy  ran 
owre  me  frae  head  to  foot  in  a  moment ! 
'  Mr.  Gourlay,'  said  the  man, '  1  am  sorry 
to  inform  ye  that  ye  are  my  prisoner^'' 

'  Is  it  possible  ?''  said  I.  '  W^eel,  if 
ye'll  just  allow  me  to  gang  up  an'  vote, 
111  see  about  bail.' 

'  Ye  may  come  into  the  public-house 
here,'  said  he  ;  '  but  I  canna  allow  ve  to 
vote,  nor  to  go  out  o'  my  sicht.' 

Weel,  I  was  arrested  for  the  debt  that 
I  owed  to  the  manufacturer.  It  was  gey 
heavy,  and  during  an  election  though  it 
was,  I  found  bail  wasna  to  be  had.  I 
voted  nane  that  day,  an'  that  nicht  I  went 
to  jail.  I  lay  there  about  three  months, 
an',  when  I  got  free,  I  found  that  I  was 
also  freed  from  the  persecution  o'  Mrs. 
Gourlay,  who  had  broken  a  blood-vessel 
in  a  fit  o'  passion,  an',  during  my  impri- 
sonment, was  buried  by  the  side  o'  her  ain 
relations  :  an'  such  are  the  particulars  o' 
my  persecution  during  an  election  ;  an,' 
certainly,  every  reasonable  and  feeling 
man  will  admit  I  had  just  enough  o'  it, 
an'  mair  than  I  deserved.' 


THE  NEW  FIRM. 


267 


THE    NEW    FIRM 


A    LEGEND    OF    MUTTONHOLE. 


"  Great  and  Advantageous  Open- 
ing.— No  Deception, — Snooks  &  Grubb 
respectfully  inform  the  public  of  Mutton- 
hole  and  its  vicinity,  that  they  have  open- 
ed those  large  and  commodious  premises 
in  Drybob  Street,  where  they  have  con- 
stantly on  hand  every  description  of  soft 
goods,  at  prices  50  per  cent,  lower  than 
any  other  house  in  the  kingdom.  Mousse- 
line  de  laines  from  3^d.  to  Is.  3d.  and 
upwards. 

"  N.B. — No  mousseline  de  laine  dress, 
of  any  description  whatever,  is  worth  more 
than  Is.  8d. 

"  To  prevent  disappointment,  ladies 
should  make  an  early  call." 

The  above,  with  the  usual  abundant 
sprinkling  of  italics,  capitals,  and  full- 
faced  type,  was  the  only  new  advertise- 
ment in  the  columns  of  The  Muttoiihole 
Gazette^  on  the  morning  of  the  29th  of 
February,  18 — .  "  Who  are  Snooks  & 
Grubb  V  inquired  the  old  ladies  of  the 
village.  "  Who  are  Snooks  &  Grubb  .'^" 
echoed  the  young  ladies,  who,  after  study- 
ing the  Hymenial  record,  also  glanced  at 
the  advertisement. 

Snooks  &  Grubb,  two  enterprising 
young  men,  who  had  served  their  appren- 
ticeships in  one  of  the  London  warehouses 
at  Edinburgh,  had  decided  on  connecting 
themselves  in  business,  and  astonishino-  the 
natives  of  some  country  town  with  a  col- 
lection of  goods,  obtained  on  credit  from 
some  of  the  Manchester  houses,  who  are  ac- 
customed to  take  such  risk  upon  themselves. 
Muttonhole  happened  to  be  the  place  pitch- 
ed upon  ;  and  so  rapidly  was  their  miorra- 
tion  effected,  and  the  business  of  "  open- 
ing"  performed,    that,   until    they    were 


ready  for  customers,  not  one  knew  that 
such  a  thing  was  in  contemplation.  What ! 
commence  business  without  makins;  six 
months'  preparatory  talk  !  The  thing 
was  preposterous  and  unprecedented.  But 
they  succeeded  nevertheless.  The  young 
women  had  become  tired  of  shop-worn 
commodities,  especially  when  sold  by  a 
crusty  old  benedict ;  and  the  temptation 
of  new  goods,  and  two  young  bachelors, 
were  irresistible. 

Awful  was  the  alarm  created  in  Mutton- 
hole  by  the  new  shop.  Old  Mr.  Maddox, 
the  proprietor  of  the  old  shop,  stopped 
taking  in  The  Muttonhole  Gazette^  because 
he  liked  an  "  independent  press,"  and 
the  Gazette  had  had  the  impudence  to 
publish  the  advertisements  of  Snooks  & 
Grubb,  to  his  manifest  injury. 

The  star  of  the  young  firm  had  been  for 
some  days  on  the  ascendant,  and  after  a 
good  day's  work,  both  parties  waited  in 
the  back  parlor  of  the  shop,  as  if  each  had 
something  to  tell  the  other,  with  which  it 
would  not  answer  to  trust  any  walls  but 
their  own.  Each  made  awkward  work  of 
his  communication  ;  but  it  will  be  as  well 
to  leave  unrecorded  their  stammering  pre- 
face, and  merely  state,  that  each  had  come 
to  the  resolution  of  taking  unto  himself  a 
sleeping  partner. 

In  a  few  days.  The  Muttonhole  Gazette 
put  forth  the  following  : — 

"  Married — At  Glasgow,  on  the  4th 
inst.,  Ferdinando  Augustus  Snooks,  Esq., 
to  Miss  Anna  Matilda,  eldest  daughter  of 
Hugo  Groat,  Esq.,  merchant. 

"  At  Edinburgh,  Mr.  John  Grubb,  to 
Miss  Mary  Tidd." 

The  effect  of  this  announcement,  upon 


2G8 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


the  weak  nerves  of  the  inhabitants  of  Mut- 
touhole,  was  astounding.  The  old  ladies 
were  indignant  that  this  news  burst  upon 
the  community  without  giving  them  even 
a  nibble  of  it  in  advance  of  the  general 
promulgation  ;  and  the  unengaged  young 
ladies,  each  of  whom  had  secretly,  and  in 
her  own  mind,  appropriated  one  of  the 
firm  to  herself,  began  to  think'  of  return- 
ing their  patronage  to  Mr.  Maddox. 
Things  began  to  look  squally,  when,  as  is 
often  the  case  in  emergencies,  a  something 
was  found  to  stem  the  current,  and  save 
the  fallino;  fortunes  of  the  house  of  Snooks 
&  Grubb.  This  was  nothing  more  or  less 
than  their  giving  a  "  blow  out,"  to  which 
all  the  elite  of  Muttonhole  and  its  vicinity 

were  invited, 

*  *  *  * 

It  was  over.  The  party  had  broken  up. 
Old  Maddox,  who  had  lingered  the  last  of 
the  guests,  as  if  determined  to  do  his  full 
share  in  eating  out  the  substance  of  the 
youno"  men,  had  at  last  taken  his  hat. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snooks  sat  alone. 

''  My  dear,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  do  not 
see  why  you  should  have  invited  all  that 
canaille  to  your  house." 

"  Policy,  Anna  Matilda.  I  wish  to 
become  popular  with  the  Muttonhole  peo- 
ple." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Snooks,  I  don't  like  to  be 
bored  to  death.  I  hope  you  have  not  so 
soon  forgot  my  standing  in  society.  My 
father  was  never  anxious  to  please  the 
rabble." 

"  Mrs.  Snooks,  I  hope  you  have  not  so 
far  forgot  my  interest  as  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  my  business.  The  distant  jingle  of 
your  father's  gold  will  not  support  us  here." 

''  John,"  said  Mrs.  Grubb  to  her  hus- 
band, as  they  walked  home,  "  1  am  afraid 
I  have  done  you  no  credit  to-night :  you 
know  1  always  told  you  1  was  unused  to 
society." 

"  Why,  Mary,  I  thought  to-night  you 
succeeded  to  admiration,  particularly  with 
the  mothers  and  daughters." 


'*  Oh,  yes  !  and  I  have  a  great  many 
pressing  invitations  to  visit  them.  But  I 
am  dreadfully  afraid  of  Mrs.  Snooks.  She 
came  and  sat  by  me  to-night,  and  said 
something  about  the  '  Great  Unknown.' 
I  didn't  make  any  answer  ;  and  then  she 
said,  that  Waverly  alone  was  enough  to 
set  him  up.  What  did  she  mean  John  .' 
Is  there  to  be  another  shop  in  the  vil- 
lacre  .'' 

Grubb  gently  explained  her  mistake  to 
her.  It  was  a  bitter  evening  in  conclusion 
for  both  parties ;  one  had  to  drive  away 
his  wife's  hysteric  with  sal  volatile^  and 
promises  of  indulgence  ;  the  other  to  con- 
sole an  intellio;ent  thousfh  uncultivated 
mind,  for  the  lack  of  that  information, 
which  one  evening  had  convinced  her  was 
all  essential  to  her  creditable  appearance. 

On  the  morrow,  Mrs.  Anna  Matilda 
Snooks  went  back  to  the  house  of  her 
father,  to  recover,  as  she  said,  from  the 
effects  of  an  excessive  infliction  of  rustici- 
ty. The  simple  Mary  Giubb  grew  daily 
in  the  good  graces  of  the  dwellers  in  Mut- 
tonhole. The  minister's  wife  thought  it  a 
pity  "  she  had  been  neglected,"  but  de 
clared  her  an  intelligent  woman,  neverthe- 
less. Some  others  might  make  the  same 
remark,  but  all  loved  her ;  and  through 
her  popularity,  the  tide  set  sadly  against 
the  warehouse  of  Mr.  Maddox.  At  the 
end  of  a  few  weeks  Mrs.  Snooks  retui-n- 
ed. 

"  My  dear,"  said  she  to  her  husband, 
"  1  have  brought  you  a  present." 

"  You  have  brought  yourself  Anna  Ma- 
tilda, for  which  I  thank  you  before  open- 
ing this  package,  lest  you  should  accuse  me 
of  selfishness  in  thanking  you  afterwards." 
The  direction  was  in  the  countiuf»;-house- 
hand  of  Mr.  Groat.  Snooks  broke  the 
seal,  and  found  documents  possessing  him 
of  a  large  landed  property,  and  a  check 
for  several  thousands.  "  Anna  Matilda, 
after  the  unthinkiuo;  remark  1  made  a  few 
weeks  since,  I  cannot  accept  of  this." 

"  Mr.  Snooks— Mr.  Snooks  !" 

There  was  something  hysterical   in  her 


TFIE  NEW  FIRM. 


209 


tone,  and  Snooks  hastily  interrupted  her 
by  saying,  "  Allow  me  at  least  to  secure 

this  to  you.   I" 

''  No,  no  !   take  it  as  I  offer  it,  or" 


favors,  that  the  latter 
him. 


Poor  Snooks,  he  pleased  his  wife  alter- 
nately with  volatile  and  sugared  words  ; 
the  latter  of  the  remedies  brought  her  to, 
because  they  imported  an  acceptance  of 
her  father's  gift.  It  is  said  of  his  Satanic 
Majesty,  and  the  wight  who  accepts  his 

becomes  bound  to 
I  do  not  intend  to  compare  Mrs. 
Snooks  to  the  devil,  but  her  present  was 
the  p^chase  money  of-^the  inexpressibles. 

Snoo^was  sold  to  her  from  that  day. 

*  *  *  * 

"  "^^Qse  people  pay  a  great  deal  of  at- 
tention: to  your  partner's  wife,  Mr. 
Snooks." 

'•'■  They  would  pay  you  the  same,  if  you 
would  accept  it." 

"  But  1  shall  not.  Who  can  endure  to 
drink  tea  out  of  earthern  cups,  and  hear 
disquisitions  upon  coals,  bread,  stocking- 
yarn,  the  price  of  eggs,  and  the  quantity 
of  potatoes  requisite  to  dine  a  family  of 
thirteen.     I  cannot,  Mr.  Snooks  .^" 

"  Mrs.  Grubb  does." 

"  Mrs.  Grubb  !  It  is  her  element,  the 
hateful  ignorant  creature.  I  desire  you 
will  not  ask  her  or  her  husband  to  the 
house  again." 

"He  is  my  partner,  my  dear." 

"  Your  partner  !  1  don't  see  why  you 
need  such  a  partner.  You  can  hire  a  good 
clerk  cheaper,  and  not  be  obliged  to  court 
him  and  his  ignorant  wife.  I  wish  you 
would  discharge  him,  Mr.  Snooks.  Jdon't 
like  the  idea  of  finding  Grubb  capital  to 
trade  upon." 

A  few  days  afterwards  saw  the  follow- 
ing announcement  in  the  first  column  of 
The  Muttonhole  Gazette  : — 

"  Dissolution  or  Copartnery. — The 
business  heretofore  carried  on  under  the 
name  of  Snooks  &  Grubb,  was  this  day 
dissolved  by  mutual  consent. 

"  P.  Fletcher,  tiJi7we5s,  F.  A.  Snooks, 

"  G.  AuLD,  witness.        John  Grubb." 


"  By  mutual  consent ;"  yes,  "  mutual" 
is  the  word  when  a  strong  man  kicks  a 
weaker  out  of  doors. 

Agreeably  to  this  arrangement,  Mr. 
Grubb  and  his  poor  ignorant  wife,  after 
making  their  round  of  calls,  with  light 
hearts,  and  a  purse,  which  honest  gains 
had  pretty  well  ballasted,  stepped  into  the 
Muttonhole  omnibus,  which  was  to  con- 
vey them  away  from  that  romantic  village. 
Every  one  who  knew  them  regretted  their 
departure,  except  Mrs.  Snooks  and  Mr. 
Maddox.  Indeed,  the  latter  had  reason 
to  be  pleased  ;  for  Grubb 's  withdrawal 
would,  he  knew,  be  for  his  own  immediate 
benefit.  And  he  was  right.  The  tide 
soon  turned  into  its  old  channel,  and 
old  Maddox  saw,  with  delight,  all  the  old 
faces  back  to  his  counter,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  perhaps  a  few,  who  trimmed  their 
bonnets  like  Mrs.  Snooks,  and  esteemed 
it  an  honor  to  get  a  nod  from  her.  In 
proportion  as  business  lessened,  she,  think- 
ing the  dowry  she  had  brought  inexhausti- 
ble, doubled  her  expenses.  She  figured 
in  the  walks  around  Muttonhole,  in  dress- 
es which  would  have  attracted  notice,  for 
their  expensive  quali^;y,  even  in  the  streets 
of  Edinburgh,  and  crowds  of  the  family 
connexions,  and  the  family  connexions' 
connexions,  of  the  Groats,  settled  on 
Snooks  to  rusticate,  devouring  his  sub- 
stance, like  a  swarm  of  locusts. 

It  was  not  long,  therefore,  ere  old  Mad- 
dox had  the  satisfaction  of  reading  in  the 
public  journals,  this  notice  : — 

"  The  creditors  of  F.  A.  Snooks,  draper 
in  Muttonhole,  are  requested  to  attend  a 
meeting  in  the  Town  Hall,  on  Friday,  the 
21st,  at  two  o'clock  precisely." 


Years  had  passed.  Two  persons  met 
in  the  Trongate  of  Glasgow.  There  was 
a  look  of  uncertain  recognition. 

"  Grubb  !" 

"  Snooks !" 

A  hearty  shaking  of  hands  followed. 

"How  is  your  wife,  Grubb  P^ 


270 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


"  Well.     She    has   become  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Waverley." 


has 


forgotten 


her   hys- 


"  And    mine 
terics." 

The  four  met  on  the  following  Sunday 
at  the  country  residence  of  Mr.  Grubb, 
who  had,  by  industry,  become  possessed 
of  considerable  property.  Snooks  also, 
taught  wisdom  by  his  reverses,  had  re- 
trieved his  pecuniary  affairs.  The  hus- 
bands came  in  from  the  garden  together, 
where  they  had  been  walking  for  an  hour. 


"  Ladies,"  said  Snooks,  "  we  have 
entered  again  into  copartnership.  Anna 
Matilda,  do  you  think  you  can  invite  that 
hateful  IVJrs.  Grubb  to  my  house  r" 

"  Mary  !"  said  Grubb,  "  are  you  afraid 
of  Mrs.  Snooks  now  ?" 

It  Is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to  say,  that 
the  utmost  joy  and  harmony  soon  after 
prevailed  between  the  two  families,  and 
they  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  closer 
alliance,  by  reason  of  the  intermarriage  of 
their  children. 


THE    SABBATH    WRECKS 


A    LEGEND    OF    DUNBAR. 


It  was  a  beautiful  Sabhath  morning  in  the 
autumn  of  1577  :  a  few  small  clouds, 
tinged  with  red,  sailed  slowly  through  the 
blue  heavens  ;  the  sun  shone  brightly,  as 
if  conscious  of  the  glory  and  goodness  of 
its  Maker,  diila^ii;g  around  a  holy  stillness 
and  tranquillity,  characteristic  of  the  day 
of  rest ;  the  majestic  Frith  flashed  back 
the  sunbeams,  while,  on  its  bosom,  slowly 
glided  the  winged  granari.^s  of  commerce  ; 
there,  too,  lay  its  islands,  glorying  in  their 
strength — the  May,  shrouded  in  light,  ap- 
peared as  a  leviathan  sunning  in  its  rays — 
and  the  giant  Bass,  covered  with  seafowl, 
rose  as  a  proud  mountain  of  alabaster  in  the 
midst  of  the  waters.  A  thousand  boats  lay 
along  the  shores  of  Dunbar.  It  was  the 
herring-season— and  there  were  many  boats 
from  the  south  and  from  the  north,  and 
also  from  the  coast  of  Holland. 

Now,  tidings  were  brought  to  the  fish- 
ermen that  an  immense  shoal  was  upon 
the  coast ;  and  regardless  of  its  being 
Sabbath  morning,  they  began  to  prepare 


their  thousand  boats,  and  to  go  out  to  set 
their  nets.  The  Rev.  Andrew  Simpson, 
a  man  possessed  of  the  piety  and  boldness 
of  an  apostle,  was  then  minister  of  Dun- 
bar ;  and,  as  he  went  forth  to  the  kirk  to 
preach  to  his  people,  he  beheld  the  un- 
hallowed preparations  of  the  fishermen  on 
the  beach  ;  and  he  turned  and  went 
amongst  thsm  ;  and  reproved  them  sternly 
for  their  great  wickedness.  But  the  men 
were  obdurate — the  prospect  of  great  gain 
was  before  them,  and  they  mocked  the 
words  of  the  preacher.  Yea,  some  of 
them  said  unto  him,  in  the  words  of  the 
children  to  the  prophet — "  Go  up,  thou 
bald  head."  He  went  from  boat  to  boat, 
counselling,  entreating,  expostulating  with 
them,  and  praying  for  them. 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  "  the  Lord  of  the 
Sabbath  will  not  hold  ye  guiltless  for  this 
profanation  of  his  holy  day."  But.  at  that 
period,  vital  religion  was  little  felt  or  un- 
derstood upon  the  Borders,  and  they  re- 
garded not  his  words 


THE  SABBATH  WRECKS. 


271 


He  went  to  on3  boat,  which  was  the  pro- 
perty of  members  of  his  own  congregation, 
and  there  he  found   Agnes  Crawford,  the 
daughter  of  one  of  his  ciders,  hanging  upon 
the  neck  of  her  husband,  and  their  three 
children  also  clung  around  him,  and  they 
entreated  him  not  to  be  guilty  of  breaking 
the  Sabbath  for  the  sake  of  perishing  gain. 
But  he  regarded  not  their  voice  ;  and  he 
kissed  his  wife  and  his  children,  while  he 
laughed  at  their  idle  fears.      Mr.  Simpson 
beheld  the  scene   with  emotion,  and  ap- 
proaching the  group—''  John  Crawford," 
he    exclaimed,    addressing   the    husband, 
"  you  may  profess  to  mock,  to  laugh  to 
scorn   the  words  of  a  feeble  woman  ;  but 
see  that  they  return  not  like  a  consuming 
fire  into   your  bosom   when  hope  has  de- 
parted.    Is  not  the  Lord  of  the  Sabbath 
the  Creator  of  the  sea  as  well  as  of  the  dry 
land  ?      Know  ye  not   that  ye   are  now 
bravino;  the  wrath  of  Him  before  whom  the 
mighty    ocean  is    a    drop,  and   all  space 
but  a  span  ?     Will  ye,  then,  glory  in  in- 
sulting His  ordinances,  and  delight  in  pro- 
faning the  day  of  holiness  ?    Will  ye  draw 
down  everlasting  darkness  on  the  Sabbath 
of  your  soul  .'*    When  ye  were  but  a  youth, 
ye   have   listened  to   the   words    of  John 
Knox — the  great  apostle  of  our  country — 
ye  have  trembled  beneath  their  power,  and 
the  conviction  that  they  carried  with  them ; 
and  when  ye  think  of  those   convictions, 
and  contrast  them  with  your  conduct  this 
day,  does  not  the  word  apostate  burn  in 
your    heart  ?     John    Crawford,    some    of 
your  blood  have    embraced  the  stake  for 
the  sake  of  the  truth,  and  will  ye  profane 
the  Sabbath,  which  they  sanctified  ?     The 
Scotsman  who  openly  glories  in  such  a  sin, 
forfeits  his  claim  to  the  name  of  one,  and 
publishes  to  the  world  that  he  has  no  part 
or    communion  with  the  land  that   gave 
him  birth.     John  Crawford,  hearken  unto 
my  voice,  to  the  voice  of  your  wife,  and 
that  of  your  bairns  (whose  bringing  up  is 
a  credit   to    their   mother),  and  be  not 
guilty  of  this  gross  sin."     But  the  fisher- 
man, while  he  regarded  not  the  supplica- 


tions of  his  wife,  became  sullen  at  the  words 
of  the  preacher,  and,  springing  into  the 
boat,  seized  an  oar,  and,  with  his  comrades, 
began  to  pull  from  the  shore. 

The  thousand  boats  put  to  sea,  and  Mr. 
Simpson  returned  sorrowful  from  the  beach 
to  the   kirk,  while  Agues   Crawford  and 
her  children  followed  him.     That  day  he 
took  for  his  text,  "  Remember  the   Sab- 
bath-day to    keep   it  holy  ;"   and,  as  he 
fearlessly  and  fervidly  denounced  the  crime 
of  Sabbath-breaking,   and  alluded  to  the 
impious  proceedings  of  the  day,  his  hear- 
ers trembled,  but  poor  Agnes  wept  aloud, 
and  her  children  clung  around  her,  and 
they  wept  also,  because  she  wept.     But, 
ere  the  service  had  concluded,  the  heavens 
besan  to  lower.     Darkness  fell   over  the 
contrreo-ation — and  first  came  the  murmur 
of  the  storm,  which  suddenly  burst  into 
the  wild  howl  of  the  tempest.   They  gazed 
upon    each   other    in    silent   terror,   like 
guilty  spirits  stricken  in  their  first  rebel- 
lion by  the  searching  glance  of  the  Omni- 
scient.     The  loud  voice   of   Psalms  was 
abruptly  hushed,  and  its    echo    jningled 
with  the  dreadful  music  of  the  elements, 
like  the  bleating  of  a  tender  lamb,   in  the 
wind  that  sweepeth  howling  on  the  moun- 
tains.      For    a   moment,    their   features, 
convulsed  and  immovable,  were  still  dis- 
tended with  the  song  of  praise  ;  but  every 
tongue  was  silent,  every  eye  fixed.    There 
was  no  voice,  save  heaven's.     The  church 
seemed  to   rock   to   its   foundations,   but 
none  fled — none  moved.     Pale,  powerless 
as  marble  statues,  horror  transfixed  them 
in    the   house    of    prayer.     The    steeple 
rocked  in   the  blast,   and,   as    it  bent,  a 
knell,  untolled  by  human  hands,  pealed  on 
the  ears  of  the  breathless  multitude.     A 
crash  followed.     The  spire  that  glittered 
in  the  morning  sun  lay  scattered  in  frag- 
ments, and  the  full  voice  of  the  whirlwind 
roared    through    the    aisles.      The    trees 
crouched  and  were  stripped  leafless ;  and 
the  sturdy  oak,  whose  roots  had  embraced 
the  earth  for  centuries,  torn  from  the  deep 
darkness  of  its  foundations,  was  uplifted 


27-3 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


on  the  wings  of  the  tempest.  Darkness 
was  spread  over  the  earth.  Lightnings 
gathered  together  their  tenors,  and, 
clothed  in  the  fury  of  their  fearful  majesty, 
flashed  through  the  air.  The  fierce  hail 
was  poured  down  as  clouds  of  ice.  At  the 
awful  voice  of  the  deep  thunder,  the  whirl- 
wind quailed  and  the  rage  of  the  tempest 
seemed  spent. 

Nothing  was  now  heard  save  the  rage 
of  the  troubled  sea,  which,  lashed  into 
foam  by  the  angry  storm,  still  bellowed 
forth  its  white  billows  to  the  clouds,  and 
shouted  its  defiance  loud  as  the  war-cry  of 
embattled  worlds.  The  congregation  still 
sat  mute,  horrified,  death-like,  as  if  wait- 
ino-  for  the  preacher  to  break  the  spell  of 
the  elements.  He  rose  to  return  thanks 
for  their  preservation,  and  he  had  given 
out  the  lines — 

"  Wlien  in  thy  wrath  rebuke  me  not, 
Nor  in  thy  hot  rage  chasten  me," 

wh^n  the  screams  and  the  howling  of  wo- 
men and  children  rushing  wildly  along  the 
streets,  rendered  his  voice  inaudible.  The 
congregation  rose,  and  hurrying  one  upon 
another,  they  rushed  from  the  church. 
The  exhortations  of  the  preacher  to  de- 
part calmly  were  unheard  and  unheeded. 
Every  seat  was  deserted.  All  rushed  to 
the  shore,  and  Agnes  Crawford  and  her 
children  ran,  also,  in  terror,  with  the 
multitude. 

The  wrecks  of  nearly  two  hundred  boats 
were  driftins:  amonrj  the  rocks.  The  dead 
were  strewed  along  the  beach,  and  amongst 
them,  wailing  widows  sought  their  hus- 
bands, children  their  fathers,  mothers  their 
sons,  and  all  their  kindred  ;  and  ever  and 
anon  an  additional  scream  of  grief  arose  as 
the  lifeless  body  of  one  or  other  such  re- 
lations was  found.  A  few  of  the  lifeless 
bodies  of  the  hardy  crews  were  seen  toss- 
ing to  and  fro  ;  but  the  cry  for  help  was 
hushed,  and  the  yell  of  death  was  heard 
no  more. 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  fearful  day — a  day  of 
lamentation,  of  warning,  and  of  judgment. 
In  one  hour,  and  within  sight  of  the  beach. 


a  hundred  and  ninety  boats  and  their  crew? 
were  whelmed  in  the  mighty  deep  ;  and, 
dwelling  on  the  shore  between  Spittal  and 
North  Berwick,  two  hundred  and  eighty 
widows  wept  their  husbands  lost. 

The  spectators  were  busied  carrying  the 
dead,  as  they  were  driven  on  shore,  beyond 
the  reach  of  tide -mark.  They  had  con- 
tinued their  melancholy  task  for  near  an 
hour,  when  a  voice  exclaimed — '*  See  ! 
see  ! — one  still  lives,  and  struggles  to  make 
the  shore  !" 

All  rushed  to  the  spot  from  whence  the 
voice  proceeded,  and  a  young  man  was 
perceived,  with  more  than  mortal  strength, 
yet  laboring  in  the  whirling  waves.  His 
countenance  was  black  with  despair.  His 
heart  panted  with  sufibcating  pangs.  His 
limbs  bufteted  the  billows  in  the  strong 
agony  of  death,  and  he  strained,  with  des- 
perate eagerness,  towards  the  projecting 
point  of  a  black  rock.  It  was  now  within 
his  grasp,  but,  in  its  stead,  he  clutched  the 
deceitful  wave  that  laughed  at  his  deliver- 
ance. He  was  whirled  around  it,  dashed 
on  it  with  violence,  and  again  swept  back 
by  the  relentless  surge.  He  threw  out  his 
arms  at  random,  and  his  deep  groans  and 
panting  breath  were  heard  through  the 
sea's  hoarse  voice.  He  ao-ain  reached  the 
rock — he  grasped,  he  clung  to  its  tangled 
sides.  A  murmur  moaned  through  the 
multitude.  They  gazed  one  upon  another. 
His  glazed  eyes  frowned  darkly  upon  them. 
Supplication  and  scorn  were  mingled  in  his 
look.  His  lips  moved,  but  his  tongue  ut- 
tered no  sound.  He  only  gasped  to  speak 
—  to  implore  assistance.  His  strength 
gave  way — the  waters  rushed  around  the 
rock  as  a  whirlpool.  He  was  again  up- 
lifted upon  the  white  bosom  of  the  foam, 
and  tossed  within  a  few  yards  of  the  wail- 
ing but  unavailing  crowd. 

"  It  is  John  Crawford  !"  exclaimed  those 
who  were  able  to  recognise  his  features. 
A  loud  shriek  followed  the  mention  of  his 
name — a  female  rushed  through  the  crowd, 
and  the  next  moment  the  delicate  form  of 
Agnes  Crawford  was  seen  floating  on  the 


THE  SABBATH  WRECKS. 


273 


wild  sea.  In  an  instant,  a  hundred  plunged 
to  her  rescue ;  but,  before  the  scream  of 
horror  and  surprise  raised  by  the  specta- 
tors when  they  beheld  her  devoted  but 
desperate  purpose,  had  subsided,  she  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  who  feared  death. 
Although  no  feminine^  amusement,  Agnes 
had  delio;hted  in  buffetin";  the  waters  from 
a  child,  as  though  she  felt  a  home  upon 
their  bosom  ;  and  now  the  strength  of  in- 
spiration seemed  to  thrill  through  her 
frame.  She  was  hidden  from  the  gaze  of 
the  marvelling  spectators,  and  a  deep 
groan  crept  along  the  shore.  She  again 
appeared,  and  her  fair  hand  grasped  the 
shoulder  of  the  drowning  man  !  A  shout 
of  wild  joy  rang  back  on  the  deserted  town. 
Her  father,  who  was  amongst  the  multi- 
tude, fell  upon  his  knees.  He  clasped  his 
hands  together — "  Merciful  Heaven  !"  he 
exclaimed,  "  Thou  who  stillest  the  tem- 
pest, and  boldest  the  waters  in  the  hollow 
of  i  hy  hand,  protect — protect  my  child  !" 

The  waters  rioted  with  redoubled  fury. 
Her  strcng-th  seemed  failings,  but  a  smile 
of  hope  still  lighted  up  her  features,  and 
her  hand  yet  grasped  her  apparently  life- 
less burden.  Despair  again  brooded  on 
the  countenances  of  her  friends.  For  a 
moment,  she  disappeared  amongst  the 
waves  ;  but  the  next,  Agnes  Crawford  lay 
senseless  on  the  beach,  her  arm  resting  on 
the  bosom  of  him  she  had  snatched  from  a 
watery  grave — on  the  bosom  of  her  hus- 
band. 

They  were  borne  to  their  own  house, 
where,  in  a  few  minutes,  she  recovered  ; 
but  her  husband  manifested  no  signs  of 
vitality.  All  the  means  within  their  pow- 
er, and  that  they  knew,  were  resorted  to, 
in  order  to  eflect  his  resuscitation.  Long 
and  anxiously  she  wept  over  him,  rubbing 
his  temples  and  his  bosom,  and,  at  length, 
beneath  her  hand  his  breast  jBrst  began  to 
heave  with  the  returning  pulsation  of  his 
heart. 

"  He  lives  ! — he  breathes  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, and  she  sank  back  in  a  state  of 
unconsciousness,  and  was  carried  from  the 


room.  The  preacher  attended  by  the 
bedside,  where  the  unconscious  fisherman 
lay,  directing  and  assisting  in  the  opera- 
tions necessary  for  restoring  animation. 

As  John  Crawford  began  to  recover,  the 
film  of  death  that  had  gathered  over  his 
eyes  began  to  melt  away,  and  he  gazed 
around  in  bewilderment,  but  unconscious 
of  where  he  was,  and  he  sank  into  a  trou- 
bled sleep  ;  and,  as  he  so  slept,  and  his 
strength  returned,  he  cast  forth  his  arms, 
in  imagination  yet  grappling  with  death. 
He  dreamed,  and  in  his  dream  he  shouted 
for  help.  He  prayed,  and  in  the  same 
breath  he  blasphemed  and  reviled  the 
trembling  spectators,  that  his  troubled 
fancy  still  pictured  on  the  beach. 

In  a  few  hours  the  fisherman  awoke  from 
his  troubled  sleep,  which  many  expected 
would  have  been  the  sleep  of  death.  He 
raised  himself  in  the  bed — he  looked 
around  wistfully.  Agnes,  who  had  re- 
covered, and  returned  to  the  room,  fell 
upon  his  bosom.  "  My  Agnes  !— my  poor 
Agnes  !"  he  cried,  gazing  wistfully  in  her 
face — "  but,  where — where  am  I  ? — and 
my  bairnies,  where  are  they  .^"  ^ 

"  Here,  faither,  here  !"  cried  the  chil- 
dren, stretching;  out  their  little  arms  to 
embrace  him. 

Again  he  looked  anxiously  around.  A 
recollection  of  the  past,  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  present,  fell  upon  his  mind. 
"  Thank  God  !"  he  exclaimed,  and  burst 
into  tears  ;  and  when  his  troubled  soul 
and  his  agitated  bosom  had  found  in  them 
relief,  he  inquired,  eagerly—"  But,  oh  tell 
me,  how  was  1  saved  .^— was  I  cast  upon 
the  beach  ?  There  is  a  confused  remem- 
brance in  my  brain,  as  though  an  angel 
grasped  me  when  1  was  sinking,  and  hcdd 
me.  But  my  head  is  confused,  it  is  fear- 
fully confused,  and  1  remember  naething 
but  as  a  dream  ;  save  the  bursting  awa  o' 
the  dreadful  storm,  wi'  the  perishing  o' 
I  hundreds  in  an  instant,  and  the  awfu  cry 
that  rang  frae  boat  to  boat—'  A  judgment 
I  has  come  owre  us  !'  And  it  was  a  judg- 
ment indeed  !     O  Agnes  !  had  I  listened 


L 


274 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


to  yer  words,  to  the  prayers  o'  my  bits  o' 
bairns,  or  the  advice  o'  the  minister,  I 
wad  hae  escaped  the  sin  that  I  hae  this 
day  committed,  and  the  horrors  wi'  which 
it  has  been  visited.  But  tell  me  how,  or 
in  what  manner,  I  was  saved .'" 

'*  John  !"  said  the  aged  elder,  the  father 
of  Agnes,  "  ye  was  saved  by  the  merciful 
and  sustaining  power  o'  that  Providence 
which  ye  this  morning  set  at  nought.  But 
I  rejoice  to  find  that  your  heart  is  not 
hardened,  and  that  the  awful  visitation — 
the  judgment,  as  ye  hae  weel  described  it 
— which  has  this  day  filled  our  coast  with 
widows  and  with  orphans,  has  not  fallen 
upon  you  in  vain  ;  for  ye  acknowledge 
your  guilt,  and  are  grateful  for  your  de- 
liverance. Your  being  saved  is  naething 
short  o'  a  miracle.  We  a'  beheld  how 
long  and  how  desperately  ye  struggled  wi' 
the  rao-insr  waves,  when  we  knew  not  who 
you  were,  and  when  it  wasna  in  the  power 
o'  ony  being  upon  the  shore  to  render  ye 
the  slightest  assistance.  We  saw  how  ye 
struggled  to  reach  the  black  rock,  and  how 
ye  was  swept  round  it ;  and,  when  ye  at 
last  reached  it,  we  observed  how  ye  clung 
to  it  wi'  the  grasp  o'  death,  until  your 
strength  gave  way,  and  the  waves  dashed 
you  from  it.  Then  ye  was  driven  towards 
the  beach,  and  some  of  the  spectators  re- 
cognised your  face,  and  they  cried  out 
your  name  !  A  scream  burst  upon  my 
ear — a  woman  rushed  through  the  crowd 

— and  then,  John  ! — oh,  then  !" But 

here  the  feelings  of  the  old  man  overpow- 
ered him.  He  sobbed  aloud  ;  and,  paus- 
ing for  a  few  moments,  added — "  Tell 
him,  some  o'  ye."  "  Oh,  tell  me,"  said 
the  fisherman  ;  "  a'  that  my  faither-in-law 
has  said,  I  kenned  before.  But  how  was  I 
saved  } — or  by  whom  .^" 

The  preacher  took  up  the  tale. — 
"  Hearken  unto  me,  John  Crawford,"  said 
he.  "  Ye  have  reason,  this  day,  to  sor- 
row, and  to  rejoice,  and  to  be  grateful 
beyond  measure.  In  the  morning,  ye 
mocked  my  counsel  and  set  at  nought  my 
reproof.     True,  it  was  not  the  speaker. 


but  the  words  of  truth  that  were  spoken, 
that  ye  ought  to  have  regarded — for  they 
were  not  my  words,  and  I  was  but  the 
humble  instrument  to  convey  them  to  ye. 
But  ye  despised  them  ;  and  as  ye  sowed, 
so  have  ye  reaped.  But,  as  your  father- 
in  law  has  told  ye,  when  your  face  was 
recognised  from  the  shore,  and  your  name 
mentioned,  a  woman  screamed — she  rushed 
through  the  multitude — she  plunged  into 
the  boiling  sea,  and  in  an  instant  she  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  help  I" 

"  Speak  ! — speak  on  !"  cried  the  fish- 
erman, eagerly  ;  and  he  placed  his  hands 
on  his  heaving  bosom,  and  gazed  anxious- 
ly, now  towards  the  preacher,  and  again 
towards  his  Agnes,  who  wept  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  The  Providence  that  had  till  then  sus- 
tained you,  while  your  fellow  creatures 
perished  around  you,"  added  the  clergy- 
man, "  supported  her.  She  reached  you 
— she  grasped  your  arm.  After  long 
struggling,  she  brought  you  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  shore  ;  a  wave  overwhelmed 
you  both  and  cast  you  upon  the  beach, 
with  her  arm — the  arm  of  your  wife  that 
saved  you — upon  your  bosom  .'" 

"Gracious  Heaven!'  exclaimed  the 
fisherman,  pressing  his  wife  to  his  bosom 
— "  my  ain  Agnes  I — was  it  you  ? — was  it 
you  } — my  wife  I — my  saviour  !"  And  he 
wept  aloud,  and  his  children  wept  also. 
"  There  is  nae  merit  in  what  Fve  dune," 
replied  she.  "  for  wha  should  have  at- 
attempted  to  save  ye  had  1  no  !  Ye 
were  everything  to  me,  John,  and  to  our 
bairns." 

But  the  feelings  of  the  wife  and  the 
mother  were  too  stronij  for  words.  I  will 
not  dwell  upon  the  joy  and  gratitude  of 
the  family  to  whom  the  husband  and  the 
father  had  been  restored  as  from  the  dead. 
It  found  a  sorrowful  contrast  in  the  voice 
of  lamentation  and  of  mourning,  which 
echoed  along  the  coast  like  the  peal  of 
an  alarm-bell.  The  dead  were  laid  in 
heaps  upon  the  beach,  and,  on  the  follow- 
ing  day,  widows,  orphans,  parents,  and 


THE   STONE-BREAKER. 


275 


brothers,  came  from  all  the  fishing-towns 
along  the  coast,  to  S3ek  their  diad  amongst 
the  drowned  that  had  been  gathered   to- 


gether ;  or,  if  they  found   them  not,  they    of  the  lost  drave  of  Dunbar. 


wandered  along  the  shore  to  seek  for  them 
where  the  soa  might  have  cast  them  forth 
Such  is  the  tale  of  the  Sabbath  wrecks — 


THE     STONE-BREAKER. 


If  any  of  our  readers  had  had  occasion  to 
go  out,  for  a  couple  of  miles  or  so,  on  the 
road  leading  from  Edinburgh  to  the  vil- 
lage of  Carlops,  any  time  during  the  sum- 
mer of  the  year  1833,  they  would  have 
seen  a  little  old  man — very  old — employed 
in  breakino;  metal  for  the  roads.     The  ex- 

CD 

act  spot  where  we  saw  him,  was  at  the 
turn  of  the  eastern  shoulder  of  the  Pent- 
land  Hills ;  but  the  nature  of  his  em- 
ployment rendering  him  somewhat  migra- 
tory, he  may  have  been  seen  by  others  in 
a  different  locality.  In  the  appearance  of 
the  old  stone-breaker  there  was  nothing 
particularly  interesting — nothing  to  attract 
the  attiintion  of  the  passer-by — unless  it 
might  be  his  great  age.  This,  however, 
certainly  was  calculated  to  do  so  ;  and 
when  it  did,  it  must  have  been  accompa- 
nied by  a  painful  feeling  at  seeing  one  so 
old  and  feeble  still  toiling  for  the  day  that 
was  passing  over  him ;  and  toiling,  too, 
at  one  of  the  most  dreary,  laborious,  and 
miserable  occupations  which  can  well  be 
conceived.  Had  the  old  man  no  children 
who  could  provide  for  the  little  wants  of 
their  aged  parent,  without  the  necessity 
of  his  still  laboring  for  them — who  could 
secure  him  in  that  ease  which  exhausted 
nature  demanded  ?  It  appeared  not.  Per- 
haps it  was  a  spirit  of  independence  that 
nerved  his  weak  arm,  and  kept  him  toiling 
so  far  beyond  the  usual  term  of  human 
capability.  Probably  the  proud-spirited 
old  man  would  break  no  bread  but  that 
which  he  had  earned  by  the  sweat  of  his 


brow  and  the  labor  of  his  hands.  Per- 
haps it  was  so.  At  any  rate,  this  we  know 
that,  at  the  early  hour  of  five  in  the  morn- 
in^r,  as  regularly  as  the  morning  came,  the 
old  stone-breaker  had  already  commenced 
his  monotonous  labor.  But  this  was  not 
all.  He  had  also,  by  this  early  hour, 
walked  upwards  of  four  miles — for  so  far 
distant  was  the  scene  of  his  occupation 
from  the  place  of  his  residence,  Edin- 
burgh. He  must,  therefore,  have  left 
home  between  three  and  four  o'clock,  and 
this  was  his  daily  round,  without  intimation, 
without  variation,  and  without  relaxation. 
A  bottle  of  butter  milk  and  a  penny  loaf 
formed  each  days  sustenance.  His  daily 
earnings,  laboring  from  five  in  the  morning 
till  six  at  night  averaged  about  ninepence  ! 
Hear  ye  this,  ye  who  ride  in  emblazoned 
carriages !  Hear  ye  this,  ye  loungers  on 
the  well-stufi"3d  couch  ! — and  hear  it,  ye 
revellers  at  the  festive  board,  who  have 
never  toiled  for  the  luxuries  ye  enjoy ! 
Hear  it,  and  think  of  it !  But  of  this  per- 
son we  have  other  things  to  tell ;  and  to 
these  we  proceed. 

One  morning,  just  after  he  had  com- 
menced the  labors  of  the  day,  a  young 
man,  of  about  four  or  five-and-twenty 
years  of  age,  accosted  him,  wished  him  a 
good  morning,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
heap  of  broken  metal  on  which  the  old 
man  was  at  work,  and  did  so  seemingly 
with  the  intention  of  entering  into  conver- 
sation with  hitn.  This  was  a  proceeding 
to  which  the  latter  was  much  accustomed. 


276 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


it  b:ing  a  frequsnt  practica  with  the  hum-  j 
blar  class  of  wayfarers.  The  advances 
of  the  stranger,  therefore,  in  the  present 
instance,  did  not  for  a  moment  interrupt 
his  labors,  or  slacken  his  assiduity.  He 
hammered  on  without  raising  his  head, 
even  while  returning  the  greetings  that 
were  made  him. 

"  A  delightful  view  from  this  spot," 
said  the  young  man,  breaking  in  upon  a 
silence  which  had  continusd  for  some  time 
after  the  first  salutations  had  passed  be- 
tween them. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  drily  ;  and, 
continuing  his  operations,  he  again  re- 
lapsed into  his  usual  taciturnity ;  for,  in 
truth,  he  was  naturally  of  a  morose  and 
uncommunicative  disposition.  Undeterred 
by  his  cold  repulsive  manner,  the  stranger 
again  broke  silence,  and  said,  with  a  deep- 
drawn  sio;h — 

''  How  I  envy  these  little  birds  that  hop 
so  joyously  from  spray  to  spray  !  Their 
lifj  is  a  happy  one.  Would  to  God  I 
were  one  of  .them  !" 

The  oddness  of  the  expressions,  and 
the  earnestness  with  which  they  were  pro- 
nounced, had  an  effect  on  the  laborer 
which  few  things  had.  They  induced  him 
to  pause  in  his  work,  to  raise  his  head, 
and  to  look  in  the  face  of  the  speaker, 
which  he  did  with  a  smile  of  undsfinable 
meaning.  It  was  the  first  full  look  he  had 
taken  of  him,  and  it  discovered  to  him  a 
countenance  open  and  pleasing  in  its  ex- 
pression, but  marked  with  deep  melan- 
choly, and  telling,  in  language  not  to 
be  misunderstood,  a  tale  of  heart- sickness 
of  the  most  racking  and  depressing 
kind. 

"  Has  your  lot  been  ill  cast,  young  man, 
that  ye  envy  the  bits  o'  burds  o'  the  air 
the  freedom  and  liberty  that  God  has  gien 
them  ?"  said  the  old  man,  eyeing  the 
stranger  scrutinizingly,  with  a  keen,  pene- 
trating grey  eye,  that  had  not  even  yet  lost 
all  its  fire. 

"  It  has,"  replied  the  latter.  "  I  have 
been  unfortunate  in  the  world.     I   have 


struggled  hard  with  my  fate,  but  it  h-as  at 
length  overwhelmed  me." 

The  old  man  muttered  something  unin- 
telligibly, and,  without  vouchsafing  any 
other  reply,  resumed  his  labors.  After 
another  pause  of  some  duration,  which, 
however,  he  had  evidently  employed  in 
thinking  on  the  declaration  of  unhappiness 
which  had  just  been  made  him — 

"  Some  folly  o'  your  ain,  young  man, 
very  likely,"  said  the  other,  carelessly, 
and  still  knapping  the  stones,  whose  bulk 
it  was  his  employment  to  reduce. 

^^  No,"  replied  the  young  man,  blu.sh- 
ing ;  but  it  was   a   blush  which  he   who 
caused  it  did  not  see.     "  1  cannot  blame 
myself." 

"  Nae  man  does,"  interposed  the  stone- 
breaker  ;  "  he  aye  blames  his  neighbors." 
"Perhaps  so,"  rejoined  the  stranger; 
"  but  you  will  allow  that  it  is  perfectly 
possible  for  a  man  to  be  unfortunate  with- 
out any  fault  on  his  own  part." 

"  I  hae  seldom  seen't,"  replied  the  un- 
gracious and  unaccommodating  old  man  ; 
and  he  hammered  on. 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,"  said  the  youth  ; 
"  but  I  hope  you  will  not  deny  that  such 
things  may  be." 

"  Canna  say,''  was  the  brief,  but  suf- 
ficiently discouraging  rejoinder. 

"  Then  let  us  drop  the  subject,"  said 
the  stranger,  smilingly.  "  Each  will  still 
judge  of  the  world  by  his  own  experience. 
But,  methinks,  your  own  case,  my  friend, 
is  a  hard  enough  one.  To  see  a  man  of 
your  years  laboring  at  this  miserable  em- 
ployment, is  a  painful  sight.  Your  debt 
to  fortune  is  also  light,  I  should  believe." 
"  I  hae  aye  trusted  mair  to  my  ain  in- 
dustry than  to  fortune,  young  man.  I  never 
pat  it  in  her  power  to  jilt  me.  I  never 
trusted  her,  and,  therefore,  she  has  never 
deceived  me ;  so  her  and  me  are  quits." 
And  the  old  man  plied  away  with  his  long, 
light  hammer. 

"  Yet  your  earnings  must  be  scanty  .^" 

"  I  dinna  compleen  o'  them." 

"  I  daresay  not ;  but  will  you  not  take 


THE  STONE-BREAKER. 


277 


it  amiss  my  ofFaring  this  small  addition  to 
them  ?"  And  lie  tendered  him  a  half- 
crown  piece.  "  1  have  but  little  to  spare, 
and  that  must  be  my  apology  for  offering 
you  so  trifling  a  gift." 

The  man  here  again  paused  in  his  ope- 
rations, and  again  looked  full  in  the  face 
of  the  stranger,  but  without  making  any 
motion  towards  accepting  the  proffered 
donation. 

"  I  thocht  ye  said  ye  war  in  straits, 
young  man,"  he  said,  and  now  resting  his 
elbow  on  the  end  of  his  hammer. 

'^  And  I  said  truly,"  replied  the  former, 
afijain  colorino;. 

"  Then  hoo  come  ye  to  be  sportin  yer 
siller  sae  freely  .''  I  wad  hae  thocht  ye  wad 
hae  as  muckle  need  o'  a  half-croon  as  I 
hae  .^" 

"  Perhaps  I  may,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger ;  "  but  thafs  not  to  hinder  me  from 
feelino;  for  others,  nor  from  relievino;  their 
distresses  so  far  as  I  can." 

"  Foolish  doctrine,  young  man,  an'  no' 
for  this  warl.  it's  nae  wunner  that  ye 're 
in  ditficulties.  I  guessed  the  faut  was  yer 
ain,  and  noo  I'm  sure  o't.  Put  up  yer 
halt-croon,  Sir.      I  dinna  tak  chaiity." 

"  1  hope,  however,  I  have  not  offended 
you  by  the  offer  ?     It  was  well  meant." 

"  Ou,  I  daresay — I'm  no  the  least  of- 
fended ;  but  tak  an  auld  man's  advice,  an 
dinna  let  yer  feelins  hae  the  command  o' 
yer  purse  strings,  otherwise  ye  11  never 
hae  muckle  in"t," 

And  the  churlish  old  stone-breaker  re- 
sumed his  labors,  and  again  relapsed  into 
taciturnity.  Silent  as  he  was,  however, 
it  was  evident  that  he  was  busily  thinking, 
although  none  but  himself  could  possibly 
tell  what  was  the  subject  of  his  thoughts  ; 
but  this  soon  discovered  itself.  After  a 
short  time,  he  again  spoke — 

"  What  may  the  nature  an'  cause  o'  yer 
defeeculties  be,  young  man,  an'  I  may 
speer  .^"  he  said — "and  I  fanc}^  I  may, 
since  ye  hae  been  sae  far  free  on  the  sub- 
ject o'  yer  ain  accord." 

"  That's  soon  told,"  replied  the  stran- 


ger. "  Three  years  ago,  an  aunt,  with 
whom  I  was  an  especial  favorite,  left  me 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  With  this 
sum  I  set  up  in  business  in  Edinburgh  in 
the  ironmongery  line,  to  which  I  was  bred. 
My  little  trade  prospered,  and  gradually 
attained  such  an  extent  that  I  found  1 
could  not  do  without  an  efficient  assistant, 
who  should  look  after  the  shop  while  1  was 
out  on  the  necessary  calls  of  business.  In 
this  predicament  1  bethought  me  of  my 
brother,  who  was  a  year  older  than  myself, 
and  accordingly  sent  for  him  to  Selkirk- 
shire, where  he  resided  with  our  father, 
assisting  him  in  his  small  farming  opera- 
tions ;  this  being  the  business  of  the  lat- 
ter. My  brother  came ;  and,  for  some 
time,  was  everything  I  could  have  wished 
— sober,  regular,  and  attentive  ;  and  we 
thus  got  on  swimmingly.  This,  however, 
was  a  state  of  matters  which  was  not  long 
to  continue.  When  my  brother  had  about 
completed  a  year  with  me,  I  began  to  per- 
ceive a  gradual  falling  off  in  his  anxiety 
about  the  interests  of  our  little  business. 
I  remonstrated  with  him  on  one  or  two  oc- 
casions of  palpable  neglect ;  but  this, 
instead  of  inducing  him  to  greater  vigi- 
lance, had  the  effect  only  of  rendering 
him  more  and  more  careless.  But  1  did 
not  then  know  the  worst.  I  did  not  then 
know  that,  in  place  of  aiding,  he  was  rob- 
bing me.  This  was  the  truth,  however. 
He  had  formed  an  infamous  connection 
with  a  woman  of  disreputable  character, 
and  the  consequence  was  the  adoption  of 
a  regular  system  of  plunder  on  my  little 
property,  to  answer  the  calls  which  she 
was  constantly  making  on  my  unfortunate 
relative, 

"  About  this  time  I  took  ill,  and,  not 
suspecting  the  integrity  of  my  brother, 
although  aware  of  his  carelessness,  I  did 
not  hesitate  to  trust  him  with  the  entire 
conduct  of  my  affairs.  Indeed,  1  could 
not  help  myself  in  this  particular ;  he 
best  knowing  my  business,  and  being,  be- 
sides, the  natural  substitute  for  myself  in 
such   a   case.     For    three   months  was  I 


278 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDER.S. 


confined,  unable   to   leave  my  own  room  ;  j 
and,  when  I  did  com3  out,  I  found  myself  j 
a  ruined  man.     In  this  time,  ray  brother  j 
had  appropriated   almost   every  farthing  j 
that  had  been  drawn  to  his  own  purposes  ;  j 
and  had,  moreover,  done  the  same  by  some 
of  my  largest    and    best    outstanding   ac- 
counts ;  and,  to  sum  up  all,  he  had  fled,  I 
knew  not  whither,  on  the  day  previous  to 
that  on  which  1  made  my  fiist  appearance 
in  my  shop  after  my  recovery.     That  is 
about  ten  days  since  *' 

"  Did  the  rascal  harry  ye  oot  an'  ott  ?" 
here  interposed  the  old  stone -breaker, 
kuappino-  away  with  great  earnestness. 

"  No,  there  was  a  little  on  which  he 
could  not  lay  his  hands— some  consider- 
able accounts  which  are  payable  only 
yearly ;  there  was  also  some  stock  in  the 
shop  ;  but  these,  of  course,  are  now  the 
prope-ty  of  my  creditors." 

''  But  could  ye  no  get  a  settlement  wi' 
them,  an'  go  on  .'"  inquired  the  other,  still 
knapping  away  assiduously.  "  I'm  sure 
if  you  stated  your  case,  your  creditors 
wadna  be  owre  hard  on  ye." 

"  Perhaps  they  might  not ;  but  there  is 
one  ciicumstance  that  puts  it  out  of  my 
powjr  to  make  any  attempt  at  arrange-  j 
ment.  There  is  one  bill  of  fifty  pounds,  > 
due  to  a  Sheffi  Id  house,  on  which  dili-  j 
gence  has  been  raised,  and  on  which  I  am  ! 
threatened  with  instant  incarceration.  In  ! 
truth,  it  is  this  proceeding  that  has  j 
brought  me  here  so  ea.ly  this  morning,  j 
I  expected  to  have  been  taken  in  my  bed,  } 
as  the  charge  was  out  yesterday,  and  1  am  j 
here  to  ke;  p  out  of  the  way  of  the  messen-  I 
gers.  I  am  thus  deprived  of  the  power  i 
of  helping  myself,  or  taking  any  steps  to-  j 
wards  the  adjustment  of  my  affairs."  j 

'*  An'  ould  ye  do  any  guid,  think  ye,  { 
if  that  debt  war  paid,  or  in  some  way  ar-  j 
raug:)d  r"  inquired  the  other.  j 

'^  1  think  I  could,"  said  the  party  ques- 
tioned.    "  My  good  outstanding  debts  are  i 
yet   considerable,  and   so   is   the  stock  in  | 
the  shop  ;  so  that,  had  a  little   time  been  j 
allowed  me,  1  could  have  got  round.     But  ! 


all  that  is  knocked  on  the  head,  by  the 
impending  diligence  against  me.  That 
settles  the  matter  at  once,  by  depriving 
me  of  the  necessary  liberty  to  go  about 
my  aflf,j.irs." 

"  It's  a  pity,"  said  the  man,  drily. 
"  VVha's  the  man  o'  business  in  Edinburgh 
that  thae  Sheffield  folk  hae  employed  to 
prosecute  ye.      What  ca'  ye  him  .^" 

"  Mr.  Lano;rido;e." 

"  Ou  ay,  I  hae  heard  o'  him.  An'  will 
he  no  gie  ye  ony  indulgence  I'' 

"  He  cannot.  His  instructions  are  im- 
perative, otherwise  he  would,  I  am  con- 
vinced ;  for  he  is  an  excellent  sort  of  man, 
and  knows  all  about  me  and  my  affairs. 
Indeed,  so  willing  was  he  to  have  assisted 
me,  that,  when  the  bill  was  first  put  into 
his  hands,  he  wrote  to  his  clients,  strongly 
recommending  lenient  measures,  and  bear- 
ing testimony,  on  his  own  knowledge,  to 
the  hardship  of  my  case  ;  but  their  reply 
was  brief  and  peremptory.  It  was  to 
proceed  against  me  instantly,  and  threat- 
enins:  him  with  the  loss  of  their  business 
if  he  did  not.  For  this  uncompromising 
severity  they  assigned  as  a  reason,  their 
having  been  lately  '  taken  in,'  as  they  ex- 
pressed it,  to  a  large  extent,  by  a  number 
of  their  Scotch  customers.  So  Mr.  Lanij- 
rid^e  had  no  alternative  but  to  do  his 
duty,  and  let  matters  take  their  course." 

"  True,"  replied  the  monosyllabic  stone- 
breaker.  It  was  all  he  said,  or,  if  he  had 
intended  to  say  more,  which,  however,  is 
not  probable,  no  opportunity  was  afforded 
him  ;  for  at  this  moment  three  laboring 
men  of  his  acquaintance,  who  were  on 
their  way  to  their  work,  came  up  and  be- 
gan conversing.  On  this  interruption 
taking  place,  the  young  man  rose,  wished 
him  a  good  morning  which  was  merely  re- 
plied to  by  a  slight  nod,  and  went  his  way. 

At  this  point  in  our  story,  we  change 
the  scene  to  the  writing  chambers  of  Mr. 
Langridge,  and  the  time  we  advance  to 
the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  our  tale 
opens. 

It  will  surprise  the  reader  to  find  our 


THi^   STONE-BRtiAKER. 


279 


old  stone-breaker,  still  wearing  the  patch- 
ed and  thread-bare  clothes,  the  battered 
and  torn  hat,  and  the  coarse,  strong  shoes, 
which  had  never  rejoiced  in  the  contact  of 
blacking  brush,  in  which  he  prosecuted 
his  daily  labors,  ringing  the  door-bell  of 
Mr.  Langridge's  house,  about  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening.  It  will  still  more  surprise 
him,  perhaps,  to  find  him  received,  not- 
withstanding the  homeliness,  we  might  have 
said  wretchedness,  of  his  appearance,  by 
Mr.  Langiidge  himself,  with  great  courte- 
sy, and  even  with  a  slight  air  of  de- 
ference. 

On  his  entering  the  apartment  in  which 
that  gentleman  was,  the  latter  immediately 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  advanced,  with  ex- 
tended hand,  towards  him. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Lumsden,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  how  do  you  do  ?  I  hope  I  see  you  well. 
Come,  my  dear  sir,  take  a  chair."  And 
he  ran  with  eager  civility  for  the  conveni- 
ence he  named,  and  placed  it  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  his  visiter. 

When  the  old  man  was  seated — 

'^  Well,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Lang- 
ridgs,  "  1  am  sorry  to  say  that  your  rents 
have  not  come  so  well  in  this  last  half  year 
as  usual.  We  are  considerably  short." 
And  the  man  of  business  hurried  to  a 
large  green  painted  tin  box,  that  stood 
amongst  some  others  on  a  shelf,  and  bore 
on  its  front  the  name  of  Lumsden,  and 
from  this  drew  forth  what  appeared  to  be 
a  list  or  rent-roll,  which  he  spread  out  on 
the  table.  "  We  are  considerably  short," 
he  said.  "  There's  six  or  eight  of  your 
folks  who  have  paid  nothing  yet,  and  as 
many  more  who  have  made  only  partial 
payments." 

''  Ay,"  said  the  man,  crustily,  "  what's 
the  meanin  o'  that  ?  Ye  maun  just  screw 
them  up,  xMr.  Langridge  ;  for  I  canna  want 
my  siller,  and  1  winna  want  it.  Hao  thae 
folk,  Thamsons,  paid  yet?" 

"  Not  a  shilling  more  than  you  know 
of,"  replied  Mr.   Langridge. 

"  Weel  then,  Mr.  Langridge,  ye  maun 
just  tak   the  necessary  steps  to   recover ; 


for  I'm  determined  to  hae  my  rent.  I'm 
no  gaun  to  alloo  myself  to  be  ruined  this 
way.  They  wadna  leave  me  a  sark  to  my 
back,  if  I  wad  let  them.  Ye  maun  just 
sequestrate,  Mr.  Langridge — ye  maun  just 
sequestrate,  an'  we'll  help  oorsels  to  pay- 
ment, since  they  winna  help  us." 

"  Oh,  surely,  surely,  my  dear  sir.  All 
fair  and  right.  But  1  would  just  mention 
to  you,  that  though,  latterly,  they  have 
been  dilatory  payers — I  would  say,  shame- 
fully so  — they  are  yet  decent,  honest,  well- 
meaning  people,  these  Thomsons  ;  and 
that,  moreover,  there  is  some  reason  for 
their  having  been  so  remiss  of  late,  although 
it  is,  certainly,  none  whatever,  why  you 
should  want  your  rent." 

"  No,  I  fancy  no,''  here  interposed  the 
other,  with  a  triumphant  chuckle. 

"  No,  certainly  not/'  went  on  Mr. 
Lano;ridn;e,  who  seemed  to  know  well  how 
to  manage  his  eccentric  client ;  "  but  only, 
I  would  just  mention  to  you,  that  the  rea- 
son of  the  dilatoriness  of  the  Thomsons,  is 
the  husband's  having  been  unable,  from 
illness,  to  work  for  the  last  three  months, 
and  that,  in  that  time,  they  have  also  lost 
no  less  than  two  children.  It  is  rather  a 
piteous  case." 

"  An'  what  hae  I  to  do  wi'  a'  that  .^" 
exclaimed  the  other,  impatiently.  "  What 
hae  I  to  do  wi'  a'  that,  I  wad  like  to  ken  } 
Am  I  to  be  ca'ed  on  to  relieve  a'  the  dis- 
tress in  the  world  r  That  wad  be  a  bonny 
set  o't.  Am  I  to  be  robbed  o'  my  richts 
that  others  may  be  at  ease  }  That  I  win- 
na, I  warrant  you.  See  that  ye  recover 
me  thae  folks'  arrears,  Mr.  Langridge,  by 
hook  or  by  crook,  and  that  immediately, 
though  ye  shouldna  leave  them  a  stool  to 
sit  upon.    That's  my  instructions  to  you.'''* 

"  And  they  shall  be  obeyed,  Mr.  Lums- 
den," replied  the  man  of  business — 
"  obeyed  to  the  letter.  I  merely  men- 
tioned the  circumstance  to  you  in  order 
that  you  might  be  fully  apprized  of  every- 
thing relating  to  your  tenants,  which  it  is 
proper  you  should  know." 

''  Weel,  weel,  but  there's  nae  use  in 


280 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


troublin  me  wi'  thae  stories.  1  dinna  want 
to  be  plagued  wi'  folk  makin  puir  mouths. 
There's  aje  a  design  on  ane  s  pouch  be- 
low't.  By  the  by,  Mr.  Langridge,"  conti- 
nued he,  after  a  momentary  pause,  *'  hae 
ye  a  young  chield  o'  an  ironmonger  in 
your  hauns  enow  about  some  bill  or  anither 
that  he  canna  pay." 

"  The  name  .^"  inquired  Mr.  Langridge, 
musingly. 

^'  Troth  that  I  canna  tell  you  ;  for  1 
never  heard  it,  and  forgot  to  speer." 

"  Let  me  see — oh,  ay — you  will  mean, 
I  dare  say,  a  young  man  of  the  name  of 
John  Reid,  poor  fellow  I" 

"  Very  likely,"  said  the  client.  "Is 
he  a  young  man,  an  airnmonger  to  busi- 
ness, and  hae  ye  diligence  against  him 
'enow  on  a  fifty  pound  bill,  due  to  a  Shef- 
field hoose  .^" 

"  The  same,"  replied  Mr.  Langridge. 
"  These  are  exactly  the  circumstances. 
How  came  you,  Mr.  Lumsden,"  he  added, 
smilingly,  "to  be  so  well  informed  of 
them  ?" 

"  ril  maybe  explain  that  afterwards  ; 
but,  in  the  meantime,  will  ye  tell  me  what 
sort  o'  a  lad  this  Mr.  Reid  is  ■?  Was  he  a 
decent  weel  doin  young  man  .^" 

"  Remarkably  so,"  replied  Mr.  Lano-- 
ridge,  "  remarkably  so,  Mr.  Lumsden.  I 
can  answer  for  that  ;  for  1  have  known 
him  now  for  a  good  while,  and  have  had 
many  opportunities  of  estimating  his  cha- 
racter." 

"  Then  hoo  cam  he  into  his  present  dif- 
ficulties ?" 

"  Through  the  misconduct  of  a  brother 
— entirely  through  the  misconduct  of  a 
brother."  And  Mr.  Langridge  proceded 
to  give  precisely  the  same  account  of  the 
young  man's  misfortunes,  and  of  the  pre- 
sent state  of  his  affairs,  that  he  himself 
had  given  to  the  old  stone-breaker,  as  al- 
ready detailed  to  the  reader.  When  he 
had  concluded — 

"  It  seems  to  me  rather  a  hard  sort  o' 
case,"  said  the  client.  "  But  could  ye  no 
help  him  a  wee  on  the  score  o'  lenity .?" 


"  1  would  willingly  do  it  if  I  could  ;  but 
it's  not  in  ray  power.  My  instruction-  are 
peremptory.  I  dare  not  do  it  but  with  a 
certainty  of  losing  the  business  of  the  pur- 
suers, the  best  clients  1  have." 

"  Naething,  then,  '11  do  but  payin  the 
siller,  I  suppose  .^"  said  the  other. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  I  fear.  My  clients 
seem  quite  determined.  They  are  enraged 
at  some  smart  losses  which  they  have  late- 
ly sustained  in  Scotland,  and  will  give  no 
quarter." 

"  Then  I  suppose  if  they  war  paid, 
they  would  be  satisfied,"  said  the  stone- 
breaker. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Mr.  Lumsden,  no  doubt 
of //la^,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Langridge,  laugh- 
in»;.  "  That  would  settle  the  business  at 
once." 

"  I  fancy  sae,"  said  the  other,  musing- 
ly. Then,  after  a  pause — "  An'  think  ye 
the  lad  wad  get  on  if  this  stane  war  taen 
frae  aboot  his  neck  .^" 

"  1  have  no  doubt  of  it — not  th«  least," 
replied  Mr.  Langridge,  "  for  I  have  every 
confidence  in  the  young  man's  industry 
and  uprightness  of  principle.  But  he  has 
no  friend  to  back  him,  poor  fellow  ;  no  one 
to  help  him  out  of  the  scrape." 

"  Ye  canna  be  quite  sure  o'  that,  Mr. 
Langridge,"  said  the  old  man.  "  What 
if  1  hae  taen  a  fancy  to  help  him  myself .'" 

"You,  Mr.  Lumsden! — you  !"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Langridge,  in  great  surprise. 
"  What  motive  on  earth  can  you  have  for 
assisting  him  .^" 

"  I  didna  say  that  I  mean  to  assist  him 
— I  only  asked  ye,  what  if  I  took  a  fancy 
to  do't .?" 

"  Why,  to  that  I  can  only  say  that,  if 
3^ou  have,  he  is  all  right,  and  will  get  his 
head  above  water  yet.  But  you  surprise 
me,  Mr.  Lumsden,  by  this  interest  in 
Reid.     May  1  ask  how  it  comes  about  .-" 

"  I'll  tell  you  a'  that  presently,  but  I'll 
first  tell  you  that  I  do  mean  to  assist  the 
young  man  in  his  straits.  Pll  advance 
the  money  to  pay  that  bill  for  him.  Will 
ye  sec  to  that,  then,  Mr.  Langridge  ?   Put 


THE  STONE-BREAKER. 


281 


1113  doon  for  the  amount  oot  o'  the  funds 
in  jour  hauns,  and  stay  further  proceed- 
ins." 

^Tr  Langridge  could  not  express  the 
su.piise  he  felt  on  this  extraordinary  inti- 
mation from  a  man  who,  although  there 
were  some  good  points  in  his  cliaracter, 
notwithstanding  of  the  outward  crust  of 
chui-lishness  in  which  it  was  encased,  he 
never  believed  capable  of  any  very  striking 
act  of  generosity.  Mr.  Langridge,  we 
say,  could  not  express  the  surprise  with 
which  this  unlooked  for  instance  of  that 
quality  in  Mr.  Lumsden  inspired,  nor  did 
he  attempt  it  ;  for  he  justly  considered 
that  such  expression  would  be  off  nsive  to 
th  i  old  man,  as  implying  a  belief  that  he 
had  been  deemed  incapable  of  doing  a  be- 
nevolent thing.  Mr.  Langridge,  therefore, 
kept  his  feelings,  on  the  occasion,  to  him- 
self and  contented  himself  with  promising 
compliance,  and  venturing  a  muttered 
compliment  or  two,  which,  however,  were 
uni;i"'iciously  enough  received,  on  the  old 
man's  generosity. 

"  But  whar's  the  young  man  to  be  fand .?" 
inquired  the  latter. 

'•  Why,  that  I  cannot  well  tell  you,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Langridge ;  "  for  I  was  inform- 
ed, in  the  course  of  the  day,  by  the  mes- 
sengers whom  I  employed  to  apprehend 
him,  that  he  had  left  his  lodging  early  in 
the  morning,  no  doubt  in  order  to  avoid 
them,  and  they  could  not  ascertain  where 
he  had  gone  to." 

'■  Humph,  that's  awkward,"  replied  the 
client.     "  I  wad  like  to  find  him." 

"  1  fear  that  will  be  difficult,"  replied 
Mr.  Langridge  ;  *'  but  I  will  call  off  the 
blood-hounds  in  the  meantime,  and  termi- 
nate proceedings. 

"  Ay  ;  do  sae,  do  sae.  But  can  we  no 
get  baud  o'  the  lad  ony  way  .^" 

At  this  moment,  a  rap  at  the  door  of 
the  apartment  in  which  was  Mr.  Langridge 
and  his  client,  interrupted  further  conver- 
sation on  the  subject. 

'   Come  in,"  exclaimed  the  former. 

The   door   opened,  and   in  walked  two 


messengers,  with  Reid  a  prisoner  between 
them.  We  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  con- 
ceive the  latter's  surprise,  on  beholding 
bis  acquaintance  of  the  morning,  the  old 
stone-breaker,  seated  in  an  arm-chair  in 
Mr.  Lansjrido-e's  writins;  chamber.  But 
while  he  looked  this  surprise,  he  also 
seemed  to  feel  acutely  the  humiliation  of 
his  position.  After  a  nod  of  recognition, 
he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile,  and 
addressinfr  himself  to  the  old  man — 

"  You  see  they  have  got  me  after  all, 
my  friend.  But  it  was  my  own  doing.  On 
reflection  I  saw  no  use  in  endeavoring  to 
avoid  them,  and  gave  myself  up,  at  least 
threw  myself  in  their  way,  in  order  to  en- 
counter the  worst  at  once,  and  be  done 
with  it." 

"  I  dare  say  ye  was  richt,  after  a',"  re- 
plied the  stone-breaker  ;  "  it  was  the  best 
way.  Mr.  Langridge,"  he  added,  and  now 
rising  from  his  seat,  "  wad  ye  speak  wi' 
me  for  a  minnit,  in  another  room  .'" 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Lumsden,"  replied 
Mr.  Langridge. 

"  Will  we  proceed  with  the  prisoner  ?" 
inquired  one  of  the  messengers. 

*'  No,  remain  where  you  are  a  moment, 
till  I  return  ;"  and  Mr.  Langridge  led  the 
way  out  of  the  apartment,  followed  by  the 
old  stone-breaker.  When  they  had  reach- 
ed another  room,  and  the  door  had  been 
secured — 

"  Noo,  Mr.  Langridge,  anent  what  I 
was  speaking  to  ye  about  regarding  this 
young  man  wha  has  come  in  sae  curiously 
upon  us,  juist  whan  we  were  wanting  him 
— I  dinna  care  to  be  seen  in  the  matter, 
sae  ye  maun  juist  manage 't  for  me  your- 
sel." 

"  Had  ye  not  better  enjoy  the  satisfac- 
tion of  your  own  good  deed  in  person,  Mr. 
Lumsden,  by  telling  Mr.  RM  of  the  im- 
portant service  you  i,.tend  doing  him." 

"  ril  do  naething  o'  the  kind,"  replied 
the  old  stone  breaker,  testily.  "  I  dinna 
want  to  be  bothered  wi't.  Sae  juist  pay 
ye  his  bill  and  charges,  Mr.  Langridge, 
an'  keep  an  ee  on  his  proceedins   after- 


282 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


wards,  an'  let  me  ken  frae  time  to   time 
boo  he's  gettin  on." 

With  thes3  instructions  Mr.  Langridge 
promised  compliance  ;  and,  on  his  having 
done  so,  the  stone-breaker  proposed  to 
depart ;  but,  just  as  he  was  about  doing 
so,  he  turned  suddenly  round  to  his  man 
of  business,  and  said — 

''  About  the  Tamsons,  Mr.  Langridge, 
ye  needna,  for  a  wee  while,  tak  thae  steps 
again  th3m  that  I  was  speakin  aboot.  Let 
them  alane  a  wee  till  they  get  roun  a 
bit." 

"  I'll  do  so,  Mr.  Lumsden,"  replied  the 
worthy  writer,  who,  the  reader  will  ob- 
serve, had  accomplished  his  generous  pur- 
pose dexterously.  He  knew  his  man,  and 
acted  accordingly. 

"  What's  their  arrears,  again  .^"  in- 
quired the  other. 

'*  Half-a  year's  rent— ^£3  17s.,"  replied 
Mr.  Langridge. 

"  Ay,  it\s  a  heap  o'  siller.     No  to  be 
fan  at  every  dyke  side.    An'  then,  there's  ; 
this  half  year  rinning   on,   an'  very  near 
due.     That'll  mak — hoo  much  .^" 

"  Just  £7  14s.  exactly,  Mr.  Lumsden." 

"  Ay,  exactly,"  replied  the  latter,  who 
had  been  making  a  mental  calculation  of 
the  amount,  and  had  arrived,  although 
more  slowly  than  his  experienced  lawyer, 
at  the  same  result.  "  A  serious  soom," 
added  the  client. 

"  No  trifle,  indeed,  Mr.  Lumsden," 
said  Mr.  Langridge ;  "  but  it's  safe 
enough.     They're  honest  people." 

"  Ye're  aye  harpin  on  that  string,"  re- 
plied the  stone-breaker,  surlily  ;  "  but 
what  signifies  their  honesty  to  me  if  they'll 
no  pay  me  my  rent.^'' 

"  True,  very  true,"  said  the  law  agent. 
"  That's  the  only  practical  honesty." 

''  See  you  an'  get  the  arrears,  at  ony 
rate,  oot  o'  them,  if  ye  can,  Mr.  Lang- 
ridge ;  an'  if  ye  canna,  I  suppose  we 
maun  juist  want  them.  Ye  needna  push 
owre  hard  for  them  either,  since  they're  in 
the  state  ye  say.  But  ye'll  surely  mak  the 
present   half  year   oot   o'  them.      That 


maun  be  paid.  Mind  that^  at  ony  rate, 
maun  be  paid,  Mr.  Lansrridije."'  And 
saying  this,  he  placed  his  old  tattered  hat, 
which  he  had  hitherto  held  in  his  hand,  on 
his  head,  and  left  the  house. 

On  his  departure,  Mr.  Langridge  hastily 
entered  the  apartment  in  which  he  had 
left  the  messengers  with  their  prisoner. 

'*  We're  just  waiting  marching  orders, 
Mr.  Langridge,"  said  the  latter,  on  his 
entering,  and  making  an  attempt  at  play- 
fulness, with  which  his  spirit  but  ill  ac- 
corded. "  My  friends  here  are  getting 
tired  of  their  charge,  and  anxious  to  be 
relieved  of  him." 

"  Are  they  so,  Mr.  Reid  V  replied  Mr. 
Langridge,  smiling.  "  Why  then,  we  had 
best  relieve  them  at  once."  Then  turning 
to  the  principal  officer — "  Quit  your  pri- 
soner. Maxwell — the  debt  is  settled  Mr. 
Reid,  you  are  at  liberty." 

The  blood  rushed  to  poor  Reid's  face, 
and  then  withdrew,  leaving  it  as  pale  as 
death,  and  yet  he  could  express  no  part  of 
the  feelings  which  caused  these  violent 
alternations.     At  length — 

"  Mr.  Langridge,"  he  said,  "  what  is 
the  meaning  of  this }  How  do  I  come  to 
be  liberated  V 

"  By  the  simplest  and  most  effectual  of 
all  processes,  Mr.  Reid,"  replied  the 
worthy  writer,  smiling  ;  "  by  the  payment 
of  the  debt." 

"  But  /  have  not  paid  the  debt,  Mr. 
Langridge.     I  could  not  pay  the  debt." 

"  No  ;  but  somebody  else  might.  The 
short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  Mr.  Reid.  that 
a  friend  has  come  forward  and  settled  the 
claim  on  which  diligence  was  raised 
against  you.  The  bill,  with  interest  and 
all  expenses,  is  paid,  and  you  are  again  a 
free  man." 

Again  overwhelmed  by  his  feelings, 
which  were  a  thousand  times  more  elo- 
quently expressed  by  a  flood  of  silent 
tears  than  they  could  have  been  by  tlie 
most  carefully  rounded  periods,  it  was 
some  time  before  the  young  man  could 
pursue  the  conversation,  or  ask  for  the 


THE  STONE-BREAKER. 


283 


further  information  which  he  yet  intensely 
longed  to  possess.  On  recovering  from 
the  burst  of  emotion  which  had,  for  the 
moment,  deprived  him  of  the  power  of 
utterance — 

"  And  who^  P^^y?  ^r.  Langridge,  is 
this  friend — this  friend  indeed  ?" 

"  Why,  I  do  not  know  exactly  whether 
I  am  at  liberty  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Reid," 
replied  Mr.  Langridge.  "  The  friend 
you  allude  to  declined  transacting  this 
matter  personally  with  you,  which  seems 
to  imply  that  he  did  not  care  that  you 
should  know  who  he  was ;  yet,  as  he 
certainly  did  not  expressly  forbid  me 
to  disclose  him,  and  as  I  think  it 
but  right  that  you  should  know  to 
whom  you  are  indebted,  I  will  ven- 
ture to  tell  you.  Had  you  some  con- 
versation, at  an  early  hour  this  morning, 
with  an  old  stone-breaker,  on  the  highway 
side,  about  three  or  four  miles  from 
town  .^" 

"  1  had.  The  old  man  was  sitting  here 
when  I  came  in." 

"  The  same.  Well,  what  would  you 
think  if  he  should  have  been  the  friend  in 
question  ?  Would  you  expect,  from  his 
manner,  that  he  w  mid  do  such  a  thing  ? 
or,  from  his  appearance  and  occupation, 
that  he  could  .^"  ^ 

"  Certainly  not — certainly  not.  The 
old  man — the  poor  old  man,  to  whom  I 
offered  half-a-crown — who  works  for  nine- 
pence  a-day — who  never  saw  me  in  his 
life  before  this  morning — who  knows 
nothing  of  me  !  Impossible,  Mr.  Lang- 
ridge— impossible  ;  he  cannot  be  the 
man.      You  do  not  say  that  he  is  .?" 

"  But  I  do  though,  Mr.  Reid,  and  that 
most  distinctly.  It  is  he,  and  no  other,  I 
assure  you,  who  has  done  you  this  friendly 
service." 

"  Then  if  it  be  so,  I  know  not  what  to 
say  to  it,  Mr.  Langridge.  I  can  say  no- 
thing. I  trust,  however,  I  shall  not  be 
found  wanting  on  the  score  of  gratitude. 
I  can  say  no  more.  But  will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  inform  me,  if  you  can,  how  the 


good  man  has  come  to  do  me  so  friendly 
a  service  .?  Who  on  earth,  or  what  is 
he  .?" 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  Mr.  Reid,  and 
I'll  answer  all  your  questions — I'll  tell 
you  all  about  him,"  replied  Mr.  Lang- 
ridge. 

Mr.  Reid  having  complied  with  this  in- 
vitation, the  latter  began  : — 

"  The  history  of  the  old  stone-breaker, 
my  good  sir,  is  a  very  short  and  a  very 
simple  one.  It  contains  no  vicissitude, 
and  to  few,  besides  ourselves,  would  be 
found  possessing  any  particular  interest. 
Your  friend  was,  in  his  youth,  a  soldier, 
and  served,  I  believe,  in  the  American 
war.  At  his  return  home,  on  the  conclu- 
sion of  that  war,  he  was  discharged,  still  a 
young  man,  and  shortly  after  mairied  a 
woman  with  a  fortune  "  (smilingly)  "  of 
some  five-and- twenty  or  thirty  pounds. 
With  this  sum  the  thrifty  pair  purchased 
two  or  three  cows,  and  commenced  the 
business  of  cow-feeders.  They  pros- 
pered ;  for  they  were  both  saving  and  in- 
dustrious, and,  in  time,  realized  a  conside- 
rable sum  of  money,  which  they  went  on 
increasing.  This  they  invested  in  house 
property  from  time  to  time,  till  their  pos- 
sessions of  this  kind  became  very  valua- 
ble. 

"  For  upwards  of  forty  years  they  con- 
tinued in  this  way,  when  Mrs.  Lumsden 
died,  leaving  her  husband  a  lonely  widow- 
er ;  for  they  had  no  children.  On  the 
death  of  the  former,  the  latter,  who  was 
now  an  old  man,  and  unequal  to  conduct- 
ing, alone,  the  business  in  which  his  wife's 
activity  and  industry  had  hitherto  aid3d 
him,  sold  off  his  cows,  and  proposed  to  live  \ 
in  retirement  on  the  rents  of  his  property  ;  | 
and  this  he  did  for  some  time.  Accustom- 
ed, however,  to  a  life  of  constant  labor 
and  exertion,  the  old  man  soon  found  the 
idleness  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself, 
intolerably  irksome.  He  became  misera- 
ble from  a  mere  want  of  something  to  do. 
While  in  this  state  of  ennui,  chancing  on-^ 
day  to    stroll  into   the  country,   (this   is 


284 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


what  he  told  me  himself),  he  saw  some 
laboring  men  knapping  stones  by  the  way- 
side ;  and,  strange  as  the  fancy  may  seem, 
he  was  instantly  struck  with  a  desire  of 
taking  to  this  occupation.  He  did  so, 
and  has,  from  that  day  to  the  present, 
now  upwards  of  ten  years,  pursued  it 
with  as  much  assiduity  as  if  it  was 
his  only  resource  for  a  subsistence.  He 
has,  as  I  already  told  you,  no  family 
of  his  own  ;  neither  has  he,  1  believe,  any 
relation  living  ;  or,  if  there  be,  they  must 
be  very  remote  ;  and,  as  he  strictly  con- 
fines his  expenditure  to  his  daily  earnings 
as  a  stone  breaker — some  ninepence  a- 
day,  I  believe — his  wealth  is  rapidly  in- 
creasing, and  is,  at  this  moment,  no  trifle, 
I  assure  you.  Now,  my  good  sir,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  the  law  agent  of  this 
stiange,  eccentric  person,  and  that  I 
manag-e  all  his  business  for  him,  I  have 
told  you  everything  about  him  that  is 
worth  mentioning." 

''  There  is  just  one  thing,  Mr.  Lang- 
ridge,"  said  Mr.  Reid,  who  had  been  an 
attentive  listener  to  the  tale  just  told 
him,  "  that  wants  explanation  :  can  you 
give  me  the  smallest  shadow  of  a  rea- 
son for  the  part  he  has  acted  towards 
me  ?" 

"  Nay,  there  you  puzzle  me  ;  I  cannot. 
It  appears  as  unaccountable  to  me  as  to 
you,  although  1  have  known  Mr.  Lums- 
don  now  for  upwards  of  fifteen  years." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  him  do  a  thing  of 
this  kind  before  ?" 

'•  Never  ;  and  I  must  say  candidly, 
that,  although  he  is  by  no  means  d3ficient 
in  kindness  of  heart,  notwithstanding  his 
rough  exterior,  I  did  not  believe  him  ca- 
pable of  such  an  act  of  generosity.'' 

"  It  is  an  extraordinary  matter,"  said 
Mr.  Reid  ;  "  and  although  I  can  have  but 
little  right  to  inquire  into  the  ino'ivjs  for 
an  act  by  which  I  am  so  largely  benefited 
— it  seems  ungracious  to  do  so — yet 
would  1  give  a  good  round  sum,  if  1  had 
it  to  spare,  to  know  the  real  cause  of  this 
good  man's  friendship  towards  me." 


"  Why,  that  I  suspect  neither  you  nor 
I  shall  ever  know.  I  question  much,  in- 
deed, if  the  principal  actor  in  this  affair 
himself  could  give  a  reason  for  what  he 
has  done.  It  seems  to  me  just  one  of 
those  odd  and  unaccountable  things  which 
eccentric  men,  like  Mr  Lumsdcn,  will 
sometimes  do  ;  and  with  this  solution 
of  the  mystery,  and  the  benefit  it  has  pro- 
duced to  you,  I  rather  think,  Mr.  Reid, 
you  must  be  content.  I  would,  however, 
add,  in  order  to  redeem  Mr.  Lumsden's 
act  of  generosity  from  the  character  of  a 
mere  whim,  that  your  case  was  one  emi- 
nently calculated  to  excite  any  latent 
feelino;  of  benevolence  which  he  might 
possess  ;  and  that  your  manner  and  ap- 
pearance— no  flattery — are  equally  well 
calculated  to  second  a  claim  so  estab- 
lished. Yourself,  and  your  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances, in  short,  had  chanced  to 
touch  the  right  chord  in  a  right  man's 
breast,  and  hence  the  response  on  which 
we  are  speculating." 

Having  thus  discussed  the  knotty  point 
of  the  old  stone-breaker's  suddan  act  of 
generosity,  Mr.  Langi'idge  invited  Mr. 
Reid  to  put  his  affairs  into  his  ha'ids, 
promising  that  they  should  have  the  ad- 
vantage, on  his  part,  of  something  more 
than  mere  professional  zeal.  This  friendly 
invitation  the  latter  gladly  accepted,  and 
shortly  after  consigned  all  his  business 
matters  to  the  care  of  the  worthy  writer, 
who  exerted  himself  in  behalf  of  his 
client  with  an  efficiency  that  soon  placed 
the  latter  once  more  in  the  way  of  well- 
doing. And  well  he  did  :  having  sub- 
sequently  realized  a  very  handsome  in- 
dependency. In  the  success  of  the  young 
man,  no  one  rojoiced  more  than  the  old 
stone-breaker,  who  frequently  visited  him 
in  his  shop  ;  sometimes  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  him ;  at  others,  to 
purchase  some  of  those  little  articles  of 
ironmongery  which  the  due  preservation 
of  his  dwjlling-house  properly  d.^maud^d. 
Let  us  state,  too,  that,  amongst  his 
purchases,  were    at    different  times,  the 


THE   MISTAKE  RECTIFIED, 


2S5 


hammer-heads  which  he  used  in  his  oc- 
cupation of  stone-breaking. 

In  their  first  transaction  in  this  way, 
there  was  something  curiously  charac- 
teristic of  the  old  man's  peculiarities  of 
temper.  Mr.  Reid,  not  yet  perfectly 
aware  of  these  peculiarities,  declined, 
for  some  time,  putting  any  price  on  a 
couple  of  hammer-heads  which  his  friend 
had  picked  out.  He  would  have  made 
him  a  present  of  them  ;  and  to  the  lat- 
ter's  inquiry  as  to  their  piice,  replied 
evasively,  and  laughing  while  he  spoke, 
that  he  would  tell  him  that  afterwards. 

"  I  tak  nae  credit,  young  man,"  said 
the  stone-breaker  crustily,  "  tell  me  enow 
their  cost."  And  he  pulled  out  a  small 
greasy  leathern  purse,  and  was  undoing 
its  strings,  when  Mr.  Reid  laid  his  hand 
on  his  arm  to  prevent  him,  at  the  same 
time  tellino;  him  that  he  would  do  him  a 
favor  by  accepting  the  hammer-heads  in  a 
present.  "  What  is  such  a  trifle  between 
you  and  me,  Mr.  Lumsden — you  to 
whom  I  owe  everything  .^" 

"  You  owe  me  a  great  deal  mair  than 
ye're  ever  likely  to  pay  me,  at  ony  rate, 
young  man,  if  this  be  the  way  ye  transact 
business,"  replied  the  other,  with  evident 
signs  of  displeasure.  "  Tell  me  the  price 
o'  the  hammer-heads  at  ance,  and  an'  be 
dune  wi't.     I  hae  nae  broo  o'  folk  that 


fling  awa  their  guids  as  ye   seem  inclined 
to  do," 

Mr.  Reid  blushed  at  the  reproof,  but, 
seeing  at  once  how  the  land  lay,  with 
regard  to  his  customer's  temper,  he  now 
plumply  named  the  price  of  the  hammers, 
sevenpence  each. 

"  Sevenpence  !"  exclaimed  the  old 
man.  "  I'll  gie  ye  nae  such  price 
Doonricht  robbery  !  I  can  get  them  as 
guid  in  ony  shop  in  the  toon  for  saxpence 
ha'penny.  If  ye  like  to  tak  that  price  for 
them,  ye  may  hae't.  If  no  ye  can  keep 
them." 

Mr.  Reid,  now  knowing;  his  man  some- 
what  better  than  he  did  at  first,  demurred, 
but  at  length  agreed  to  the  abatement, 
and  the  transaction  was  thus  brought  to  a 
close. 

We  need  hardly  add,  that  the  £50  ad- 
vanced by  the  old  man  to  Mr.  Reid,  were 
subsequently  repaid  ;  but  the  call  is  more 
imperative  on  us  to  state,  that,  on  the  for- 
mer's death,  which  took  place  about  two 
years  after,  the  latter  found  himself  named 
in  his  will  for  a  very  considerable  sum. 
One,  somewhat  larger,  was  bequeathed  by 
the  same  document  to  Mr  Lano-rido-e.  The 
remainder  was  appropriated  to  various 
charities.  And  here,  good  reader,  ends 
the  story  of  the  Stone-Breaker. 


-^<^»-»- 


THE    MISTAKE    RECTIFIED. 


"  Now,"  said  the  traveller,  as  he  wander- 
ed up  one  of  those  retired  Highland  glens, 
which  characterise  and  beautify  the  Gram- 
pian range,  "  I  shall  once  more  visit  my 
dear  father  and  mother  ;  and  my  sister, 
now  woman  grown,  and  what  is  more,  my 
sweet  Helen  M'Donald,  who  used  to  gather 


the  mountain  berries  along  with  me,  and 
pursue  the  little  kids  and  lambs.  Ah, 
Helen  was  only  about  thirteen  years  old 
when  I  left ;  she  will  now  be  eighteen  ; 
a  full  grown  beautiful  woman,  I  have  no 
doubt.  I  wonder  if  old  Andrew,  her  gran*d- 
father,  be  still  living  ;  he  used  to  tell  mo 


286 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


such  tales  of  Prince  Charlie,  and  Preston- 
pi!ns,  and  Culloden,  thatmyhair  yet  almost 
stands  erect  at  the  recoUoction  of  th^m. 
And  then  there  was  Euphemia  M'Gregor, 
hisson\s  wife,  the  mother  of  my  dear  He- 
leu  ;  and  Oscar  and  Fingal,  my  father's 
faithful  attendants  and  servants  :  and  we 
had  such  fun  during  the  long  winter  nights, 
when  the  sheep  were  in  a  place  of  safety, 
and  the  door  was  barred,  and  the  peat-fire 
was  burning  clear,  and  the  very  cat  and 
kittjn  enjoyed  the  cheery  fireside — such 
questions  and  commands,  such  guessing 
arnd  forfeiting,  and  riding  round  the  fire  on 
a  besom,  and  holding  one's  mouth  full  of 
water  to  discharge  on  the  person's  face 
who  should  first  laugh  at  our  grotesque 
g  !Stures  and  looks  :  but  night  is  approach- 
ing whilst  I  linger  by  the  way — my  whole 
heait  heaves  to  behold  once  more  the 
sweet  home  of  my  youth  and  innocence.'" 
Thus  said,  or  thought  aloud,  a  young 
man,  seemingly  about  twenty-two  years  of 
age,  as  he  ascended  Glen and  ap- 
proached the  thatched  sheiling  which  stood 
on  the  margin  of  a  small  mountain  stream, 
which  wended  its  mazes  alons;  the  tortu- 
ous  glen.  He  had  been  five  years,  come 
the  time,  absent  from  his  mountain  home, 
and  had,  during  that  period,  endured  and 
encountered  a  variety  of  fortune.  He  sung 
as  he  went  along — 

•'  A  light  heart  and  a  thin  pair  of  breeches, 
Goes  through  the  world,  brave  boys  !" 

switching  the  bent  and  heather  bells  with 
his  cane,  and  treading  with  a  step  as  elas- 
tic as  was  his  bosom.  At  last,  just  as  the 
sun  was  tinging  with  his  departing  ray  the 
top  of  the  highest  mountain  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, he  turned  the  corner  of  a  pro- 
jecting rock,  and  came  at  once  into  full 
and  distinct  view  of  his  home.  It  was  then 
gray  twilight,  and  objects  began  to  assume 
an  indistinct  appearance.  Walking  by  the 
side  of  the  stream,  as  if  meditating,  there 
appeared  a  figure  wrapped  up  in  a  High- 
land plaid.  It  immediately  struck  the 
young  sailor  that  this  was  his  sister ;  and 


in  order  to  give  her  what  is  called  an 
agreeable  surprise,  he  stepped  aside  unper- 
ceived  by  her,  and  stood  concealed  behind 
a  projecting  cliff,  which  the  stream  had 
stripped  bare  of  soil  in  its  passing  current. 
The  figure  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
then,  sighing  deeply,  uttered  some  sound, 
which  his  ear  could  not  catch.  At  la.st, 
tears  and  sobs  followed,  and  he  heard  the 
words  most  distinctly  pronounced — "  Alas, 
I  can  never  truly  love  him  !  1  shall  be 
the  most  wretched  of  women  !  But  he 
whom  I  loved  as  angels  love — Oh,  he,  my 
own  dear  William  iVrPherson,i8  dead  and 
gone,  and  I  can  never  see  him  more." 

"But  you  can  though,  my  own  dear 
Helen  ;"  and  in  an  instant  he  held  her 
lifeless  and  motionless  in  his  arms.  She 
had  uttered  just  one  awful  scream,  which 
was  re-echo jd  by  the  surrounding  cliflfs, 
and  had  ceased  to  feel  or  know  anything 
connected  with  the  living  woild.  Alas! 
she  was  dead,  and  he  was  distracted.  He 
ran  to  the  house  calling  aloud  for  help  ; 
but  every  one  of  its  inmates,  even  the 
mother  who  bore  him,  flad  from  his  pre- 
sence, uttering  ejaculations,  intimating  the 
greatest  terror  at  his  presence.  In  vain 
did  he  protest  with  tears — I  am  your  son 
and  no  other — I  am  Willie  M'Ph arson, 
your  lost  boy  !  His  words  bore  no  convic- 
tion along  with  them.  A  vaunt,  foul  fiend  ! 
Avaunt,  in  the  name  of  God  and  the  Holy 
Trinity — trouble  me  not — trouble  me  not ; 
my  dear  child  is  in  heaven  ;  and  thou,  foul 
spirit,  art  permitted  for  a  time  to  assume 
his  shape.  His  sister,  too,  was  equally 
incredulous,  and  his  father  had  not  yet 
returned  from  the  hill.  What  was  to  be 
done  ;  Helen  M 'Donald  was  in  all  proba- 
bility dead,  or  dying  helpless  and  alone, 
and  yet  no  one  would  come  to  her  assist- 
ance. At  last,  Oscar  and  Fingal  made 
their  appearance  in  advance  of  his  father  ; 
and  though  they  barked  at  first  upon  his 
naming  them,  they  immediately  ran  up  to 
him  and  jumped  up  upon  his  back,  his 
neck,  his  head,  his  whole  person.  They 
seemed  in  as  much  danger  of  expressing 


THE  MISTAKE  RECTIFIED. 


287 


of  joy  as  poor  Helen  had  been  of  dying  of 
feai'ful  surprise. 

"  Stand  bac ',"  said  the  delighted  and 
beliavino;  father  to  his  wife,  who  absolute- 
ly  clung  to  his  knees  to  prevent  his  ad- 
vance— "  Stand  back,  woman  ;  d'ye  think 
Fiuii;al  and  Oscar  would  caress  the  foul 
fiend  in  that  manner  ?  Na — na — na.  Ha  ! 
ha!  ha!"  And  he  fell  upon  his  son's 
shoulders,  weeping  and  crying  convul- 
sively. 

^'  My  father — my  dear,  dear  father." 

^'  My  son — my  lost,  my  only,  my  re- 
stored son,''  was  the  response. 

But  Helen,  in  an  instant,  brought  the 
whole  party,  consisting  of  father,  mother, 
sister,  and  son,  to  her  aid  :  a  light  was 
procured  and  held  over  her  face  :  her 
bosom  was  bared,  and  rubbed  ;  her  fore- 
head had  water  plentifully  poured  upon  it 
from  the  stream  ;  and,  at  last,  symptoms 
of  returning  life  appeared.  Oscar  and 
Fingal,  in  the  meantime  had  licked  Helen's 
face,  and  neck,  and  shoulders,  all  over  ; 
and  whether  from  any  virtue  in  the  pecu- 
liar touch  of  their  tongues,  or  from  the 
natural  expiry  of  the  trance,  Helen  breath- 
ed heavily — her  bosom  heaved  ;  William 
looked  on  her  cheeks,  and  they  were  flush- 
ed with  red.  In  a  moment  he  had  her  in 
his  arms.  Helen,  for  some  time,  sulFered 
exquisite  bodily  torture  ;  but  was  at  last 
capable  of  having  the  truth  made  gradu- 
ally known  to  her.  She  said  surely  she 
had  been  dreaming,  as  she  had  often  done, 
and  that  she  was  still  surely  asleep,  and 
that  she  would  waken,  at  last,  as  she  had 
done  before,  to  a  dreadful  perception  of  the 
reality.  William  M'Pherson  still  con- 
tinued to  clasp  and  assure  Helen  of  his 
personal  identity.  But  even  when  con- 
vinced of  the  reality  of  William's  presence, 
Helen  did  not  evince  that  degree  of  hap- 
piness which  might  have  been  expected  ; 
she  sat  stupified  and  passive,  and  seemingly 
insensible  to  everything  around  her  ;  her 
mind  was  evidently  wandering  to  a  disa- 
greeable subject.  However,  she  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  return  with  the  family  into 


the  house,  and,  worn  out  and  fatigued,  she 
was  soon  after  put  to  rest  in  an  adjoining 
apartment. 

In  the  meantime,  the  young  sailor  was 
questioned  minutely  respecting  the  reason 
of  his  re-appearance  after  he  had  been  so 
long  reported  and  believed  by  everybody 
to  be  dead. 

Without  repeating  his  answer  in  his  own 
words,  which  were  interlarded  with  sea- 
phrases,  we  may  state,  in  general,  that  it 
was  to  the  following  purpose  : — He  had 
gone  to  Dundee,  with  the  view  of  making 
some  small  purchases  for  the  household, 
when  he  accidentally  fell  in  with  a  recruit- 
ing party,  who  were  beating  up  for  ma- 
rines for  the  fleet,  then  just  returned  from 
the  capture  of  the  Danish  fleet  at  Copen- 
hagen. Inexperienced  as  he  was,  he  was  en- 
ticed into  a  public-house  on  the  shore,  and 
awakened,  after  a  stupor  of  some  hours, 
on  board  a  British  man-of-war.  In  a  few 
hours,  he  was  conveyed  out  to  sea,  along 
with  several  others,  and  was  conveyed  im- 
mediately to  Spithead.  Having  it  ulti- 
mately put  to  his  choice  whether  he  would 
stand  by  a  gun,  or  handle  a  musket  and  a 
sabre,  he  choose  the  former,  and  was 
regularly  entered  as  an  able-bodied  seaman 
on  board  his  Majesty's  ship  the  Victory. 
In  her,  alono;  with  Admiral  Nelson,  he 
sailed  for  the  West  Indies,  and  then  cross- 
ed the  Atlantic,  back  to  the  shores  of 
France.  The  enemy  still  eluding  the 
eagle-eye  of  Lord  Nelson,  he  sailed  for  the 
Mediterranean,  and,  after  various  landings 
and  inquiries,  eame  upon  the  French  fleet, 
moored  closely  inland  on  the  coast  of  Fgypt, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Nile.  He  was  in  the 
dreadful  battle  of  the  Nile,  and  assisted  in 
rescuing  several  who  were  blown  up,  but 
not  killed  in  the  L^ Orient.  After  the  bat- 
tle he  had  promotion,  and  ultimately  prize- 
money,  on  account  of  his  brave  and  hu- 
mane conduct,  and  sailed  again  for  Naples, 
and  latterly  in  quest  of  the  Spanish  fleet 
on  the  coast  of  Spain.  He  was  close  by 
Nelson  when  he  was  shot  by  a  rifleman 
from  the  mast  of  the  ship  with  which  he 


28S 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


had  grappled,  and  saw  the  fellow  who  did 
the  djed   drop   on  the    deck,   bcmg   sliot 
through  the  heart  by  a  marine  on  board  of 
Lord  Nelson's  ship.     After  the  battle,  he 
was  returned  to   Plymouth,  having  been 
wounded  in  the  leg  — a  musket-ball  had 
passed  through  the  flesh,   and  somewhat, 
but  not  greatly,  injured  the  bone.  He  spent 
some  months  in  the  hospital,  and  was  then 
dispatched  to  the  coast  of  France  on  board 
the  Spitfire.     There  he  had  distinguished 
himself  in  cutting  out  and  burning  several 
of  the  enemy's  craft  at   Havre  ;  and  be- 
ing again  wounded,  though  slightly,  in  the 
arm,   ho  was  put   upon  the  pension-list, 
and  allowed  to  dispose  of  himself  till  his 
country  should    again    require    his    ser- 
vic3S.     In  these  circumstances  he  began 
to  think  of  his  home,  and,  with  some  hun- 
dreds of  pounds  in  the  bank,  and  a  pension 
order  of  about  two  shilllings  and  sixpence 
a-day  in  his  pocket,  he  arrived  at  Dundee 
in  a  sailing  vessel,  and  was  on  his  way  to 
his  native  glen  when  the  reader  first  be- 
came acquainted  with  him.     When    this 
narrative  was  finished,  his  father  retired 
for   an  instant,   and  then  appeared  with 
some  papers,  which  he  had  extracted  from 
his  private   depositories.     He  first  read  a 
letter,  which   purported   to   come  from  a 
King's  ofl&cer,  who  si2;ned  himself  William 
Wilson,  and  who  informed  his  afflicted  fa- 
ther that  his  son  had  been  induced  to  go 
on  board  a  King's  ship,  to  see  the  arrange- 
ments which  it  exhibited  ;    but  that,  in 
passing  from  the  small  boat  to  the  deck, 
he  had  missed  a  foot,  and  been  drowned. 
The  letter  was  dated  on  board  the  Spitfire; 
and  mentioned,  likewise,  that  the  ship  was 
under  sailing   orders  for  the  general  ren- 
dezvous at  Spithead.  The  poor  distracted 
parent  had   come   to   Dundee,   but  could 
obtain  no  information   of  his   son — only, 
about  three  months  after,  he  heard  that  a 
dead  body,  severely  mutilated,  had  been 
thrown   out  upon  the   sands   of  St.    An- 
drew's ;  and,   on  account  of  the  state   of 
his  decomposition,  had  immediately  been 
ijiterred  in  Christian  burial  ground.     A 


second  pilgrimag3  to  St.  Andrew's  wis 
undertaken  by  the  father  and  dau^htBr  ; 
but  nothing  satisfactory  was  discovered, 
except  that  the  corps  exhibit3d  marks  of 
having  been  dressed  in  a  bias  and  white 
striped  waistcoat,  which  answered  to  thit 
in  which  he  had  left  Denhead,  his  home 
in  the  Highlands.  After  this  last  discove- 
ry, all  farther  inquiry  ceased,  and  the 
afflicted  family  fulfilled  the  period  of  thJr 
sincere  mourning,  and  things  returned 
nearly  to  their  usual  bearing.  But  when 
father,  and  mother,  and  sister  had  S3em- 
ingly  got  over  the  worst  of  their  gri  jf, 
Helen  M'Donald  still  pined  in  silence  over 
the  recollections  of  her  early  companion  ; 
and  as  she  expanded  into  womanhood,  her 
grief  seemed  to  grow  "  with  her  growth  ;" 
and  her  father  became  extremely  anxious 
to  have  Helen  properly  and  creditably  dis- 
posed of  in  marriage. 

'i'he  son  of  a  small  proprietor  in  the 
neighborhood  had  lately  becorde  laird 
himseP  ;  and,  though  far  exceeding  Helen 
in  years,  having  had  frequent  opportunities 
of  seeing  her,  particularly  at  church,  on 
Sabbath,  he  had  become  enamored  of  so 
much  beauty  and  innocence.  Proposals 
had  been  made  to  the  father,  which  wore 
immediately  accepted ;  and  the  young 
lady  had  been  dealt  with,  as  young  ladi,>s 
in  such  situations  generally  are,  by  argu- 
ments of  interest  and  worldly  comfort,  and 
even  grandeur.  First  impressions  are 
deep — oh,  how  deep  ! — and  Helen  could 
not  yet  entirely  exclude  the  image  of  her 
beloved  William  from  her  recollection. 
Laird  M'Wharry  was  urgent  in  his  suit — 
her  fiither,  whom  she  afi"ectionate^y  loved, 
was  troubled  and  anxious — her  mother,  too, 
pressed  home  upon  her  attention  pruden- 
tial considerations — so,  after  long  delays 
and  many  internal  struggles,  Helen  at  last 
consented  to  become,  but  not  till  so«:ne 
months  afterwards,  Mrs.  or  Lady  iM'Whar- 
ry,  as  the  peasantry  styled  the  laird's 
wife.  It  was  during  her  visit  (previous  to 
her  marriage)  to  M'Wharry,  that  the  in- 
cident took  place  which  thus  connects  our 


h - 


THE  MISTAKE  RECTIFIED. 


289 


narrative,  and  brings  us  up  to  the  point  of 
tini8  when  William  M'Pherson  arrived  at 
Denhead. 

William,  learning  from  Helen,  as  well 
as  from  his  father  and  mother,  how  mat- 
ters were  situated,  suddenly  disappeared, 
and  left  no  means  of  tracing  the  place  of 
his  retreat.  Days,  and  even  weeks  passed, 
but  no  letter  arrived,  and  no  message  came. 
In  the  meantime,  the  day  appointed  for 
the  marriage  approached,  and  Helen  seem- 
ed to  have  made  up  her  mind  to  submit 
to  necessity — at  least,  she  tried  to  look 
cheerful,  and  put  as  good  a  face  upon  it 
as  many  tears,  shed  in  private,  would  per- 
mit. 

Laird  M'Wharry  was  a  true  Highlander 
— he  had  much  of  that  clannish  feeling 
which  is  peculiar  to  the  Celt.  He  was, 
besides,  exceedingly  passionate,  and  had 
more  than  once  got  into  trouble  from 
having  used  hasty  and  unguarded  expres- 
sions. Nay,  he  had  once  been  prosecuted 
in  the  Court  of  Session,  and  damages  had 
been  obtained  to  a  considerable  amount, 
by  one  of'  his  servants,  or  rather  slaves, 
whom  he  had  beat  most  unmercifully.  In 
attending  a  Perth  market,  he  had  occasion 
to  ride  homewards,  after  dark,  with  a 
brother  proprietor,  who  bad  lately  bought 
an  estate  in  his  neighborhood.  This  pro- 
prietor could  not  boast  a  Celtic  name  or 
origin.  He  was  plain  Mr.  Monipenny, 
from  the  town  of  Kirkaldy,  in  Fife.  They 
had  both  been  drinking;  durins;  the  course 
of  the  day,  and  were,  therefore,  more  lia- 
ble to  get  into  some  dispute  or  quarrel. 
M'Wharry  began  by  deprecating  Mr.  Mo- 
nipenny's  horse,  whose  character  the  mas- 
ter supported  with  some  warmth  ;  so,  to 
settle  the  matter,  they  both  set  oiF  at  the 
gallop,  and  the  fire  flashed  from  the  horses' 
heels  as  they  passed  through  Dunkeld. 
Unfortunately  for  Laird  M'Wharry,  how- 
ever, about  a  mile  beyond  the  above  town, 
the  saddle-girth  gave  way,  and  he  came  to 
ihe  ground  head  foremost.  He  was  dead 
when  Mr.  Monipenny  came  up  with  him. 
He  had  suffered  a  concussion  of  the  brain  ; 

VOL.  II  56 


and,  notwithstanding  that  medical  aid  was 
immediately  obtained  from  Dunkeld,  no- 
thing could  be  done. 

Poor  Helen  M'Pherson  really  mourned 
his  fate  ;  for  though  she  had  no  love  for 
him,  she  had  brought  herself  to  think  that 
it  was  her  duty  to  fulfil  her  promise.  But 
where  was  he  whom  her  young  heart  held 
in  its  core  .''  No  one  knew — no  one  could 
tell.  Helen  had  inwardly  resolved  to 
live  single  on  his  account,  even  if  no  fur- 
ther accounts  were  received  of  William 
M'Pherson.  But  her  father,  in  the  mean- 
time, died  of  a  fever  ;  and  her  mother  was 
compelled  to  remove  from  the  farm  to  the 
village  of  Dunkeld,  where,  in  order  to 
support  herself  and  her  lovely  daughter, 
she  set  up  a  little  shop  with  a  small  sum 
which  her  husband  and  she  had  saved,  and 
was  highly  respected  by  all  who  knew  her. 
In  the  meantime,  the  parish  schoolmaster, 
an  excise  officer,  and  a  wealthy  sheep-far- 
mer, all  solicited  Helen's  hand  ;  but  she 
lent  a  deaf  ear  to  all  these  offers,  still 
thinking,  and  speaking,  and  dreaming, 
about  her  William. 

One  day,  when  she  was  standing  at  the 
shop  door,  she  observed  a  crowd  gathered 
about  a  horse  and  gig,  out  of  which  a  per- 
son had  just  been  thrown,  and  was  taken 
up,  as  was  feared,  lifeless.  Helen,  from 
motives  of  humanity,  rushed  into  the  crowd 
to  make  inquiries,  and  saw  the  person  car- 
ried into  an  adjoining  apothecary's  shop  ; 
there  he  was  immediately  bled,  and,  to  the 
infinite  satisfaction  of  all,  had  begun  to 
recover.  The  faci  turned  out  to  be,  that 
he  had  been  stunned  by  the  fall  on  his 
head,  but  no  concussion  or  fracture  had 
taken  place.  The  gentleman,  she  learned, 
had  been  put  to  bed,  but  was  mighty  un- 
ruly, as  he  insisted  upon  pursuing  his 
journey  that  very  evening  into  the  High- 
lands ;  and  a  post-chaise,  with  two  horses, 
and  a  steady  driver,  had  been  brought  to 
the  apothecary's  door,  and  the  traveller 
was  passing  into  it  with  his  head  and  arm 
tied  up,  when  all  at  once  Helen  uttered  a 
scream,  and  stood  trembling  betwixt  him 


290 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


and  the  conveyance.  It  was  her  own 
William,  returned  from  sea — to  which  he 
had  again  fled — making  all  despatch  to 
reach  Denhead,  as  he  had  learned,  on  his 
way  towards  the  Highlands,  the  fate  that 
had  overtaken  the  bridegroom,  Laird 
M'Wharry.  Now,  reader,  you  and  1  part 
— I  can  do  no  more  for  you ;  for,  if  you 
cannot  far  better  conceive,  than  I  can  de- 
scribe what  followed,  you  can  be  no  reader 
of  mine — you  will  never  have  perused  the 
story  at  all.  William  was  now  com- 
fortably   circumstanced,   pensioned,    and 


dismissed  the  service  ;  and  the  last  time  I 
had  a  week's  fishieg  at  Amalrie,  1  spent 
my  evenings  and  nights  under  his  roof. 
He  is  now,  like  myself,  a  gi-andfather  ; 
and  Helen,  though  not  quite  so  young  as 
she  was  some  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  is 
still  in  my  mind  a  perfect  beauty,  and  has 
blessed  her  husband,  during  a  pretty  long 
life,  with  all  that  kind  husbands  can  expect 
or  obtain  by  marriage.  She  has  made 
him  a  happy  father,  and  a  fond,  foolish, 
indulgent  grandpapa. 


DUU  A    DEN; 


OR,  SECOND    THOUGHTS    ARE    BEST. 


I  TOOK  my  way,  a  few  days  ago, 'fishing-rod 
in  hand,  from  Cupar  in  Fife,  by    Dura 
Den,  up  towards  the  healthy  and  seques- 
tered  village  of   Ceres.     Dura  Den  was 
once  romantic  and  secluded.     Its  brawl- 
ing  stream,  which  empties  the  waters  of 
the  upper  bason  into  the  Eden,  leapt  and 
tumbled  over  igneous,  and  penetrated  its 
way   through   aqueous   formations,  till   it 
mingled  into  rejoicing  union  with  the  love- 
ly Eden  immediately  under  the  old  towers 
of  Spottiswood,  and  the  fine  Gothic  church 
of  Dairsie.      This   deep   and   beautifully 
winding  ravine  was  covered   from  rock  to 
rock,  on  each  successively  sunny  side,  by 
trees  of  various  name  and   leaf,  from  the 
scented  sloe  and  hawthorn  up  to  the  hazel, 
the  birch,  and  the  oak.     It  was  a  perfect 
aviary  during  the  spring  months.     A  few 
wild   deer   browsed   amidst   recesses   and 
various  love-smitten  maids  and  men  re- 
paired to  this  retreat,    to    talk    of  many 
things  which  were  only  interesting  to  them- 
flelves.      The    soft   projecting    sandstone 


rocks  had  been  water-run  into  caves  and 
recesses ;  and  in  some  of  these,  report 
had  fixed  the  residence,  for  a  night  at  least, 
of  the  famous  Balfour  of  Burley,  after  the 
affair  of  Magnus  Muir.*  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, to  this,  but  to  a  more  recent  occur- 
rence, that  I  am  now  about  to  solicit  your 
attention,  after,  however,  premising  the 
change  which  has  now  been  wrought  upon 
this  once  rural,  secluded,  romantic,  lovely 
spot.  At  the  very  entrance,  there  stands 
a  bone  mill,  grinding,  with  grating  activity 
and  horrible  crunch,  into  powder  the 
minsiled  bones   of  man  and   beast.     You 

O 

have  scarcely  escaped  from  the  horrible 
jarring  sound  of  the  modern  ogre,  than 
you  come  full  plump  upon  a  spinning-mill, 
with  as  many  windows  as  there  are  days  in 
the  year.  There  it  stands  bestriding  the 
valley  like  a  colossus,  and  commanding  all 


*  A  sword  has  lately  been  discovered  in  one  of 
the  caves,  rusted  and  broken — probably  once  the 
1  sword  of  Burley  !— 19th  Oct.  1839. 


DURA  DEN. 


291 


tlie  collected  energies  of  the  once  pure  and 
solitary  stream.  Bless  me  !  how  it  thun- 
ders :  the  very  rocks  seem  to  shake  under 
the  whirl  of  the  tremendous  machinery  ; 
whilst  at  every  open  window  out  flics  in 
clouds  the  imprisoned  dust  and  stour. 
A  single  door  opens,  and  the  sound  mad- 
dens on  your  ear  into  a  screwing  torture. 
It  shuts  again.  You  are  greatly  relieved 
by  the  compressed  and  imprisoned  horror. 
A  little  further  up  this  once  delighted  den, 
a  pillar  of  smoke  shoots  out  on  the  eye. 
like  an  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius.  This 
is  an  evid3nce  that  (as  in  the  formation  of 
this  globe)  fire  has  been  called  upon  to 
assist  water.  Again  and  again,  another 
and  another  hulking  dirty  erection  fixes  its 
hideous  trail  in  the  lovely  localities,  till 
the  landscape  still  onwards  opens  upon 
green  fields,  all  covered  and  whitened 
over,  not  with  daisies,  but  with  ijaru,  which 
has  just  been  removed  from  the  vitriolic 
vat.  I  had  essayed  here  and  there  to  fish, 
but  had  not  even  a  nibble.  A  little  fac- 
tory urchin,  who  saw  my  mistake,  imme- 
diately accosted  me  with — 

"  Ye  needna  fish  here  about,  sir,  for  the 
fish  are  a'  dead." 

"  What  has  deaded  them,"  said  I. 

"  Oh  !  I  dinna  ken,  except  mayb^  it  is 
the  vitriol — they  dinna  tak  wi'  the  vitriol 
ava." 

"  No  wonder,"  thought  I.  "  I  suspect 
neither  you  nor  1  would  tak  we  el  with  such 
a  beverage."  So  I  at  once  rolled  in  my 
line,  put  up  my  rod,  and  was  on  the  eve  of 
returning,  somewhat  disappointed, from  ray 
forenoon's  ramble,  Avhen  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  an  old  though  fresh  lopi^Qg 
man  in  his  ''  cruda  viridisque  se^ec^iZo^," 
who  was  sitting  on  a  bench  in  tie  sunshine, 
betwixt  the  door  and  the  w^dow  of  one  of 
those  very  neat  and,  <5leanly  cottages, 
which  have  been  elected  for  the  conve- 
nience and  accoivodation  of  the  mill  spin- 
ners, and  wh'-ti,  fi'om  the  name  of  the 
spirited pr<?prietor,  has  been  called"  Yool- 

field." 

^^  James,"  said  the   old  man ;  "  come 


here,  James,  and   tell  me   what's  that  ye 
waur  saying  to  the  gentlemen." 

"  Ou,  I  was  only  tellinghini,  there  waur 
nae  trouts  except  stane  anes*  here." 

in  the  meantime,  I  had  approached  the 
old  man's  seat,  and  thinking  that  he  mo- 
tioned me  to  be  seated,  I  at  once  took  my 
place,  as  if  I  had  been  an  old  acquaintance, 
by  his  side.  It  turned  out  that  he  was 
the  grandfather  of  this  urchin,  who,  in  a 
few  minutes,  reappeared  with  a  face  of 
o-reat  comfort  and  visiorous  health  :  "  causa 
enif  in  aperto  " — he  had  dined. 

"  Ye'll  be  a  stranger  here  aboots,  I  mak 
nae  doubt  .^"  said  the  old  man. 

I  replied  that  1  had  been  so  for  some- 
time past ;  that  I  had  stopped,  on  my  way 
north,  a  day  in  Cupar,  in  order  to  revisit 
this  romantic  retreat ;  but  that  it  was  now 
sadly  changed,  and  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
pursue  my  walk  any  further.  I  miss,  ad- 
ded I,  everything  which  1  expected  to  see  ; 
the  solitude,  the  green  banks,  the  trees, 
the  pure  waters,  the  yellow  trouts,  the  all 
of  innocence  and  nature  by  which  this  den 
was  marked,  ere  these  vile  spinning -jennies 
had  entered,  with  noise,  confusion,  and  de- 
filement in  their  train. 

"  And  so,"  said  the  aged  Nestor,  "  ye 
are  up  in  arms  against  the  late  erections, 
because  ye  canna  get  an  hour  or  twa's 
fishing,  nor  pursue  your  own  fancies  about 
solitude,  and  innocence,  and  tiat !  I  will 
tell  ye,  my  good  sir — for  y«re  but  a  bairn 
in  comparison  wi'  me — that  had  ye  experi- 
enced what  1  hae  experienced,  ye  wad  hae 
ble&sed  the  day  wtich  converted  this  soli- 
tary and  u&ele-s^  den  into  a  source  of  com- 
fortable li»mg  to  hundreds  of  families,  who 
mi2;ht  otherwise  be  starving  at  home,  or 
banished  from  all  that  they  hold  dear,  into 
a  foreign  land." 

"  Grandfather,"  hereupon  said  a  fine 
rosy  girl  about  fourteen,  "  dinner's  ready  ; 
will  ye  come  in,  or  will  I  bring  it  out  to 
you." 

*  Vide  recent  dujcoveries  of  extinct  species  of 
fish  found  in  ihis  den.  "  File  Illustrated." — 
Glasgow,  Joseph  Swan. 


292 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  I  think,"  said  the  ancient  patriarch, 
"  I'll  just  rest  whar  I  am  ;  it's  a  bonny 
sunny  day,  and  the  den  is  a'  loun  and  shel- 
tered ;  just  bring  out  the  broth  and  the 
wee  bit  Irish  stew  here,  and  maybe  this 
gentlemen,  now  tired  wi'  nae  fishing,  will 
no  scorn  to  tak  a  spoonfu'  and  a  bit  alang 
side  o'  a  puir  auld  body." 

I  immediately  assured  my  kind  best 
that  I  had  provisions  in  my  basket,  which 
I  soon  disengaged,  together  wi+h  a  flask 
containing  a  sufficiency  of  old  Nantz.  To 
it,  therefore,  we  set,  exchanging  viands ; 
I  partaking  of  the  excellent  and  savoury 
stew,  and  he  of  a  wee  drap,  only  a  very 
wee  drap  o'  the  brandy.  Like  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  minstrel,  the  soul  of  the  old  yet 
vigorous  Trojan  waxed  strong  within  him  ; 
and  after  having  duly  returned  thanks  to 
the  Giver  of  all  Good,  he  drew  me  close 
to  his  elbow,  and  proceeded  thus  : — "  In- 
deed, sir,  I'm  now  considerably  upwards 
of  eighty  years — the  period  at  which  the 
psalmist  says  the  strength  of  man  is  but 
grief  and  labor  ;  but  I  hae  nae  found  it 
sae,  for  all  my  griefs  and  labors  were  con- 
fined to  the  earlier  part  of  my  life,  and  no 
to  the  latter  day — his  name  be  praised  for 
thg  same.'^  I  instinctively  answered 
"  Amen,"  and  partly  encouraged  by  this, 
and  partly  by  an  additional  puU  at  the 
brandy  fi^sk,  the  old  man  pursued  his  ego- 
tism.    , 

"  Well,  ye  se«,  ye  are  against  spinning- 
jennies  and  large  t«anufactures,  ye  say ; 
but  they  are  the  frien<^s  o'  the  poor,  sir — 
the  blessed  supporters  o.f  thousands  and 
millions  in  these  lands.*  Y<au  shall  hear  •, 
for,  as  you  seem  to  have  time  on  your 
hands,  I  will,  for  your  father's  sake,  (T  had 
made  him  acquainted  with  my  descent 
from  a  worthy  clergyman  in  the  north), 
unfold  to  you  my  whole  history,  and  that 
of  my  children  up  to  this  hour  : — 

'*  My  name,  sir,  is  Donald  Sutherland. 
I  belong  originally  to  the  county  of  that 
name  ;  and  I  was  bred  a  farmer  on  the 

*  Very  ditferent  this  deliverance  Irom  that  of 
Mrs.  TroUope  in  her  "  Factory  Boy," 


estates  of  the  Duchess  of  Sutherland. 
But  there  was  neither  Duke  nor  Duchess 
then,  oh  dear  !" — (Hereupon  the  old  man 
absolutely  cried  ;  having,  however,  check- 
ed himself,  by  observing  that  he  was  an 
old  fool — he  again  proceeded  :) — "  I  had, 
as  I  said,  a  small  sheep-farm,  of  about  one 
thousand  acres,  in  the  western  district  of 
that  county.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  surprised 
at  my  saying  small ;  but,  sir,  when  land  is 
let  at  a  shilling  an  acre,  as  it  was  in  my 
day,  such  a  farm  is  but  small — a  thousand 
shillings,  ye  ken,  is  just  fifty  pounds  o' 
yearly  rent ;  and  that  was  my  rent  at  Ed- 
derachillsy  near  by  Loch  Assynt.  I  am 
now,  as  ye  see,  an  auld  man  and  a  gray  ; 
but  I  was  ance  young,  and  stout,  and  fool- 
ish, too,  nae  doobt.  I  thought  naething 
wad  war  me,  sae  I  just  married  whan  I  was 
a  young  inexperienced  callan  about  nine- 
teen ;  and,  having  got  a  brother  of  ray 
puir  father's  to  be  security  (ye  see  my  puir 
father  was  only  a  hind  on  the  estate  o' 
Sutherland,  and  had  neither  money  nor 
credit),  I  took  my  dear  Jenny  M'Roy 
home  to  no  that  ill  a  bigging — wi'  a  hantel 
o'  blankets,  a  peat-fire,  a  herd  callan,  and 
twa  as  canny  and  sensible  dogs  as  ever 
followed  a  herd  or  turned  a  hirsel.  Aweel, 
ye  ken,  Helen  and  me  war  very  happy,  for 
we  loved  each  other  dearly  ;  we  had  been 
acquainted  frae  the  time  we  could  climb  a 
brae  or  eat  a  cranberry  ;  and  things  went 
on  no  that  ill  ava.  We  had  twa  bairns  in 
the  course  o'  twal  years,  a  lassie  and  a 
fine  lad,  wha  was  drowned,  as  ye  shall 
hear  ;  but,  oh,  my  heart  is  sair  yet  whan 
I  think  o't.  It  was  one  awful  night  in 
the  month  of  January.  A  vessel  had 
stranded  in  Loch  Assynt.  The  men  were 
seen,  throu^^ii^  a  stormy  moonshine,  hang- 
ing to  the  topn^st,  which,  however,  went 
from  side  to  sidb,  ^ith  a  fearful  swing. 
At  every  turn  or  jerk  another  and  another 
human  being  was  plungeH  juto  the  roaring 
foam.  My  son  Archibald,  my  shepherd, 
and  I,  pushed  from  the  shore  in  a  fishino- 
boat,  which  was  lying  high  and  dry— we 
heard  the  fearful  screams  of  perishing  men 


DURA  DEN. 


298 


— WG  rowed  off  at  all  hazards,  but  had  not 
neared  the  vessel  when  our  boat  fairly 
swamped.  We  were  still,  however,  within 
wadicg  depth,  and  with  difficulty  regained 
our  feet  and  the  boat.  We  again  pushed 
hard  from  land,  and  at  last  came  under 
the  lee  of  the  wreck.  My  son  was  young, 
active,  and  daring  ;  and,  in  order  to  as- 
certain how  matters  were,  or  what  re- 
mained of  the  deck,  he  caught  a  rope,  and 
leapt  on  board.  In  an  instant,  a  young 
man,  a  passenger^  with  his  wife  and  child. 
Were  slung,  as  it  were,  miraculously,  on 
board  our  little  boat,  line  waves  went  up 
in  spouting  foam  betwiiJt  the  wreck  and 
the  boat,  and  then  subsiding,  heaved  us 
with  a  tremendous  crash  against  the  side 
of  the  vessel  ;  and  1  remember  no  more, 
till  1  awoke  to  misery,  in  a  kelp  hut  by 
the  sea-shore.  1  found  that  my  son,  with 
the  woman  and  child,  had  perished ;  but 
that  the  husband,  my  shepherd,  and  my- 
self, had  been  cast  ashore,  and  with  diffi- 
culty resuscitated.  My  grief  and  his  mo- 
ther's o-rief  Were  loud  and  severe.  But 
'  what  cannot  be  cured  must  be  endured.' 
Tlie  stranger  was  a  native  of  Fife,  who 
had  been  to  America  on  a  mercantile  spe- 
culation, and  having  married  at  New 
York,  and  become  a  father,  was  on  his 
way  towards  Kirkaldy,  his  native  place, 
when  this  dreadful  accident  took  place. 
He  had  lost  all  his  effacts,  and  some  mo- 
ney in  the  wreck,  and  was  content  to  take 
part  of  my  humble  dwelling  for  a  season. 
In  the  meantime,  my  lease  expired,  and 
another  proprietor  had  arisen,  who  knew 
not  Donald  Sutherland.  The  rent  offered 
by  my  next  and  more  wealthy  neighbor, 
was  far  above  what  I  would  think  of  pro- 
mising, so  1  behoved  to  leave  sweet  Ed- 
derachills,  with  all  its  heath,  and  moss, 
and  muir,  for  a  sea-shore  appointment  in 
the  manufacturing  of  kelp  from  sea  weed 
— at  that  time  a  very  flourishing  employ- 
ment in  the  West  Highlands  in  particular. 
The  stranorer  about  this  time  took  his  de- 
parture,  but  not  without  many  promises 
of  returning  again  to  ^isit  the  grave  of  his 


wife  and  child,  and  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  my  wife,  my  daughter,  and  my- 
self.    For  a  time  the   kelp  concern   did 
pretty   well  ;  we  had   good    and    regular 
payment  for  the  article,  and  an  increasing 
demand ;  and  We  contrived  to  live  at  least 
as  comfortably  as  we  had  done  as   sheep- 
farmers.     But  man  is   always  finding  out 
inventions — a  method  was  devised  of  dis- 
pensing-—by  means  of  a  chemical  discovery 
— without    kelp    entirely  ;    and  we    were 
suddenly  and   entirely  ruined.     It  was  at 
this  period  that  I,  in  a  manner,  cursed^ 
like  you,  the  spirit  of  discovery  and  inven- 
tion.     I    was    disgusted    by    the    change 
which  the  progress  of  science  had  made, 
and  I  did  not  know  how  to  turn  myself  for 
a  bare  subsistence.     In  this  situation  of 
affairs,  my  daitghter   Nelly   within   there 
(pointing  to  the  door)  was   courted  by  a 
neighboring  sheep-farmer's  son,  of  a  some- 
what disreputable  character,  but  of  consi- 
derable reputed  wealth.     This  was  a  sad 
trial  to  us  all  ;  for,   though  the  marriage 
might  have  benefited   us  somewhat  in   a 
Worldly  point  of  view,  we   did  not  like  to 
see   our  blooming  and  virtuotis  child   sa- 
crificed, it  might  be,  to  the  momentary 
feelings  of  a  known  deceiver.   Nelly  could 
not  bear  the  thoughts  of  such  a  union  ; 
and  one  night  she  told  her  lover  as  much. 
In  consequence  of  this  unfortunate  affair, 
we  were  very   soon   after  turned    out   of 
house  and  hold — the  old  farmer  having 
contracted  with  the  proprietor  for  the  huts 
and   steadings  which  had  oQce  been  peo- 
pled with  busy  and  prosperous  hands,  but 
which   now  were    nearly  empty.       Baser 
proposals   than  before  were  made  by  the 
degraded  and  vindictive  young  man  ;  and 
we  set  off,  one  moonlight  night,  across  the 
hills,  for  the  town  of  Dornoch.      We  were 
three   wanderers   in    the  wilderness — my 
wife  Helen,  my  daughter  Nelly,  and  my- 
self.     I  was  still  comparatively  strong,  and 
was  determined  to  work,  but  could  find  no 
employment.     For  days  we  slept  (for  the 
weather  was  fine)  on  the  heath,  and  lived 
on  what  little  of  our  means  which  yet  re- 


294 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


niained.   J  was  resolved,  come  what  might, 
that  1  would  not  beg.   My  wife  and  daugh' 
ter  bore   up   amazingly ;   for   we    trusted 
that  our  God — the  God  of  the  hills  as  well 
as  of  the  valleys — of  the  poor  and  the  out- 
cast as  well  as  of  the  rich  and  provided — 
would  not  forget  us.     I  found  temporary 
work,  at  last,  in  a  stone  quarry,  and  occu- 
pied a  hut  close  upon  the  sea  shore.   This, 
to  us  all,  was  luxury  ;  for  it  was  indepen- 
dence.     Contentment     kltchened     labor, 
and  we   slept  soundly  in  our  poverty  and 
innocence.     But   this,    I   saw,   could  not 
long  continue  ;  my  strength  was  not  equal 
to  this  severe  labor,  to  which  I  was  unac- 
customed;   so   I  persuaded,   not  without 
difficulty,  my  wife  and  daughter  to  accom- 
pany me  to  Canada,  to  which  the   Coun- 
tess of  Sutherland  was  then  offering  a  free 
passage  from  Cromarty  Frith,  in  the  good 
ship   Aurora.     I   should,    however,   have 
mentioned  that,  whilst  residing  at  Dornoch, 
I   had  observed  the   son  of  a  neighboring 
propiistor — a     somewhat     smart-looking 
gentleman — frequently  passing  our  door, 
and  sometimes   conversing  with  my  wife 
and  dauo-hter:  but  I  took  no  notice  of  the 
affair,  as  I   felt  secure  in  the  virtue  and 
prudonce  of  both  parties.     No  proposals, 
honorable  or  otherwise,  were  made  to  my 
daughter,  and   I  conceived  the  matter  to 
be  at  an  end.      On  the  day  of  the  ship's 
sailing,  we  were  all  on  the  quay,  and  ready 
to  embark.     My  wife   and  1  had  entered 
the  boat,  and  were  waiting  for  my  daugh- 
ter, who  had  been  sent  by  us  on  a  message 
to  a  shop.     She  did  not  return  in  time  for 
the  boat  in  which  we  were  conveyed  to 
the  Aurora  ;  but  we  were  told  by  the  sail- 
ors that  she  would  probably  arrive  in  the 
next.     One  boat,   however,   arrived,  but 
our   dear   Nelly  was  not  in  it ;  another 
came,  but  with  it  no   daughter.     Mean- 
time the  ship  was  under  sail,  and  the  cap- 
tain said  he  would  not  lose  the  favorable 
breeze  for  all  the  gii-ls  in  Scotland.     My 
dear  wife  was  inconsolable,  and  I  petition- 
ed hard  to  be  let  out,  even  on  one  of  the 
western   isles;  but   the  weather   was  ex- 


ceedingly stormy,  and  we  kept  as  far  as 
possible  from  land.     '  God,'  said  I  to  my 
grieving  partner,  '  will  protect  Nelly  ;  for 
she  is  good    and   virtuous.     God  can  be 
father  and  mother,  and  more  than  all  that, 
to  those  who  fear  and  obey  him.'     We 
landed   at  Quebec,  and   maintained   our- 
selves for  some  time — I  acting  as  a  kind 
of  shore-porter,  and  my  wife   assisting  in 
assorting  furs  in  a  great  warehouse.     But 
our  means  were  but  small ;  so  we  bethought 
us  of  removing  more  inland.      So  we  ar- 
rived ultimately  at  Montreal,  where  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  a  distant 
relation    in    pretty   good    circumstances. 
He  had  Ions;  been  ensfa^ed  in  a  mercantile 
house,  and  had  now  obtained  a  consider- 
able and  a  profitable  share  in  it.     He  im- 
mediately found  employment  for  me  as  a 
warehouse-servant,  whilst  my  wife  washed 
and  dressed  for  himself  and  a  few  friends. 
Year  after  year  passed  by,  and   many  a 
letter   did  we  write   to   Edderachills   and 
Dornoch  ;    but  we    received   no    answer. 
At  last,  it  pleased  God  to  remove  my  dear 
Helen   by  death  ;  and  my  friend  having 
resolved  to  remove  to  Kirkaldy,  his  native 
place,  I  took  shipping  with  him  in  the  ship 
St.  John,  and  we  arrived   off  the   Land's 
End  in  safety.     But  it  came  on  to  blow 
dreadfully  from  the  north  and  the  east,  as 
we  rounded  the  island  ;    and,   one    dark 
night  in  the  month  of  November,  we  struck 
upon  a  rock  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ely. 
The  ship  fired  signals   of  distress,  and  a 
boat  came  out,  which  saved  the  passengers 
and  crew  ;  but  the  ship  and  cargo  were 
lost.     What  was  my  surprise,  upon  arriv- 
ing at  the  inn,  to  find,  in  the   person  of 
one    of  the    boatmen,    the    shipwrecked 
stranger,  Sam  Rogers,  who  had  lodged  so 
long  with  us  at  Edderachills.      He  insisted 
upon    my    immediately    repairing    to    his 
cabin,  as  he  termed  it,  on  the  shore,  with 
the  view  of  introducing  me  to  his  wife  and 
a  large  family  of  children. 

"  '  Have  you  ever  heard,' continued  he, 
after  we  were  seated,  '  anything  of  your 
daughter  Nelly  P 


DURA  DEN. 


295 


*'  ^  Not  a  word,'  said  I,  eagerl}''.  '  Have 
you  ?' 

"  '  Would  you  know  Iier  ?'  contmucd  he, 
'  if  you  were  again  to  see  her  ?' 

"  '  Know  her,'  said  I ;  'to  be  sure  I 
would — Iier  imaire  is  ever  before  me.  I 
see  her,  at  this  moment,  as  plainly  as  if 
she  were  still  alive.  Oh  !  what — horrible  ! 
— stand  off! — stand  off!  Do  these  old 
eyes  deceive  me,  or  art  thou  indeed  my 
own  darling,  lost  child  ?'  said  1  ;  whilst 
Nelly — the  real  flesh  and  blood — clasped 
me  to  her  arms  and  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  '  My  father  ! — my  father  !'  she  ex- 
claioied,  whilst  the  young  ones  gathered 
around  us  in  stupid  amazement ;  and  my 
son-in-law,  Sam  Rogers,  rubbed  his  hands 
and  flapped  his  arms  in  perfect  delight. 
It  was  indeed  my  dear  Nelly,  in  the  per- 
son of  Helen  Rogers,  the  still  handsome 
mother  of  seven  children. 

"  But  Helen,  I  say — Helen,  set  down 
the  bairn  a  wee  bit,  and  tell  this  honest 
gentleman  the  Dornoch  story,  ye  ken. 

"  '  Hout,'  said  Flelen,  '  I  hae  nae  time, 
foither,  to  enter  into  a'  the  outs  an'  ins  o' 
thae  lang-syne  talcs  ;  besides,  I  see  Sam 
waving  me  up  to  the  mill — I'm  wanted, 
faither,  and  ye  maun  look  after  the  bairn 
till  I  come  back  again.'  " 

Being;  foiled  in  his  wish  to  set  his  daugh- 
tor's  tongue  a-going  to  the  tune  of  her 
own  adventures,  the  old  man  placed  the 
child  on  the  greensward  in  front  of  the 
cottage,  and,  after  once  more  paying  his 
respects  to  my  brandy  flask,  proceeded  as 
follows  : — 

''  Weel,  the  lassie  disna  like  to  hear  me 
tell  the  story  ;  1  ken,  she  aye  blushes  at 
bits  o"t ;  but  now  that  she's  awa,  I  may 
just  as  weel  finish  by  lettiufj  ye  know  that 
the  scamp  wha  had  seen,  and  fallen  in  love, 
as  he  called  it,  with  her  at  Dornoch,  had 
watched  her  down  to  the  beach,  and  having 
hired  some  accomplice  in  the  person  of 
one  of  the  sailors,  had  her  misdirected  in 
the  first  place,  and  lifted  off  her  feet  in 
the  second,   and   placed  beside   the  well- 


known  gentleman  in  a  post-chaise,  which 
drove  off  immediately  in  an  inland  direc- 
tion.    In  vain  were  all  her  strufrffles  and 

CO 

entreaties.  The  young  blackguard  imme- 
diately proceeded  to  inform  her  that  her 
struggles  and  her  shouts  were  of  no  avail ; 
that  he  could  not  promise  her  marriage, 
as  he  was  already  engaged  to  please  his 
mother  ;  but  he  would  give  her  love  in 
abundance,  and  a  cottage  residence,  which 
he  had  provided  for  her  on  his  father's 
property,  at  no  great  distance.  It  was  in 
vain  for  her  to  resist ;  but  she  had  resolved 
rather  to  die  than  to  yield  to  his  wishes  ; 
so,  when  they  had  arrived  at  the  centre  of 
an  extensive  plantation,  he  caused  her  to 
alight,  and  dismissing,  as  it  was  now  nearly 
dark,  the  chaise  and  driver,  proceeded  to 
conduct  her,  as  he  said,  on  foot,  to  the 
cottage  which  he  had  provided.  He  half 
dragged  her  a  few  paces  from  the  road,  or 
rather  track  through  the  wood,  and  un- 
veiling all  at  once  the  fiend  within  him, 
proceeded  to  open  and  undisguised  vio- 
lence. But  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
emphasis,  ''  he  thought  himself  alone,  but 
he  was  not  alone— God  saw  him,  and  had 
marked  his  proceedings  ;  and  God  sent  a 
deliverer,  in  the  person  of  him  owre  by 
yonder  (pointing  to  the  mills).  God  sent 
Sam  Rogers,  with  a  guid  oak  plank,  to 
free  the  captive,  and  make  the  captor  flee 
for  his  life  :  in  short,  sir — for  I  fear  I  have 
tired  ye  wi'  my  lang-winded  story — Sam, 
by  the  mercy  of  God,  had  just  landed  at 
Dornoch  as  we  sailed  from  it ;  and  being 
on  his  way  to  Edderachills  for  the  very 
purpose  of  asking  my  Nelly  in  marriage, 
he  had  pushed  on,  meaning  to  travel  all 
night  across  the  country,  when  the  provi- 
dential occurrence  took  place.  Weel,  we 
were  now  to  Ely,  where  we  remained  for 
a  time — old  grannie,  that  is,  myself,  my 
son,  and  his  family  ;  but  times  became 
tight  there,  and  the  family  kept  still  in- 
creasing ;  so,  at  last,  we  got  acquainted 
with  the  worthy  gentleman,  Mr.  Yool,  to 
whom  all  these  great  works  and  these  neat 
cottages  belong,   and  he   brought  us  uf 


296 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


here,  and  set  us  down  comfortably,  where, 
not  only  my  son  in-law,  but  every  wean, 
male  and  female,  above  seven  years  of  age, 
can  earn  its  own  clothes  and  subsistence. 
We  are  now,  sir,  in  comparative  affluence  ; 
and  all  this,  sir,  is  owing  to  these  improve- 
ments in  machinery  and  in  chemistry, 
which,  at  one  time,  drove  me  from  my 
native  land.  ^  Second  thoughts,  they 
SAY,  ARE  BEST  ;'  at  Icast  so  it  has  been 
with  me,  as  I  sit  here  in  my  old  age  in 
comparative  ease  and  comfort,  and  see  my 
grandchildren  growing    up    in    domestic 


affection  and  public  usefulness  around  me. 
Here  is  no  scattering  of  the  youno"  family 
— one  going  east  and  one  west,  never  to 
meet  again  ;  but  here,  every  ni^ht,  all 
congregate  around  one  hearth^  whilst  a 
psalm  is  sung,  a  chapter  is  read,  and  a 
prayer  said  by  grannie  himsel  !" 

I  shall  never  regret  the  loss  of  my  old 
and  favorite  amusement,  whilst  I  can  re- 
collect this  old  man's  narrative,  and  the 
many  happy  and  comfortable  homes  which 
now  occupy  the  once  solitary  homes  of 
Dura  Den. 


-^mO>» 


THE    RETURNED    LETTER. 


We  all  know  that  great  endings  have  often 
had  but  small  beginnings  ;  that  most  seri- 
ous consequences  have  often  arisen  from 
very  trifling  incidents.  This,  we  say,  we 
all  know.  Yet  there  may  be  some  who 
would  deny  the  fact.  If  there  be,  let  them 
read  the  following  account  of  a  particular 
passage  in  the  lif^  of  Mr .  John  Manders- 
ton,  and  let  them,  at  the  same  time,  take 
warning  by  it : — 

Mr  John  Manderston,  who  was  an  iron- 
monger to  business,  sat  him  down  one  day, 
at  the  period  to  which  our  story  refers,  to 
indite  a  letter  to  a  certain  Mr.  David 
Morrison ;  the  said  David  Morrison  beinij 
then  resident  in  the  city  of  Glasgow.  The 
purpose  of  this  letter,  which  we  shall  short 
ly  place  before  the  reader,  was  to  remind 
Mr.  David  Morrison  of  an  old  debt  due 
to  the  writer,  and  demanding  payment 
thereof.  These  were  the  terms  of  the 
document  in  question  : — 

"  Heatherbraes,  2ith  August,  1813. 
"  Mr.  David  Mohrison-, 

"  Sir, — Your  old  dett  which  you  o  me, 
is  now  long  standing  for  about  seven  years ; 


and  as  you  are  now,  I  here,  in  good  cir- 
cumstances, I  houpe  you  will  immedtately 
remit  me  the  same,  which  is  £9  :  14  :  4^., 
for  various  artikles  furnished  you  in  my 
line. 

"  I  am,  Sir, 

"  Your  obed.  Serv., 

"  John  Manderston." 

Having  duly  folded,  sealed,  and  ad- 
dressed this  letter,  John  took  it  to  the 
post  office,  and  with  his  own  hands,  popped 
it  into  the  slip.  This  done,  John  patient- 
ly awaited  the  result.  His  claim  on  IMr. 
David  Morrison,  we  need  hardly  say,  was 
a  just  one,  and  had,  indeed,  been  long 
owing,  as  set  forth  in  the  letter  of  demand, 
John,  therefore,  reasonably  expected  that 
his  application  would  produce  something 
— and,  cerles,  it  did. 

On  the  third  day  after  ]Mr.  ^fanderston 
had  written  and  dispatched  the  letter  in 
question,  he  was  very  much  surprised,  and 
very  much  pleased,  to  be  presented  by  the 
postman  with  a  very  promising-looking 
packet,  on  which  was  a  charge  of  one  shil- 
ling and  fourpence   halfpenny  of  postage. 


kfc: 


THE   RETURNED  LETTER. 


297 


This  charge  not  doubting  that  the  packet 
spoken  of  contained  a  remittance  from  his 
old  debtor,  Morrison,  Mr.  Manderston 
cheerfully  paid. 

"  One  shilling  and  fourpence  ha'penny, 
Archy  !"  he  said,  addressing  the  postman 
in  a  chuckling  voice,  and  with  a  smiling 
countenance*  "  I'll  pay  you  the  money, 
my  man  !"  and  he  drew  out  the  drawer  of 
his  till,  with  a  jerk  of  unusual  promptitude 
and  readiness,  paid  the  postage  and  re- 
tired to  his  little  desk,  to  open,  and  feast 
on  the  contents  of  his  packet. 

Mr.  Manderston,  however,  went  to  work 
cautiously  and  deliberately  in  this  matter, 
as  if  to  prolong  the  enjoyment  of  pleasing 
anticipation.  He  first  broke  one  seal,  and 
then  another — for  the  packet  was  carefully 
secured — and  then  slowly  unfolded  the 
envelope — an  operation  which  he  fully 
expected  would  disclose  to  his  longing 
eyes  the  impressive  appearance  of  a 
bank-note  of  respectable  amount.  But 
what  was  his  surprise  and  disappointment 
to  find  that  the  envelope,  which  he  had 
just  unfolded,  enclosed  only  a  letter  !  This 
letter,  however,  John  immediately  opened, 
without  looking  at  the  superscription,  and 
read — 

"  Sir, — Your  old  dett  which  you  o  me 
is  now  long  standing — for  about  seven 
years,  and'' — Here  John  brought  up  all 
at  once.  Paused.  A  sudd?n  light  had 
broke  in  upon  him.  He  discovered  that 
he  was  readiug  his  own  letter — the  identi- 
cal letter  he  had  sent,  three  days  before, 
to  his  dabtor  Morrison. 

"  What  could  this  mean  ?  No  remit- 
tance ;  but  in  place  of  that,  his  own  letter 
back.  Most  extraoi-dinary  I  Mr.  Man 
derston  now  turned  his  attention  to  the 
outside  of  the  letter,  and  there  discovered 
the  word  refused  written  in  red  ink  in  a 
scrawling  hand. 

"  x-\h,  refused  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  atone 
of  bitter  indignation.  "  The  scoundrel. 
To  swindle  me  out  of  my  money,  and  now 
to  refuse  my  letter ;  and   to   subject  me, 


moreover,  to  a  double  postage."  It  was 
a  very  provoking  case  ;  and  deep  was  the 
resentment,  fierce  the  ire  of  Mr.  Manders- 
ton, as  he  contemplatedj  in  all  its  bearings, 
the  ungrateful,  ungracious  proceeding. 
But  pea<3e-loving  and  rest-loving  man  as 
John  was,  he  determined  to  bestir  himself 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  not  to  allow 
the  slight  put  upon  him  by  his  debtor 
Morrison,  to  go  unresented.  John  deter- 
mined on  revenge  ;  but  in  what  shape,  of 
what  description  should  it  be  .''  This  was 
a  question  ;  for  the  debtor  was  a  discharged 
bankrupt,  and,  moreover,  a  wily  rogue,  so 
there  was  no  safety  in  dealing  with  him 
"  according  to  law  ;"  that  is,  in  prosecu- 
ting. Such  a  proceeding  might  only  make 
bad  worse,  by  hooking  John  in  for  the  ex- 
penses, without  effecting  the  recovery  of  a 
penny  of  the  principal,  it  might.  Then 
what  was  to  be  done  }  Mr.  Manderston 
was  a  good  deal  at  a  loss.  At  length 
however,  a  bright  idea  struck  him  ;  and 
John  chuckled  over  it,  for  there  was  some 
mischievous  humor  in  it  ;  at  least  so  there 
appeared  to  be  to  John  himself,  who,  we 
need  hardly  say,  was  not  very  bright  either 
in  repartie  or  retaliation,  or  indeed  in  any- 
thing else.  The  idea  alluded  to,  was  to 
send  his  letter  back  again  to  Morrison  un- 
der a  cover,  which  should  also  enclose  the 
envelope  in  which  it  came  to  himself,  and 
thus  to  subject  his  debtor  in  triple  post- 
age. 

No  sooner  conceived  than  executed. 
Delighted  with  the  ingenuity  of  the  con- 
trivance, Mr.  Manderston  immediately 
made  up  the  cunning  packet,  addressed  it, 
disguising  his  hand  as  much  as  he  could, 
and  dispatched  it. 

For  a  whole  week  after,  jNIr.  Manders- 
ton enjoyed,  undisturbed,  the  pleasing  no- 
tion that  he  had  done  his  correspondent  ; 
for,  on  this  he  presumed  after  the  second 
day,  seeing  that  there  was  no  return  in  that 
time.  He  liad  no  doubt,  therefore,  that 
Morrison  had  bitten. 

For  a  whole  week,  then,  we  say,  Mr. 
Manderston  enjoyed,  undisturbed,   all  the 


298 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


felicity  which  this  circumstance  was  capa- 
ble of  affording.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
however,  an  event  occurred  which  showed, 
that  the  thing  had  not  gone  off  either  quite 
so  quietly  or  so  satisfactorily  as  John  had 
fondly  imagined.  A  thickish  letter,  post- 
age free,  however,  was  put  into  Mr.  Man- 
derston's  hand  by  the  postman.  He  won- 
dered where  it  could  be  from,  and  what  it 
could  be  about,  and  still  more  did  he 
wonder  when  ho  read  on  the  back,  in  large 
plain  print, the  words—"  On  His  Majesty's 
service."  An  order  for  ironmongery, 
thouf>-ht  Mr.  Manderston,  for  some  bar- 
racks  or  other.  Thus  thinking  John  broke, 
the  large  official  seal  with  which  the 
lett:r  was  secured,  and  found  several  docu- 
ments enclosed.  He  took  out  one,  open- 
ed it,  and  read — 

<'  Sir, — Your  old  dett  which  you  owe 
me  is  now  long  standing — for  about  seven 
years,  and" Here,  as  on  a  former  oc- 
casion, Mr.  Mandertson  stopped  short, 
looked  a  little  pale,  and  got  a  little  con- 
fused. What  could  this  mean.  His  letter 
again.  It  was  rather  alarming  ;  it  was  so, 
from  its  appearing  under  such  circum- 
stances, under  cover  of  an  official,  a  go- 
vernment envelope.     Rather  serious. 

There  was  an  official  letter  also,  inside. 
Mr.  Manderston  took  it  up,  opened  it, 
and  found  it  to  be  to  the  following  ef- 
fect : — 

"  Sir, — The  enclosed  letters  having  been 
refused  by  the  person  to  whom  they  are  ad- 
dressed. 1  have  to  request  that  you  make 
immediate  payment  of  the  several  postages, 
on  the  letters  in  question,  amounting  in 
all  to  3s.  4jd.,  to  the  postmaster  of  your 
place,  otherwise  legal  proceedings  will  be 
forthwith  entered  into  against  you  for  re- 
covery of  the  same. 

"  I  am,  sir,  &c." 

Mr.  Manderston  was  struck  dumb  ;  at 
least  it  would  have  been  seen  that  he  was 
so,  had  anybody  been  present ;  but  there 


being  none,  he  had  no  occasion  to  speak. 
It  was  some  moments  too  before  he  could 
even  think  on  the  very  odd  affair  thus  so 
unexpectedly  thrust  upon  him  ;  that  is, 
think  of  it  in  any  useful  or  connected  way. 
At  length,  however,  he  began  to  take  a 
regular  and  deliberate  view  of  the  matter 
in  all  its  bearings,  and  finally  emerged 
from  the  brown  study  into  which  it  bad 
thrown  him  with  a  clear  conviction  that  he 
was  ill  used  in  the  matter  :  that  Morrison 
had  behaved  villanously  ;  and  that  he  had 
no  right  to  pay  the  3s.  4^d.,  demanded, 
and  that  he  would  not  pay  it,  he  firmly  re- 
solved. 

Full  at  once  of  this  determination,  and 
of  the  gross  injustice  attempted  to  be  done 
him,  Mr.  Manderston  immediately  took 
pen  in  hand,  and  commenced  inditing  a 
memorial  to  the  postmaster  at  Edinburgh, 
settino;  forth  in  the  followino;  terms,  the 
hardship  of  his  case,  together  with  an  ex- 
pression of  the  resolution  above  alluded  to  ; 
that  is,  the  resolution  not  to  pay. 

"  Sir," — began  this  pithy  document — 
"  I  have  receive  yours,  in  which  you  de- 
mand from  me  three  shillins  and  forpence 
hapeny  for  postig  for  a  leter  I  sent  to  Air. 
Morrison,  Glasgow,  who  has  beenowin  me 
a  det  of  long  standing — for  seven  years — 
demanding  the  payment  of  my  just  and 
laful  det ;  and  he  refused  it,  because  he 
wishes  to  avoid  payment  of  his  laful  dets, 
although  justly  owin,  with  interest  and  ex- 
penses. I  will  not,  therefore,  pay  the 
money  you  demand,  as  I  think  it  unjust 
and  unreasonable  that  I  should  be  obliged 
to  pay  for  askin  my  on,  which  is  due  me, 
as  I  have  said,  by  Morrison,  which  got 
value  in  ironmongery  and  other  guds,  as  I 
can  well  prove  by  my  buks. 

"  I  am,  sir,  &c." 

"  P.S.  I  am  determine  not  to  pay  the 
3s.  4^d.,  you  must  go  to  Morrison  for  it, 
which  is  bound  to  pay  it." 

Having  folded  and  sealed  this  concise, 
clear,  and  felicitously  expressed  memorial 


THE  RETURNED  LETTER. 


299 


and  remonstrance,  Mr.  Manderston  ad- 
dressed it  "  To  the  Postmaster  of  the  city 
of  Edinburgh  ;"  and  dispatched  it  to  its 
destination,  in  full  assurance  that  he  should 
he  should  hear  no  more  of  it.  In  this 
opinion,  three  days  of  entire  silence  con- 
firmed him  ;  but  the  fourth  brought  an 
awakener  ;  it  came  in  the  shape  of  a  letter 
— a  sufficiently  polite  one,  however — from 
the  Post-Office  at  Edinburgh,  acknowledg- 
ing receipt  of  his  epistle,  but  refusing  to 
forego  the  claim  of  3s.  4^d. 

*'  The  letters  to  which  your  communi- 
cation alludes,"  said  this  official  docu- 
ment, "  having  been  refused  by  the  party 
to  whom  they  were  addressed,  you,  as  the 
writer  thereof,  are  liable  in  the  postage  as 
charged,  agreeably  to  the  regulation  of  this 
office.  You  will,  therefore,  please  order 
immediate  payment  of  the  amount,  (3s. 
4^d.)  otherwise,  I  regret  to  say,  the  case 
will  be  put  forthwith  into  the  hands  of  our 
solicitor  for  instant  prosecution. 

(Signed)  "  Secretary." 

The  matter  was  getting  serious  then ; 
Mr.  Manderston  thought  it  so  ;  but  still 
his  resolution  not  to  pay  remained  un- 
shaken. How  to  proceed  next  in  the  bu- 
siness, however,  puzzled  him.  He  had 
now  exhausted  all  his  resources  and  all 
his  ingenuity,  in  so  far  as  these  were  ap- 
plicable to  the  affiiir  in  hand.  Mr.  Man- 
derston, in  short,  was  at  his  wits  ends  as 
regarded  it. 

In  this  dilemma  he  bethought  him  of 
applying  to  his  solicitor  for  advice  and 
assistance. 

Having  come  to  this  determination,  he 
took  down  his  hat,  put  it  on,  told  his  boy 
to  keep  a  sharp  look-out  on  the  shop,  and 
proceeded  straightway  to  the  house  of  his 
legal  friend,  Mr.  Snoddy,  carrying  with 
him  all  the  letters  and  papers  relating  to 
the  case  on  which  he  was  about  to  consult 
him. 

On  beino;  ushered  into  the  writino'-room 
of  the  man  of  law — "  Be  seated,  my  dear 


sir,  be  seated,"  said  the  latter — perceiv- 
ing that  there  was  a  look  of  business  about 
his  visitor.  "  Anything  to  do  in  my  way  .?" 
added  Mr.  Snoddy,  laughingly,  and  rub- 
bing his  hands  with  professional  glee. 
"Anything  to  do  in  my  way,  my  dear 
sir .?" 

Mr.  Manderston,  with  a  gravity  efface 
which  contrasted  rather  strongly  with  the 
smiling  countenance  of  the  lawyer,  repli- 
ed, that  there  was  a  small  matter  rec-ard- 
ing  which  he  wished  to  consult  him  ;  and 
forthwith  proceeded  to  state  his  case,  pro- 


ducing, 


at   the    same    time,    the    various 


documents  which  its  progress  had  accu- 
mulated. Having  patiently  listened  to  the 
former,  and  carefully  perused  the  latter, 
Mr  Snoddy  rested  his  head  upon  his  left 
hand,  and  gave  himself  up  for  a  few  se- 
conds to  profound  thought.  This  impos- 
ing ceremony  gone  through,  he  suddenly 
resumed  his  natm-al  lively  manner,  and 
said — 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,  I  see  very  plainly 
what  we  are  to  do  in  this  case  :  we  will 
pay  the  3s.  4id." 

"  We'll  do  no  such  thing,"  here  vehe- 
mently interposed  Mr  Manderston. 

"  Patience,  my  good  sir — patience,"  said 
Mr  Snoddy,  holding  up  his  hand  deprecat- 
ingly — "  till  I  explain.  We  will  pay  the 
33.  45d.  to  the  Post  Office  ;  because,  if 
we  don't,  they  will  enforce  it  with  expenses, 
they  having  nothing  to  do  between  you 
and  Morrison,  but  merely  to  look  to  the 
writer  of  the  letter  or  letters,  for  the  post- 
age or  postages  thereof.  But,  having  paid 
it,  we  have  then  good  grounds  of  action 
against  Morrison  for  recovery  of  the  same, 
with  interest  and  charges  ;  don't  you  see  .'' 
And  when  we  have  brought  the  matter  into 
this  shape,  leave  me  alone  for  sweating 
him.  I'll  stir  him  up  with  a  long  pole,  I 
warrant  ye." 

To  Mr  Manderston  this  view  of  the 
case  gave  great  satisfaction  ;  and  had,  be- 
sides, the  effect  of  reconciling  him  to  pay- 
ino-,  at  least  in  the  meantime,  the  3s.  4 id. 
demanded  by  the  Post  Office.     This  was 


300 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


accordingly  done,  and  proceedings  instant- 
ly entered  into  against  Morrison. 

In  about  a  week  after  this,  Mr.  Snoddy 
called  on  Mr.  Manderston,  with  a  bundle 
of  papers  in  his  hand  ;  and  looking  very 
grave  and  business  like — even  before  he 
spoke  a  word— Mr.  Manderston,  saw  there 
was  something  wrong  ;  he  was,  therefore, 
in  some  measure  prepared  for  the  following 
communication,  thus  prefaced,  from  Mr. 
Snoddy  : — 

"  That  fellow,  Morrison,"  he  said,  look- 
ing fierce,  "  is  going  to  be  troublesome,  1 
doubt.  He  has  employed  a  man  of  busi- 
ness to  defend.  Here  are  tWo  letters  I 
have  had  from  that  person  on  the  subject, 
in  answer  to  two  of  mine,  of  which  here 
are  the  two  copies ;  and  here,  also,  is  a 
scroll  of  another  letter  which  I  mean  to 
dispatch  this  afternoon,  in  answer  to  the 
Glasgow  writer's  last,  and  I  think  it'll  be 
a  settler." 

Having  said  this,  Mr.  Snoddy  placed  the 
various  documents  he  alluded  to,  sermthn., 
before  his  client,  and  invited  him  to  look 
over  them 

Mr.  Manderston,  without  saying  a  word, 
went  to  his  little  desk,  took  therefrom  his 
spectacles,  put  th:^m  leisurely,  and  solemn- 
ly on  his  nose,  and  commenced  a  deliber- 
ate perusal  of  the  different  papers  submit- 
ted to  him  ;  Mr.  Snoddy  standing  by,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand — for  he  was  warm — 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forhead 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  looking  terribly 
ferocious — this  said  ferocity  being  directed 
a-T-ainst  Morrison  and  his  law  agent. 

"  But  you  have'nt  looked  over  the  scroll 
of  the  letter  I  mean  to  send  to-day,  Mr. 
Snoddy,  seeing  that  the  former  paused  in 
his  labors  as  if  he  had  finished,  without 
looking  at  the  document  in  qu'^stion.  "  It's, 
I  think,  a  settler,  as  I  said,"  continued 
Mr.  Snoddy.  "  It's  a  complete  summing 
up  of  the  whole  case,  embodying  all  that 
has  been  or  can  be  said  on  the  subj  :*ct,  and 
showing,  I  imagine,  very  clearly,  that  we 
have  the  right  end  of  the  string.  But  I'll 
read  it  for  you,  my  dear  sir  ;"  and  Mr. 


Snoddy,   taking   up   the  very   formidable 
scroll,  began : — 

"  Sir, — The  case  of  Manderston  versus 
Morrison,  your  client,  arose,  as  you  are 
well  aware,  from  the  circumstance  of  Mr. 
Manderston  addressing  a  letter  to  Mor- 
rison, dated  the  24th  of  August,  1813, 
craving,  as  he  was  well  entitled  to  do,  pay- 
ment of  a  just  and  lawful  debt  due  to  him 
by  the  said  Morrison" 

'*  Exactly,"  here  interposed  Mander- 
ston, "•just  and  lawful,  and  lonc)  oiH//(7." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  sir,  we'll  come  to  that 
immediately,"  replied  Mr.  Snoddy,  ''  a 
letter  craving,  as  he  was  well  entitled  to 
do" — continued  the  latter,  resuming  his 
reading — "  payment  of  a  just  and  lawful 
debt  due  to  him  by  the  said  Morrison  ; 
of  which  letter,  the  following  is  a  literal 
copy  :— 

"  Ileatherbraes,  24th  August^  1813. 
''  Sir, — Your  old  debt  which  you  owe 
me  is  now  lonir  standing; — for  about  seven 


years" 

"  Precisely,''  here  again  interrupted  Mr. 
Manderston.  "  That's  just  what  I  said. 
The  very  words  to  a  hair." 

"  A  copy  from  your  own  holograph,  my 
dear  sir,  which  I  have  in  my  possession," 
said  Mr.  Snoddy. 

"  My  what  .'"  inquired  ]Mr.  Mander- 
ston. 

"  Your  holograph,  my  dear  sir,"  said 
the  writer. 

"  What's  that  .'"rejoined  Mr.  IMander- 
ston. 

"  Your  handwriting — the  original  letter 
you  wrote  Moriison. 

"  Ou  ay,  ay  ou  !"  replied  the  now  en- 
lightened penman. 

Mr.  Snoddy  now  proceeded,  but  we 
need  not,  to  finish  the  copy  of  Mander- 
ston's  "  holograph."  He  then  passed  on 
to  further  statements  of  facts,  and  finally 
concluded  with  three  close  written  pages 
of  aro;ument,  filled  with  law  and  loaric.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  masterpiece,  and  well  en- 


THE   RETURNED   LETTER. 


301 


titled  to  the  eulogium  which  the  writer  had 
passed  on  it,  when  he  called  it  a  settler. 

When  he  had  finished 

"  Juist  sae,"  said  Mr.  Manderston.  ^'It 
seems  to  me  a  gay  steevc,  pithy  piece  o' 
writin.  Ye  hit  him  gaying  hard  in  twa  or 
three  places." 

"  I  think  I  do  !"  replied  Mr.  Snoddy, 
smiling  complacently,  and  folding  up  the 
^'  pithy  piece  o'  writin,"  with  a  triumphant 
flourish. 

"  That'll  surely  bring  them  to  their 
senses  ?"  said  Mr.  Manderston. 

"  I  should  think  so  !"  replied  Mr.  Snod- 
dy, with  a  confident  simper. 

"  VVeel,  despatch't  as  fast's  ye  can  !" 
said  Mr.  Manderston.  "  Keep  the  puddin 
hot,  and  dinna  gie  them  a  moment's  re- 
spite. They'll  no  fin'  John  Manderston 
gio  in  so  ready  as  they  think." 

Thus  encouraged,  Mr,  Snoddy  lost  no 
time  in  firing  off  the  great  gun  which  he 
had  just  charged  against  the  enemy.  It 
had  not,  however,  by  any  means  the  effect 
hoped  for  by  that  very  acute  lawyer  ;  quite 
the  contrary :  its  only  result  was  to 
bring  back  a  reply  of  twice  its  length, 
stating  facts  also,  but  arriving  at  very 
different  conclusions,  and  breathino-  in 
every  line  the  most  contemptuous  defiance. 

On  receipt  of  this  reply,  Mr.  Snoddy, 
as  in  duty  bound,  waited  on  his  client, 
and  laid  it  before  him,  saying,  as  he  did 
so — "  The  scoundrel  is  going  to  defend." 

Mr.  Manderston  adjusted  his  spectacles 
on  his  nose,  and,  with  the  same  gravity 
and  earnestness  as  before,  began  to  read 
the  reply. 

When  he  had  finished — "  What's  to  be 
done  noo,  then,  Mr  Snoddy  .?"  he  said, 
raising  his  spectacles  on  his  forehead,  and 
looking  his  man  of  business  earnestly  in 
the  face.  "  We  maun  on  nae  account  gie 
in — I'm  determined  on  that." 

"  Why,  I  fancy,"  replied  Mr.  Snoddy, 
"  we  must  carry  it  into  court.  The  ex- 
penses on  the  case  are  already  considera- 
ble, and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  lose 
them," 


"  Well  no  lose  them,  if  there's  justice 
to  be  had  for  love  or  money,"  said  Mr. 
Manderston,  reddening  with  anger.  "  Into 
court  wi'  them  by  a'  means,  and  let's  hae 
a  warsle  wi'  them  there." 

Thus  instructed,  Mr.  Snoddy  lost  no 
time  in  taking  the  necessary  steps  for 
bringing  the  case  of  Manderston  versus 
Morrison  before  the  Sheriff.  These  steps 
gone  through,  the  day  and  hour  of  cause 
was  anxiously  waited  for. 

They  came,  both  to  one  and  to  the 
other  ;  and  when  they  did,  they  found  Mr, 
Snoddy  at  his  post,  Mr.  Snoddy  did  for 
his  client  all  that  man  could  do  ;  but  what 
availed  it :  the  Sheriff  held  that  no  man 
was  bound  to  receive  a  letter  unless  he 
chose  it,  on  whatever  ground  or  pretence 
it  mio;ht  be  sent,  and  decerned'  with  ex- 
penses,  against  the  pursuer. 

It  was  to  no  purpose  that  Mr.  Snoddy 
urged  the  reasonableness  of  his  client's  ap- 
plication to  his  creditor,  by  letter,  for  pay- 
ment of  his  debt ;  and  in  proof  of  the 
bona  fide  nature  of  the  transaction,  read- 
to  the  court  Mr.  Manderston 's  first  letter 
to  Morrison,  the  original  cause  of  the 
whole  proceeding,  commencing  : — "  Sir, 
your  old  debt  which  you  owe  me  is  now 
long  standing — for  about  seven  years," 

It  was  to  no  purpose,  we  say,  that  Mr. 
Snoddy  did  all  this,  and  a  great  deal  more. 
Judofment  went  asrainst  him,  and  the  ene- 
my  was  victorious.  This  defeat  was  heavy 
news  for  Mr.  Snoddy  to  bring  home  to  Mr. 
Manderston  ;  but  he  did  bring  them  home 
to  that  gentleman,  nevertheless,  and  said  it 
was  most  "  unfortunate,"  and,  ''  he  would 
add,  most  iniquitous." 

Mr.  Manderston  thought  so  too,  and 
said  he  was  still  determined  not  to  lose 
his  3s.  4|d.  Mr.  Snodd}"  said  he  was 
rio-ht ,  and  added,  that  he  was  sure  if  the 
case  was  brought  before  the  Court  of  Ses- 
sions, justice  would  still  be  obtained  ;  that 
they  would  get  a  decision  in  their  favor, 
with  costs. 

It  was  a  great  and  important  day  for 
Manderston,  the  31st  day  of  the  month 


302 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


after  the  events  which  we  have  just  record- 
ed took  place. 

On  tha^  day  Mr.  Manderston  was  up  at 
an  unusually  early  hour  of  the  morning, 
and  shortly  after,  appeared  on  the  main 
street  of  Heatherbraes,  dressed  in  his  best, 
carrying  a  small  bundle  under  his  arm, 
whose  outward  covering  was  a  bright  yel- 
low silk  handkerchief,  and  wending  his  way 
toward  the  "  Hon  and  Chickens  Inn," 
from  whence  the  "  Fly  Jack  and  begone" 
liofht  coach  started  for  Edinburo-h. 

On  reaching  the  yard  of  the  inn,  Mr. 
Manderston  was  joined  by  a  gentleman  in 
a  new  full  suit  of  blacks,  and  otherwise 
evidently  picked  out  for  some  great  occa- 
sion.    It  was  Mr.  Snoddy. 

On  this  day  the  returned  letter  case  was 
to  come  before  thsLords  of  Session;  and  the 
lawyer  and  his  cli  3nt  were  now  on  their  way 
to  the  mstropolis  to  be  present  at  the  trial. 

Having  taken  their  seats  in  the  vehicle 
with  the  curious  compound  name,  the  two 
gentlemen  were  soon  at  their  destination, 
and  were  shortly  afterwards  seen — Mr. 
Snoddy  piloting  the  way,  and  Mr.  Mander- 
ston staverincj  after  him,  wo  king  their  way 
throuo-h  the  crowded  Parliament  House,  the 
buzz  and  bustle  of  which  greatly  surprised 
and  confounded  the  unsophisticated  iron- 
monger, who  had  never  been  there  before. 

Mr.  Snoddy  having  now  conducted  his 
client  into  the  division  where  his  case  was 
to  be  tried,  whispered  two  or  three  words 
into  his  ear  ;  and,  by  dint  of  some  drag- 
ginix,  hauling,  and  pushing,  succeeded  in 
getting  hitn  snugly  planted  in  a  seat  direct- 
ly behind  that  usually  occupied  by  the 
legal  gentleman  interested  in  the  proceed- 
ings before  the  Court. 

Having  thus  disposed  of  his  client,  I\Ir. 
Snoddy  disappeared,  but,  soon  af.er,  re- 
turned, and,  stretching  across  the  seats,  so 
as  to  get  as  near  Mr.  Manderston  as  possi- 
ble, informed  him,  in  a  whisper,  "  that  the 
case  was  just  coming  on."  It  came  on,  and 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  speeches  that  ever 
was  heard  within  the  walls  of  that  court- 
house, was  delivered,  on  this  occasion,  by 


the  counsel  employed  by  Mr.  Snoddy  for 
Mr.  Manderston's  interest.  The  counsel 
poened  the  case  by  calling  it  one  of  the  most 
important,  extraordinary,  and  he  said,  "  he 
did  not  hesitate  to  add,  one  of  the  most 
infamous,  on  the  part  of  the  defenders, 
that  ever  perhaps,  came  before  their  Lord- 
ships." He  then  proceeded  to  state  the 
grounds  on  which  the  action  was  brousjht. 

*'  Nothing,"  he  said,  "  could  be  more 
reasonable  in  its  purpose,  nothing  more 
mild  in  its  terms,  than  his  client's  letter 
to  Morrison.  But,  my  Lords,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  do  not  wish  your  Lordships  to 
take  my  unsupported  assertion  on  this 
point ;  I  will  read  to  your  Lordships  the 
letter  itself,  which  I  am  fortunate  enough 
to  have  in  my  possession. 

"  It  is  dated,  your  Lordships" — went 
on  the  eloquent  counsel,  now  looking  on  a 
paper  which  he  had  dug  out  from  a  mass 
of  documents  before  him,  and.  at  this  mo- 
ment, held  open  in  his  hand — "  It  is  dated, 
your  Lordships,  *  Htalherhraes^  24th 
August,  1813,'  and  runs  thus  : — '  Sir, — 
your  old  debt  which  you  owe  me,  is  now 
long  standing — for  about  seven  years, 
and'  " 

"  Exactly — precisely,  sir.  That's  the 
identical  letter,  word  for  word" — here 
spoke  out  some  one,  in  An  audible  voice, 
from  the  seat  behind  the  counsel  who  was 
speaking,  to  the  great  surprise  of  the  Court, 
and  to  the  interruption  of  its  proceedings. 

It  was  Mr.  Manderston.  His  counsel 
looked  at  him  reprovingly  ;  Mr.  Snoddy 
stretched  his  hand  towards  him  deprecat- 
ingly  ;  and  the  bench  admonished  him 
severely. 

Harmony  restored,  the  case  went  on, 
came  to  a  close  and — is  the  reader  pre- 
pared for  such  a  catastrophe — was  decided, 
once  more,  in  favor  of  the  defenders. 

JMr.  Manderston  returned  home,  settled 
the  costs  of  his  case,  including  Mr.  Snod- 
dy's  account,  and  found,  in  summing  up 
the  various  items  of  his  outlay  in  this 
affiiir,  that  he  had  paid,  altogether,  iE114  : 
13  :  9d.  for  the  Returned  Letter. 


THE  CLERGYMAN'S   DAUGHTER. 


303 


THE     CLEEG^MAN'S    DAUGHTER. 


Hanging  and  marriage,  tbey  say,  go  by 
destiny.  Of  the  first,  being  a  very  ugly 
subject,  ^Ye  do  not  choose  to  say  anything  ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  the  last  is  frequently 
the  ofi'spring  of  curious  chances.  A  re- 
markable instance  of  this  occurred,  about 
seventy  years  ago,  in  the  case  of  a  young 
lady,  the  daughter  of  a  Highland  clergy- 
man, in  one  of  the  remote  western  isles  of 
Scotland. 

The  name  of  this  clergyman  was  M'lvor. 
A  worthy  and  good  man  he  was,  but  one 
little  known  to  fame.  His  situation  was  a 
distant  and  obscure  one,  and  but  rarely 
visited  by  strangers.  The  island  itself  is 
only  some  ten  or  fifteen  miles  in  circum- 
ference! The  number  of  its  inhabitants 
does  not — at  least  did  not  at  the  time  of 
which  we  speak — exceed  150  in  number. 

At  the  head  of  a  little  bay,  by  which 
the  island  is  indented  near  the  centre,  on 
the  east  side,  the  minister's  modest  man- 
sion rose.  It  was  a  plain  two-story  house, 
with  a  slate  roof  and  brio-ht  white-washed 
walls.  From  the  sea,  its  appearance  was 
attractive,  although,  perhaps,  this  arose  as 
much  from  the  circumstance  of  its  stand- 
ing alone  as  from  any  superior  elegance  of 
which  it  could  boast.  It  was,  in  truth,  a 
very  homely  domicile  ;  but  it  was  unrival- 
ed— there  being  no  other  slate-roofed  house 
on  the  island,  nor  one  in  any  way  approach- 
ing it  in  pretension  ;  and  hence,  the  dig- 
nity in  which  it  rejoiced. 

Mr.  M'lvor's  daughter,  whose  name 
was  Mary,  was  a  fair-haired,  beautiful  girl 
of  some  seventeen  years  of  age,  or  there- 
abouts. Remote  and  obscure  as  her  situa- 
tion was,  and  equally  obscure  as  her  des- 
tiny was  likely  to  be,  Mary's  education 
had  not  been  neglected.  Her  father,  who 
was  a  learned  and  accomplished  man,  had 
early  imbued  her  with  a  taste  for  polite 


literature,  and  had  taught  her  to  read  the 
French  and  Italian  languages  with  readi- 
ness and  fluency. 

To  complete  her  education,  and  to  af- 
ford her  an  opportunity  of  seeing  a  little 
of  the  world,  he  had  sent  her  to  Edinburo-h 
for  two  successive  seasons,  where  she  had 
added  to  her  other  accomplishments,  a 
very  competent  knowledge  of  music  and 
drawino;. 

Mary  M'lvor  had  now  returned  to  her 
father's  house  for  good  and  all ;  or,  at 
least,  until  some  of  those  changes  should 
occur  by  which  the  course  of  human  life  is 
chequered.  Yet  did  the  fair  girl  seem, 
from  the  circumstances  in  which  she  was 
placed,  to  be  one  of  those  flowers  which 
are  doomed  to 

'•  Waste  their  sweetness  on  the  deseit  air  ;" 

for  who  would  think  of  seeking,  or  expect 
to  find,  so  lovely  and  accomplished  a  be- 
ing in  so  rude  and  remote  a  corner  of  the 
world?  But  odd  things  will  happen.  They 
are  happening  every  day.  Few,  however, 
more  odd  have  occurred,  as  the  reader, 
we  think,  will  allow,  than  that  this  lonely 
flower  should,  in  less  than  twelve  months 
from  the  period  at  which  we  first  intro- 
duce her  to  the  reader,  be  seen  blooming 
in  some  of  the  gayest  saloons  of  Paris,  at- 
tracting and  commandino;  the  admiration 
of  all.  That  Mary  M  Ivor,  the  daughter 
of  an  obscure  Highland  clergyman,  should, 
within  that  time,  be  mistress  of  one  of  the 
most  masfnificent  chateaus  on  the  banks 
of  the  Seine.     Yet  so  it  was. 

One  stormy  afternoon,  a  vessel  was 
driven,  by  stress  of  weather,  into  the  little 
bay,  at  the  head  of  which  stood  the  min- 
ister's manse.  Shortly  after  the  vessel 
came  to  anchor,  a  boat  pushed  off  from 
her  and  made  for  the  shore. 


304 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


Mr.  M'Jvor,  on  perceiving  from  trie 
window  of  his  study,  the  boat  approaching, 
hastened  down  stairs,  called  to  his  daugh- 
ter Mary  to  throw  her  plaid  around  her, 
and  to  accompany  him  to  the  shore  to  re- 
ceive the  strangers,  and  to  invite  them  to 
the  manse — a  hospitality  which  the  worthy 
man  extended  to  every  stranger  who  visit- 
ed the  island.  The  persons  in  the  boat, 
besides  the  men  who  rowed  her,  were  the 
captain  of  the  vessel,  and  a  tall,  swarthy, 
gentlemanly-looking  young  man,  having 
the  appearance  of  a  foreigner ;  and  such 
he  reall}'  was.  Mr.  M'lvor  having  intro- 
duced himself  and  his  daughter  to  the 
strangers,  invited  them  to  the  manse.  The 
invitation  was  at  once  accepted,  and  with 
many  expressions  of  thanks. 

Hitherto  the  conver?ation  had  been  con- 
ducted on  the  part  of  the  strangers,  en- 
tirely by  the  captain,  who  was  an  English- 
man ;  his  companion,  if  such  a  term  will 
apply  to  one  whom  lie  seemed  to  treat 
with  the  utmost  deference  and  respect, 
understanding  nothing  of  the  English  lan- 
guage. The  captain  now  informed  Mr. 
JVl'Ivor  that  his  passenger  was  a  French 
nobleman,  the  Count  de  I'Orme.  That 
he  had  taken  a  passage  by  him  at  Bordeaux 
for  Liverpool,  on  an  intended  visit  to  Eng- 
land, and  that  they  had  been  thus  far  dri- 
ven out  of  their  course  by  contrary  winds. 

On  learning  these  particulars,  Mr. 
M'lvor,  who  spoke  French  with  tolerable 
fluency,  immediately  addressed  the  count 
in  that  lano-uao-e.  The  latter,  at  once  sur- 
prised  and  delighted  to  find  his  native 
tongue  understood  by  their  proposed  en- 
tertainer, became  lively,  cheerful,  and 
communicative.  But  when  he  discovered 
— which  he  soon  did,  by  her  looks  of  in- 
telligence, and  her  earnest  attention  to 
what  he  and  her  father  were  saying — 
that  the  fair  girl  who  leant  on  the  arm 
of  the  latter,  also  understood  the  French 
language,  his  delight  knew  no  bounds. 

From  that  moment,  he  directed  the 
most  pointed  attentions  to  her,  and  with 
the  graceful  manners  of  the  ancient  chival- 


ry of  France,  sought,  and  not  in  vain,  to 
render  himself  agreeable  in  the  eyes  of 
Mary  M'lvor. 

In  the  meantime,  the  party  proceeded 
to  the  manse,  beguiling  the  way  with  a 
lively  conversation,  in  which  the  blushino" 
little  island  maiden  was  led  to  take  a  part, 
by  the  courtesies  and  gallantries  of  the 
noble  stranger. 

On  gaining  the  manse,  the  visiters  were 
ushered  into  the  minister's  comfortable 
little  parlor,  where  they  were  hospitably 
entertained  until  a  pretty  late  hour  of  the 
night,  when  the  count  proposed  that  he 
and  the  captain  should  return  on  board. 
To  this  proposal  their  kind-hearted  host 
would  not  listen,  but  insisted  that  they 
should  take  up  their  quarters  in  the  manse 
till  the  vessel  sailed.  His  guests,  at  first, 
objected  to  this  arrangement;  but,  it  was 
finally  settled  that  the  captain  should  re- 
turn on  board,  and  that  the  count  should 
remain. 

From  the  moment  in  which  the  count 
first  saw  Miss  M'lvor,  he  appeared  to 
have  been  struck  with  her  beauty,  for  fre- 
quent and  earnest  were  the  gazes  which  he 
fixed  on  her  fair  countenance,  and  the 
subsequent  discovery  of  her  accomplish- 
ments, her  refined  tastes,  and  highly 
cultivated  mind,  which  his  residence  at  the 
manse  enabled  him  to  make,  completed 
the  conquest  which  her  beauty  had  begun. 

For  a  week,  the  vessel  by  which  the 
Count  de  I'Orme  was  passenger,  was  de- 
tained by  contrary  winds  in  the  little  bay 
of  Machray  ;  and  during  all  this  time,  the 
latter  was  an  inmate  of  the  manse. 

But  was  it,  indeed,  adverse  winds  that 
detained  the  vessel  so  long .''  We  doubt 
it.  Well,  then,  if  truth  must  be  told,  it 
was  not.  On  the  very  next  day  she  might 
have  sailed,  but  a  word  in  the  captain's 
ear  from  the  count,  with  a  whisper  of  am- 
ple indemnification  to  himself  and  owners, 
kept  the  ship  at  her  anchors  for  a  week. 

Ere  that  week  had  expired,  however, 
the  Count  de  TOrme  had,  with  the  consent 
of  her  father,  made   offer  of  his  hand  to 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 


306 


Maiy  M'lvor.  It  was  accepted,  and  in  a 
month  after,  the  count,  who  had  in  the 
meantime  fulfilled  his  intention  of  visiting 
England,  and  who  had,  during  the  same 
interval,  made  the  necessary  arrangements 
for  his  marriage,  returned  with  a  friend  to 
the  lonely  little  Scottish  isle  to  claim  his 
island  bride. 


The  ceremony  of  their  marriage  was 
performed  by  Miss  M 'Ivor's  father. 

In  fourteen  days  after,  the  Countess  do 
I'Orme  was  installed  in  the  magnificent 
Chateau  de  Chauvergne,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Seine,  as  mistress  of  all  its  wealthj  and 
of  the  fair  domains  that  spread  far  and 
wide  around  it. 


THE    DESERTED    WIFE 


The  following  tale  was  communicated  to 
me  when  in  Dumfrieshire,  in  the  year 
1S27,  by  an  old  and  respectable  lady,  who 
was  herself  the  subject  of  it.  It  interested 
me  then,  and  I  shall  endeavor  to  tell  it  to 
my  readers  as  she  told  it  to  me.  But,  as 
she  may  be  still  living,  I  shall  change  the 
name,  though  I  then  had  her  permission 
to  publish  it,  and,  to  use  her  own  words, 
"  to  write  a  Tale  about  it  if  I  pleased." 
I  shall  therefore  speak  of  her  as  Mrs. 
Isabella  Simpson.. 

My  father,  she  began,  was  weel  to  do  in 
the  world.  He  had  a  farm  that  bordered 
on  the  Nith,  between  Dumfries  and  San- 
quhar. The  laird  and  him  had  been 
companions  frae  they  were  bits  o'  leddies, 
and  he  had  a  guid  bargain  o't,  and  made  a 
hantel  o'  siller.  He  was  rather  a  purse- 
proud  man,  but  a  kind  faither  in  the  main, 
for  a'  that.  My  mother  was  a  woman 
amonn:  ten  thousand — ye  migrht  hae  search- 
ed  ten  parishes  and  not  found  her  equal — 
my  faither  allowed  that ;  and  he  had  a  right 
to  ken,  for  she  was  his  wife  thirty  years. 
She  was  the  best  tempered  woman  that 
I've  ever  met  wi'  in  my  born  days  ;  and, 
without  having  the  least  particle  o'  mean- 
ness about  her,  she  was  as  thrifty  as  she 
was  good-tempered.  She  had  also  been  a 
particularly  weelfaured  woman.  An  aulder 

VOL    II.  67 


brother  and  mysel'  were  the  only  bairns 
that  they  had  living,  and  we  were  accord- 
ingly a  goo-d  deal  made  o',  especially  by 
our  mother.  It  was  generally  believed 
that  I  would  brino;  a  fortune  to  the  man 
that  got  m-e,  and  when  I  grew  up  to  wo- 
man's estate,  there  were  a  number  o' 
young  lads  that  professed  to  be  very  fond 
o'  me  ;  but  for  my  part  I  had  no  liking 
for  any  o'  them  save  one,  and  that  was 
Peter  Simpson.  He  was  a  blate  lad,  and 
I  didna  ken  that  he  was  fond  o'  me  frae 
himsel ;  but  my  pccquaintancesused  to  jeer 
me  about  him,  and  say,  "  Isabella,  if  ye 
dinna  tak  pity  on  puir  Peter  Simpson,  the 
lad  will  do  some  ill  to  himsel'.  He  is 
fairly  owre  head  and  ears  aboot  ye." 

"  Hoots  !"  said  I,  "nane  o'  yer  havers 
— the  ne'er  a  fears  o'  him.  The  lad  ne- 
ver spoke  to  me  in  his  life." 

And  sure  enough,  fis  I  have  tauld  ye, 
he  never  had.  But  I  used  to  remark  his 
confusion  when  he  passed  me,  as  he  half 
looked  at  me,  and  half  turned  away  his 
head,  and  I'm  sure  I  was  as  confused  as 
he  was  ;  and  it  was  a'thegither  on  account 
o'  our  acquaintances  jeering  me  about 
him.  At  the  kirk,  too,  on  the  Sabbath,  I 
often  used  to  observe  his  een  fixed  on  me  ; 
and  when  he  perceived  that  I  saw  him,  he 
i  would  turn  away  his  head,  and  his  cheeks, 


\  r-: 


306 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


his  very  brow,  grew  as  red  as  the  morocco 
on  the  back  of  the  laird  and  his  lady's 
bible's. 

Peter's  faither  was  a  farmer  like  my 
own,  and  we  were  on  an  equality  in  that 
respect ;  but  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  be 
a  millwright,  and  was  serving  his  time  for 
that  business  in  Dumfries.  Now,  there 
was  one  day  that  I  had  been  in  the  town, 
making  some  bits  o'  bargains  at  the  shops 
for  my  mother  ;  but,  just  as  I  was  com- 
pleting them,  a  terrible  storm  came  away  ; 
it  rained  a  perfect  down-pour — such  a 
spate  as  I  never  saw.  Umbrellas  had 
hardly  been  seen  in  the  country  at  that 
time,  and  it  wasna  one  in  five  hundred  that 
had  a  one.  I  had  no  acquaintances  in 
Dumfries,  and  I  was  forced  to  stop  in  the 
shop.  But  I  remained  from  four  in  the 
afternoon  until  seven  at  night,  and  it 
rained  as  fast  as  ever — it  was  aiever  like 
to  fair.  It  was  beflrinnino;  to  set  down  for 
dark,  I  was  feared  to  gang  hame  at  night, 
by  myseP,  and  I  saw  it  was  o'  no  use  stop- 
ping ony  longer — so  I  left  the  shop,  but 
before  I  had  got  three  yards  from  the  door, 
who  should  come  bang  against  me,  as  he 
ran  wi'  his  head  down  for  the  rain,  but 
Peter  Simpson  !" 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Isa- 
bella," said  he,  when  he  saw  who  I  was ; 
and  he  looked  very  confused. 

"  There  is  nae  harm  done,"  said  I. 
"  Ye  haena  to  gang  hame  in  sic  a  nicht 
as  this  .^"  said  he. 

"  Indeed  hae  I,"  said  I, 
"  Then,"  said  he,  "if  ye'll  just  step  into 
the  shop  there  for  a  minute,  I  think  I  ken 
where  I  could  borrow  ye  an  umbrella." 

I  thought  it  was  remarkably  kind  o'  him, 
and  I  gaed  back  to  the  shop  again.  He 
hadna  been  away  a  handel-awhile,  whenin 
a  very  jiffy  he  came  running  back  wi'  an 
umbrella  in  his  hand.  I  went  to  the  door 
as  soon  as  I  saw  him,  and  he  lifted  up  the 
umbrella  owre  my  head  and  held  out  his 
oxter  to  me.  I  canna  tell  what  my  feel- 
ings were  at  the  moment.  I  forgot  that  it 
was  a  down-pour  o'  rain  and  everything 


else,  and  I  wonder  that  I  didna  lose  my 
mother's  bundle  frae  under  my  ann.  But 
1  took  his  oxter,  and  wi'  the  -umbrella 
owre  our  heads  we  gaed  linking  awa  the- 
gither — and,  between  you  and  me,  I  was 
glad  o'  his  company  for  more  reasons  than 
one. 

I  never  had  any  idea  before  that  um- 
brellas could  be  such  comfortable  thino-s. 

c 

It  made  it  as  pleasant  owre  our  heads  as  if 
the  sun  had  been  shining  on  us.  Under 
foot  it  wasna  just  so  agreeable,  for  the 
water  was  running  across  the  roads  in 
many  places  just  like  rivers,  and  I  had 
either  to  wade  knee-deep,  or  to  allow 
Peter  to  take  me  up  in  his  arm  and  carry 
me  through,  which  he  did  ;  though  I  was 
very  greatly  put  about  before  1  could 
think  o'  allowinor  him  to  do  it. 

But  I  got  home,  and  when  we  reached 
the  door,  Peter  was  sae  backward  that  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  bid  me  "  good  night," 
without  gaun  into  the  house  wi'  me. 

"  Oh,"  says  J,  "  ye  maunna  gang  awa 
yet — ^for  when  my  mother  hears  o'  yer 
kindness,  if  she  kenned  that  I  had  let  ye 
gang  back  at  the  door  without  askin  ye  in, 
she  would  be  very  angry." 

So  I  got  him  prevailed  up&a  to  gang  in 
wi'  me,  and  when  I  tauld  my  mother  how 
attentive  he  had  been,  and  how  he  had 
borrowed  the  umbrella,  and  accompanied 
me  a'  the  way,  she  didna  ken  where  to  set 
him.  There  was  naething  in  the  house 
that  she  thought  owre  good  for  him.  She 
got  him  to  put  off  his  coat,  and  his  shoon 
and  his  stockings,  and  gied  him  things  o' 
my  brother's  to  put  on.  My  faither  wasna 
at  hame,  I  remember — I  think  he  was  in 
about  Edinburgh  at  the  time.  My  mother 
pressed  Peter  to  stop  and  take  his  supper 
wi'  us  ;  and  he  did  stop,  and  began  to 
gather  more  courage,  and  to  get  the  use  o' 
his  tongue.  The  supper  was  laid  out,  and 
a  hearty  meal  he  made,  and  glad  was  I  to 
see  him  eat  sae  freely.  After  supper,  my 
mother  brought  out  the  bottle  and  gied 
him  a  dram,  and  Peter  drank  baith  our 
very  good  healths. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 


307 


Just  as  he  was  on  his  feet  to  gang  away, 
my  mother  had  to  turn  her  back  for  a 
minute,  and  says  he  to  me,  while  he  keepit 
turning  his  hat  roun<i  about  in  his  hand — 
"  Guid  nicht,  Isabella — when  may  I  come 
back  ao[;ain  r" 

*'  Hoots  !"  said  1,  without  meaninij  the 
slightest  harm,  and  not  for  a  moment  in- 
tending to  forbid  him  to  come  back.  He 
huno;  down  his  head,  and  with  a  sort  o' 
sigh,  gaed  away  without  saying  any  mair. 
But  ni2:ht  after  night  came,  an'  week 
after  week,  an'  I  saw  nae  mair  o'  Peter 
Simpson ;  he  hadna  courage  to  venture 
back  again,  although  it  was  not  my  in- 
tention to  discourage  him  by  saying — 
"Hoots!" 

About  three  months  after  this,  my  mo- 
ther was  suddenly  cut  off  frae  among  us 
and  called  to  her  account.  I  was  naturally 
appointed  housekeeper  in  her  place.  Now, 
we  had  a  windmill  on  the  farm,  and  the 
mill  was  out  o'  repair,  and  the  millwrights 
were  to  come  frae  Dumfries  to  put  it  to 
rights,  and  till  their  job  was  finished  they 
were  to  get  their  meat  in  the  house.  1 
wished  that  Peter  might  be  one  o'  them, 
and  he  was  one  o'  them.  Our  acquaint- 
ance was  renewed.  Peter's  shyness  gra- 
dually wore  away,  and  I  daresay  that,  for 
a  year  and  a  half,  for  five  nights  out  o'  the 
seven,  he  came  regularly  to  see  me.  We 
were  very  happy.  I  liked  him,  and  he 
liked  me.  But  his  faither  sent  him  to  the 
south  for  a  year  or  two,  to  some  great  men 
they  ca'ed  Mr.  Bolton  and  Mr.  Watt,  to 
get  a  thorough  insight  into  his  business 
before  he  sat  him  up  for  himsel.  Hech 
me  !  what  insight  he  got  about  wheels, 
and  mills,  or  machines,  I  canna  tell  ye  ; 
but  he  got  an  unco  insight  into  wicked- 
ness. 

During  his  absence,  my  faither  had 
married  a  second  wife,  which  I  considered 
as  very  disrespectful  to  the  memory  o'  my 
mother,  and  1  was  very  ill  about  it.  I 
was  loath  to  gie  up  the  keys  o'  the  house 
to  a  stranger  that  wasna  meikle  aulder 
than  mysel,  and  to  gie  up  my  situation 


as  housekeeper.  I  didna  like  to  submit 
ta  her  ;  but  my  faither  said  that  I  should 
submit  or  leave  the  house— and  what  could 
I  do  ?  But  I  wearied  for  Peter  to  come 
back,  and,  were  it  for  no  other  reason, 
just  that  I  might  hae  a  house  o' my  ain, 
where  I  might  hae  the  liberty  o'  doing 
what  1  liked  without  being  quarrelled. 

But  Peter  did  come  back,  and  there  was 
a  very  great  change  upon  him  indeed, 
though  not  for  the  better.  He  certainly 
looked  a  great  deai  smarter  than  when  he 
went  away,  and  I  didna  ken  where  he  had 
left  his  former  blateness  ;  but  he  brought 
none  o't  back  wi'  him.  His  language  was 
quite  Englified ;  and,  amongst  other  bad 
practices  which  he  had  acquired,  I  was 
baith  sorry  and  disgusted  to  remark  that 
of  profane  swearing  ! — which  he  actually 
did  as  though  he  werna  conscious  o'  what 
he  was  saying.  0  sir  !  I  think  there  is 
naething  that  makes  a  man  look  mair  de- 
graded and  contemptible  than  this  most 
senseless  o'  a'  sinfu'  practices.  It  is  lower 
than  even  daily  drunkenness.  I  ken  nae- 
fching  sae  bad.  However,  1  must  say  for 
him,  there  seemed  no  abatement  in  his 
affections  for  me  :  and  I  resolved  that,  as 
soon  as  we  were  married,  I  would  cure  him 
o-'  the  bad  practices  he  had  acquired. 

To  my  sorrow  and  surprise,  however, 
ye  might  as  weel  hae  taken  an  adder  by 
the  beard  as  spoken  to  my  faither  o'  our 
marriage.  He  set  himself  tooth  and  nail 
against  it. 

"  Na,  na  !"  said  he  ;  "  if  I  were  to  al- 
low ye  to  throw  yersel  awa  upon  that 
young,  graceless  birkie,  he  would  squander 
away  the  thousand  pounds  that  ye  hae  for 
a  portion,  and  break  your  heart  into  the  ! 
bargain  within  a  twalmonth." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  grat  before  my 
faither  and  tried  to  reason  wi'  him.  I 
might  as  weel  hae  let  my  tears  fall  on  a 
neither  millstone  wi'  the  hope  o'  softening 
it.  Peter  vowed,  however,  that  he  no 
cared  a  snap  o'  his  fingers  for  neither  my 
faither  nor  the  fortune  he  had  to  gie  me — 
that  it  was  me  he  wanted,   and  me  he 


I 


308 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


would  hae.  The  short  and  the  long  o'  the 
story  is,  that,  finding  there  was  nothing  to 
be  made  o'  mj  faither,  and  that  he  wadna 
come  to,  Peter  got  me  to  consent  to  elope 
wi'  him.  My  conscience  tauld  me  that  I 
was  doing  a  daft-like  action,  and  a  thing  1 
wad  maybe  rue.  But  Peter,  according 
to  an  agreement  between  us,  came  to 
my  bedroom  window,  which,  after  some 
hesitation,  when  I  saw  his  frenzy  and  im- 
patience, I  opened,  and  he  threw  up  to 
me  the  queerest  sort  o'  ladder  I  ever  saw. 
It  was  just  bits  o'  sma'  rope  tied  thegither, 
wi'  twa  cleeks  at  the  one  end.  I  had  no 
sooner  done  wi'  it  as  he  desired  me,  than 
up  he  came,  and  whispering  to  me  to  come 
out  at  the  window  and  place  my  foot  on 
it,  I  did  so,  and  he  taking  me  under  his 
arm,  lighted  me  safe  upon  the  ground  in  a 
moment. 

One  o'  his  faither 's  servants  was  stand- 
ing at  a  distance  holding  a  horse,  ready 
saddled  to  carry  two.  I  gat  on  to  the  pad 
bihint  Peter,  and  he  galloped  away  till  he 
came  to  the  side  o'  the  Soiway,  and  there 
I  found  a  boat  was  lying  ready  to  take  us 
across  to  Workington.  Peter  took  out  a 
license,  and  that  day  I  became  Mrs. 
Simpson.  I  heard  that,  when  my  faither 
learned  in  the  morning  that  I  had  run 
away,  he  didna  offer  to  come  after  me,  but 
he  shaked  his  head  and  said — ^'  Aweel ! 
'  they  that  will  to  Cupar  maun  to  Cupar  !' 
Poor  infatuated  lassie  ! — sorrow  will  bring 
her  to  her  hunkers,  and  she  will  be  glad 
to  come  back  to  the  house  that  she  has 
clandestine  left ;  and,  come  when  she  like, 
for  her  mother's  sake,  she  shall  a^^e  find  a 
hame  !" 

He  said  this  when  his  wife  was  not  pre- 
sent. I  hae  often  thought  that  there  is 
something  prophetic  in  a  parent's  words, 
especially  when  they  speak  concerning  the 
consequences  o'  disobedience  ;  and  in  my 
case  1  found  much  o'  what  my  faither  said 
owre  true. 

Peter,  however,  had  begun  business, 
and  he  and  I  set  up  house.  Trade  was 
very  guid  in  the  millwright  line  at  that 


period,  for  thrashing  machines  were  just 
getting  into  vogue,  though  ignorant  folk 
raised  an  unco  outcry  against  them.  My 
husband's  having  been  wi'  the  great  men, 
Mr.  Bolton  and  Mr.  Watt,  threw  a  good 
deal  in  his  way  ;  and,  on  the  second  year 
after  he  began  business,  we  had  fifteen 
journeymen  constantly  employed,  besides 
apprentices.  Now,  Peter  was  very  clever, 
and  everybody  said  that  he  was  turning  out 
a  "  bright  fellow."  Four  years  and  better 
passed  owre  our  heads,  and  I  m  sure  there 
wasna  a  happier  woman  than  me  to  be  met 
wi'  round  the  whole  circumference  o'  the 
globe.  I  had  twa  bits  o'  bairns,  a  laddie 
and  a  lassie,  and  was  likely  to  hae  a  third. 
1  had  got  Peter  so  broken  off  the  evil 
practices  which  he  learned  in  the  south, 
o'  which  I  hae  spoken,  that  he  never  swore, 
except  when  he  was  in  a  passion  ;  and, 
though  that  was  more  frequently  than  I 
wished — for  he  was  of  a  fiery  temper — yet 
it  never  lasted  lang,  and  he  was  always 
sorrow  for  it  afterwards.  Even  my  faither 
heard  sae  meikle  about  his  behavior  and 
j  cleverness,  and  his  affection  for  me  and 
the  bairns,  that  he  called  one  day  at  our 
house,  and,  after  making  an  apology  for 
being  angry  at  our  marriage,  he  actually 
paid  the  thousand  pounds  that  were  to  be 
my  portion,  down  upon  the  nail. 

"  Weel,  as  I  have  said,  this  state  o' 
happiness  continued  for  four  years  and 
better ;  but  it  didna  see  the  fifth  year  out. 
Peter  had  a  job  that  would  take  a  twal- 
month  in  completing,  some  way  in  the 
neighborhood  o'  Durham.  All  our  men, 
save  a  journeyman  and  an  apprentice  or 
two,  were  there,  for  the  work  had  to  be 
finished  by  a  certain  time,  and  Peter  was 
there  himself  also.  He  was  only  to  be 
hame  about  once  a  month ;  and,  for  the 
first  eight  weeks  that  he  was  there,  he  was 
very  attentive  in  writing  every  week,  and 
came  thrice  across  to  see  me  and  the 
bairns.  But,  on  the  ninth  week  we  had 
no  letter,  on  the  tenth  we  had  none,  and 
one  came  on  the  thirte  ^nth.  It  was  mere- 
ly three  or  four  lines  at  the  most,  and  in- 


THli:    DESERTED    WIFE. 


309 


stead  of  beginning  it — "  My  dear  Isabel- 
la^'''' as  all  his  former  letters  began,  (and 
long  letters  they  were),  he  merely  said, 
"  Dear  Wife^'''^  and  informed  mc  that  he 
was  weel,  that  he  hoped  I  would  study 
economy  in  everything  in  his  absence,  and 
gie  his  love  to  the  bairns,  and  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  say  when  he  would  be 
across  to  see  us  again.  I  was  dumfoun- 
dered — I  read  the  letter  asrain  and  anfain, 
and  as  I  read  the  tears  fell  down  my 
cheeks.  "What,"  thought!,  "  can  hae 
possessed  Peter !" 

It  was  ten  weeks  before  I  again  saw  his 
face ;  and  when  he  did  come,  he  was  as 
dour  and  as  ill  natured  as  if  I  had  been 
his  enemy  instead  o'  the  wife  o^  his  bosom, 
and  he  hadna  even  a  pleasant  look  or  a 
pleasant  word  to  gie  to  the  bairns. 

"  0  Peter  !"  says  I,  "  what's  the  matter 
wi'  ye — what  has  happened  ?  Will  ye  no 
tell  me,  yer  ain  wife,  that  wishes  nae  mair 
than  to  share  wi'  you  whether  it  be  j  3y  or 
sorrow  !  Is  the  job  likely  to  be  a  loss  to 
ve— ^or  what  ?'' 

"  Haud  your  tongue,  ye  silly  woman, 
ye  !"  said  he — "  why  do  ye  trouble  me  wi' 
your  nonsense  ?" 

"  0  Peter  !"  said  I,  "this  behavior  o' 
yours  is  distressing  me  beyont  measure. 
Will  ye  no  tell  me  what  is  the  cause  o't, 
or  if  1  can  do  onything  to  mak  ye  hap- 
pier f^" 

"  Get  oot  o'  my  sicht  ?"  cried  he  ;  "I 
tell  ye  get  out  o'  my  sicht ! — and  if  ony- 
thing will  mak  me  happier  that  will !" 

My  heart  was  ready  to  burst ;  my  poor 
bosom  heaved  like  a  bird's  that  has  been 
pursued  by  a  hawk,  till  it  falls  upon  the 
ground.  1  sank  down  upon  the  chair,  and 
I  was  only  able  to  cry  to  our  auldest  bairn 
— "  O  hinny,  bring  me  a  drink  o'  water  !'' 
And  the  words  were  hardly  out  o'  my  lips 
when  I  swooned  clean  away. 

I  had  an  infant  o'  nine  weeks  auld  at 
the  time  ;  but  Peter  shewed  nae  regard 
for  either  the  bit  tender  lammie  or  its  mo- 
ther. He  went  out  o'  the  house,  driving 
the  doors  behint  him.  and  that  very  night 


set  out  for  Durham  ajrain.  I  thought  the 
change  in  his  conduct  would  be  my  death, 
and  I  tried  in  vain  to  imagine  what  could 
be  the  reason  o'  it.  It  laid  me  bedfast 
for  a  fortnight,  and  the  poor  infant  at  my 
bosom  began  to  dwine  through  the  effects 
o'  my  illness. 

Ten  miserable  and  anxious  weeks  pass- 
ed, and  Peter  neither  came  to  see  us,  nor 
wrote,  nor  sent  us  siller  for  our  support. 
1  was  tempted  to  mention  the  circum- 
stances to  my  faither,  and  to  ask  his  ad- 
vice ;  but  i  thought  again  that  it  might  be 
making  bad  worse,  and  that  it  was  be>st  for 
me  as  a  wife  and  mother  to  keep  my  sor- 
rows to  mysel,  without  making  them  a 
world's  talk.  So  I  buried  my  misery  and 
anxiety  in  my  own  heart,  and  no  one  knew 
of  it  from  me,  save  from  the  unco  chano-e 
that  had  been  wrought  upon  my  appear- 
ance. But  my  heart  was  for  ever  sick, 
and  my  bit  infant,  through  the  effect  o' 
my  misery,  died  in  my  arms. 

I  got  word  sent  to  Peter,  but  he  didna 
come  to  assist  or  comfort  me  in  my  dis- 
tress, until  within  half  an  hour  o'  the  time 
set  for  lifting  the  corpse.  When  I  saw 
him  enter  the  house,  1  wrung  my  hands, 
and  cried  "  O  Peter  !"  and  got  up  to  meet 
him — to  throw  my  head  upon  his  breast — 
for  I  thought  it  might  still  find  comfort 
there  ;  but  he  said  coldly — "  Compose 
yourself!"  And  without  even  coming  for- 
ward to  meet  me,  or  to  shake  hands  wi' 
me,  he  took  a  chair  aid  sat  down.  His 
manner,  his  cauld  words,  went  like  an  ar- 
row through  my  miserable  bosom.  I  wish- 
ed to  be  wi'  my  dead  infant,  and  I  sank 
back  upon  a  seat  and  sobbed  aloud. 

When  the  funeral  was  owre,  and  the 
folk  had  left  the  house,  he  got  up  and 
said — "  I  haena  time  to  stop.  The  work 
must  be  got  forward,  and  the  men  can  do 
nothing  till  I  am  wi'  them  again  in  the 
moi'ning.  Therefore  I  maun  bid  ye  good- 
day." 

"O  Peter!  Peter!"  cried  I,  "  will  ye 
leave  me  in  the  midst  o'  mj  affliction  ! 
what  hae  I  dune,  dear,  that  ye  should  be 


310 


TALES   OF   THE  BORDERS. 


sae  changed  to  me  ?  There  was  a  time 
when  ye  waclna  used  me  in  this  way  Only 
let  me  ken  my  fault  and  thsre  is  nacthing 
in  this  wide  world  that  I  winna  do  to  mend 
it." 

"  Ye  talk  as  a  fool,  woman  !"  said  he. 

''  No,  Peter,"  1  answered,  "  I  dinna 
talk  as  a  fool ;  but  I  talk  as  a  heart  broken 
wife  and  a  mourning  mother.  Wee'  do 
ye  ken  that  I  would  lay  the  hair  o'  my 
head  beneath  your  feet  to  serve  ye  ;  and 
there  was  a  time  when  ye  would  hae  done 
as  meikle  for  me.  But  its  no  the  case  wi' 
ye  now — and,  O  Peter  ! — what — what  is 
the  reason  ?  What  hae  I  dune  to  offend 
ye.^" 

"  Are  ye  dementit,  Bella,  or  what  is  the 
matter  wi'  ye  .^"  said  he,  crossly  ;  "  I  tell 
ye  I  am  bound  to  get  the  work  forward — 
it  will  be  at  a  stand  if  I  stop  here.  There- 
fore, 1  hae  nae  time  to  be  tormented  wi' 
yer  nonsense,  and  so — good  day  !" 

"  Peter  ! — husband  !"  I  cried,  and  flung 
my  arms  round  his  neck — "  do  you  mean 
to  kill  me  outright  ?  Oh  !  by  the  love  ye 
once  bore  me,  and  by  the  vows  ye  made, 
dinna  drive  me  from  your  breast  as  if  I 
were  a  serpent.  I  am  the  mother  o'  yer 
bairns,  Peter — her  that  ye  used  to  say  was 
dearer  to  ye  than  your  own  existence — 
and  how  can  ye  treat  me  sae  now  .''''  He 
kissed  my  cheek,  and  for  a  moment  I 
thought  I  saw  tears  in  his  een.  But  he 
shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  saying,  "  I 
canna  stop,"  broke  away  frae  me,  and  left 
me  to  my  misery. 

A  thousand  hopes  and  suspicions  now 
began  to  rise  up  in  my  mind  and  torment 
me.  I  was  the  most  unhappy  woman  un- 
der the  sun.  Yet  I  couldna  bring  mysel 
to  believe  ill  o'  Peter.  1  never  saw  his 
face  again  until  the  job  was  finished,  and 
he  very  seldom  wrote,  and  only  sent  a 
pound  note  or  sae  now  and  then,  for  the 
support  o'  mo  and  the  bairns. 

When  the  concern  at  Durham  was  finish- 
ed, he  got  another  in  Cheshire,  which  I 
heard  would  be  two  or  three  years  in  com- 
pleting.    The  whole  o'  baith  his  men  and 


apprentices  were  there  wi'  him  ;  and,  in  a 
short  time,  he  dropped  sending  the  bit 
pound  note  now  and  then  ;  and  it  was  wi' 
a  sair,  sair  struggle,  that  I  could  get  bread 
for  my  bairns,  or  make  a  decent  appear- 
ance ;  and  1  thought  that  I  would  now  be 
compelled  to  make  known  a'  my  sorrows 
to  my  faith er. 

But  what  I  had  lang  dreaded,  though  I 
couldna  wrang  Peter  by  believing  it  pos- 
sible, was  revealed  to  me  like  a  clap  o' 
thunder.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Montgomery, 
who  was  a  very  particular  acquaintance  o' 
mine  ;  and,  though  I  had  never  hinted  a 
word  o'  my  griefs  to  her,  but  tried  to  look 
cheerfu'  when  the  canker-worm  was  eating 
at  my  very  heart,  she  saw  that  I  had  a  se- 
cret sorrow  in  my  breast,  and  that  I  was 
pining  under  neglect.  She  was  in  very 
comfortable  circumstances,  and  she  had  an 
only  son,  and  he  was  an  apprentice  wi' 
Peter,  and  was  working  wi'  him  in  Che- 
shire. She  had  invited  the  twa  bairns  and 
me  to  spend  the  afternoon  wi'  her,  and 
take  a  dish  o'  tea.  But,  just  as  the  lass 
had  brought  in  the  tray,  we  heard  a  heavy 
foot  on  the  stairs,  and  in  came  Mrs. 
Montgomery's  son,  tired-looking,  broken 
down,  and  foot-sore. 

"Johnny! — my  bairn!"  said  his  mo- 
ther, "  what's  brought  ye  the  noo  f  Ye 
haena  broken  your  'prenticeship  !"  The 
bit  callant  said  he  had  to  run  away,  vn' 
the  ill  usage  o'  his  mister  and  inislress ! 

"  Mistress!  laddie!"  I  gasped — ''what 
— what  do  ye  mean  .^" 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  quoth  the  laddie, 
"  that  he  is  a  bad  man,  and  has  another 
wife  besides  you,  ma'am,  and  a  family 
too  !" 

"  0  Peter  ! — cruel  Peter  !"  I  cried,  and 
I  fell  down  upon  the  floor  as  if  I  were 
dead. 

It  was  wi'  great  difiiculty  that  Mrs, 
Montgomery  could  restore  me  to  con- 
sciousness, or  bring  me  to  onything  like 
composure.  But  she  kindly  pressed  me 
if  there  was  ony  way  in  which  she  could 
serve  me,  and  1  borrowed  from  her  a  five 


THE    DESERTED  WIFE. 


311 


pound  note,  and  the  next  morning,  before 
onybodj  was  astir,  I  locked  up  the  house, 
and  wi'  one  bairnie  in  my  arms,  and  the 
other  leading  in  my  hand,  I  took  the  Car- 
lisle road  to'the  south.  Sometimes  we  got 
a  cast  in  a  carrier's  cart,  or  went  a  stage 
or  twa  in  the  coachas  that  overtook  us  on  I 
the  road,  but  for  the  most  part  I  walked  | 
on  foot,  carryinn:  my  helpless  bairns.  At 
length,  after  a  weary  journey,  we  reached 
Macclesfiald,  which  was  tha  name  o'  the 
town  where  Peter  was  ;  and  when  I  was 
there,  I  had  great  difficulty  to  learn  ony- 
thing  concerning  him;  but  at  last  1  in 
quired  at  an  ii-onmongcr's  shop,  and  I  was 
informed  there  that  he  lived  about  a  mile 
and  a  half  down  the  river — and  I  think 
they  ca'ed  the  river  the  Bodlin.  Sae,  wi' 
my  bairnies  toddlin'  and  tired  by  my  side, 
for  I  was  sae  fatia;u9d  that  1  couldna  carry 
them,  I  gaed  away  down  by  the  river  to 
seek  for  him.  My  laddie,  tired  as  he  was, 
poor  thing,  hirpled  away  about  a  dozsn  o' 
yards  before  me,  pulling  at  the  gowans  and 
other  flowers,  and  every  now  and  then  cry- 
ing to  me — ''O  mother,  here's  a  bonny 
ane  ! — 111  gie  my  faither  this  ! — will  it  be 
lang  or  we  see  him  noo  ? 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "  it  winna  be 
lan^:  noo."  And  the  tears  were  hailinsr 
down  my  cheeks  as  I  spoke. 

But,  as  I  was  saying,  my  bairn  was 
about  a  dozen  o'  yards  before  me,  and  he 
was  just  turning  a  sort  o'  corner,  when  he 
cried  out — "  Mother  !  mother  ! — here's 
my  faither  coming  tO'  meet  us  !" 

My  broken  heart  louped  to  my  mouth. 
I  cried — "  O  hinny  !  hinny  ! — what  da  you 
say.'"  But,  as  I  spoke,  I  got  to  the  cor- 
ner, and  there,  within  a  half  a  stone  throw 
o'  me,  did  I  see  Peter — my  husband  !  — 
wi'  a  lang  yellow  hizzy,  dressed  like  a 
queen,  linked  to  his  arm,  and  a  servant 
wench  carrying  a  bairn  behint  them  ! 

I  saw  my  laddie  running  wi'  his  hands 
out  to  meet  him,  and  1  heard  him  crying 
— "  Faither  !  faither  ! — here's  my  mother 
and  my  sister  !" 

But  my  poor  dazied  head  swam  round. 


1  could  hear,  I  could  see  nae  mair ;  and, 
wi'  a  scream  o'  misery,  I  fell  senseless  on 
the  green  grass.  As  1  began  to  recover, 
I  felt  cauld  water  pouring  on  my  breast 
and  face,  and  when  I  open  my  een,  it  was 
Peter  that  did  it.  Even  then,  I  could  hae 
forgien  him  a'  that  was  passed,  and  1  tried 
to  rise,  and,  stretching  out  my  hand  to 
him,  said,  affectionately,  but  not  upbraid- 
ingly— "  O  Peter  !" 

"Woman!"  said  he,  and  he  looked 
fiercely  as  an  angry  lion,  and  his  teeth 
were  grating  one  upon  another,  "  why  hae 
ye  come^  here  to  torment  and  persecute 
me  ?  Go  back  to  your  faither's — go  where 
you  like — take  your  bairns  wi'  je — 1  will 
gie  jow  and  them  a  maintenance  ;  but 
never  let  me  see  your  face  again." 

My  poor  bairns  were  screaming  round 
about  me,  thev  were  kissins;  me  and  cling- 
ing  round  my  neck.  The  strength  and 
the  presence  o'  mind  wi' which  I  was  then 
inspired  surprises  me  to  this  moment.  I 
rose  upon  my  feet,  I  looked  him  brent  in 
the  face,  and  his  guiltiness  made  him  hang 
down  his  head  before  me. 

"  Peter,"  said  I,  "if  I  am  not  worthy 
o'  yer  heart,  I  winna  accept  o'  bread  at 
yer  hands.  For  thir  dear  bairns  that  I 
hae  borne,  I  am  ready  to- beg  to  the  world's 
end.  I  will  work  for  them  till  the  nails 
fa'  frae  my  fingers ;  but  I  will  die,  Peter, 
and  they  shall  perish  for  want,  before  they 
taste  a  morsel  o'  your  providing  !  Fare- 
weel !  cruel,  ungratefu'  man  ! — and  may 
ye  never  feel  the  pangs  o'  the  poor  heart 
that  ye  hae  broken!" 

"Villain  that  I  am  !"  he  cried.  And 
striking  his  clenched  hand  upon  his  brow, 
he  left  me  and  my  bairns. 

Where  the  hizzy  that  I  saw  wi'  him, 

\  and  her   servant   and   bairn,  were  a'  the 

time,  I  didna   see,   and   I   didna    inquire. 

But  not  to  fatigue  you,  sir,  wi'  a  lang 

1  story — I   had  husbanded   the  five  pounds 

i  that  Mrs.   Montgomery  lent  me  in  such  a 

I  way  that  I  thought   I   had  enough  left  to 

I  carry  me    back    again    to   Dumfriesshire. 

We  had  reached  within  a  mile  o'  Preston, 


312 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


when  wha  should  we  meet  upon  horseback, 
but  mj  auld  faither  coming  to  look  after 
us  !  Mrs.  Montgomery  had  informed  him 
o'  the  whole  particulars,  and  he  nae  sooner 
heard  o'  them  than  he  set  out  to  see  that 
nae  harm  was  done  to  his  Isabella.  The 
auld  grey-haired  man  jumped  down  frae 
his  horse,  and  grat  upon  my  neck  like  a 
bairn.  He  sent  us  by  the  next  coach  to 
Carlisle  ;  and  he  took  me  and  my  bairns 
hame  wi'  him ;  and  there  I  found  that  a 
good  mother  was  my  step-mother  to  me  in 
my  distress :  and  she  was  mair  than  a 
grandmother  to  my  bairns. 

When  my  son  was  about  eighteen,  my 
father  died ;  and  besides  the  portion  that 
I  had  got  after  my  marriage,  he  bequeath- 
ed to  me  in  his  will  what  had  been  an  in- 
dependence. 

I  had  heard  nothing  about  my  husband 
for  nearly  twenty  years.  I  didna  ken 
whether  he  was  dead  or  living.  But  my 
son  took  a  fancy  for  the  sea ;  and,  before 
he  was  twenty-one,  he  was  a  ship  captain 
in  the  American  trade.  His  vessel  was 
lying  at  New  York,  when  there  was  a 
middle-aged  broken-down  man — one  that 


seemed  to  be  mined  both  in  health  and 
circumstances — came  aboard  and  begged 
for  the  sake  o'  Heaven  that  he  would  gie 
him  a  passage  to  England.  My  son  asked 
him  several  questions,  and,  O  sir  !  sir  ! — 
he  discovered  that  the  poor  beggar  before 
him  was  his  own  faither  — his  thoughtless 
faither  !  He  didna  chide  him,  he  didna 
upbraid  him — for  oh,  it  is  a  terrible  thing 
for  a  son  to  speak  like  a  condemning  judge 
to  a  faither.  1  needna  tell  ye  that  he 
brought  him  hame — that  he  did  everything 
to  restore  him  to  health  and  happiness — 
and  even  brought  him  as  a  criminal  before 
me.  But  I  kenned  him  at  the  first  glance, 
and  welcomed  him  wi'  open  arms. 

"O  Isabella!  Isabella!"  he  cried,  and 
fell  at  my  feet. 

'•  Husband  !  husband  !"  said  I,  helping 
our  son  to  raise  him  up,  "  there  is  joy 
owre  those  that  repent.  Welcome  ! — wel- 
come !" 

He  lived  for  twelve  years  after  this,  and 
he  died  a  sincere  penitent,  wi'  his  head 
upon  my  bosom,  and  his  hand  in  my  hand, 
imploring  a  blessing  upon  me  and  his 
bairns. 


THE    INTENDED    BRIDEGROOMS. 


When  we  inform  the  public  that  they  may 
rely  upon  the  truth  of  the  following  story, 
which  tells  a  pregnant  moral,  and  points 
to  the  consequences  of  a  vice  for  which 
our  country  (unfortunately)  stands  pre- 
eminent among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
we  have,  perhaps,  done  as  much  for  the 
cause  of  sobriety  as  could  be  efi"ected  by 
the  proudest  triumph  of  the  moral  teacher. 
The  vice  of  drunkenness  is  too  often  repro- 
bated only  for  its  effects  on  the  moral  and 
physical  health,  and  the  worldly  interests 
of  the  unhappy  votaries  themselves ;  but 


there  are  evils  beyond  these,  which  extend 
their  influence  far  and  wide  throughout 
society — dissolving  endearing  links,  entail- 
ing misery  and  death  on  those  who  are 
nearest  and  dearest  to  the  deluded  victims ; 
and  only  repented  of  when  all  is  beyond 
the  hope  of  cure  or  amendment. 

Walter  Brown  and  James  ]\Iaitland  had 
been  intimate  friends  from  their  boyhood. 
They  had  gone  through  the  progressive 
classes  of  the  grammar  school  together, 
and  together  had  completed  their  ed- 
ucation  at   the   univer.-:ity.     They   enter- 


THE   INTENDED  BRIDEGROOMS. 


313 


ed  it  on  the  same  day,  and  on  the  same 
day  left  it.  Unlike  many  of  the  friend- 
ships of  youth,  however,  that  of  Brown 
and  Maitland  did  not  terminate  with  their 
educational  course  ;  it  continued  with  un- 
abated warmth  and  sincerity  after  they  had 
entsred  into  the  world  and  begun  to  share 
in  its  perplexities  and  troubles  But  of 
these  perplexities  and  troubles,  it  must  be 
confassed,  neither  of  the  young  men  had 
by  any  means  an  undue  proportion.  Their 
fathers  were  both  wealthy,  and  thus  was 
their  way  smoothed  to  prosperity. 

It  Was  about  this  period — that  is,  after 
Brown  and  Maitland  had  entered  inco  the 
world — that  I  became  acquainted  with 
them.  It  was  in  the  year  IS — .  This 
acquaintance  soon  ripened  into  a  sincere 
and  cordial  friendship.  It  was  impossible 
it  could  be  otherwise,  at  least  on  my  part, 
for  they  were  both  excellent  young  men  ; 
highly  educated  and  accomplished  ;  pos-  i 
sessed  of  first  rate  abilities,  amiable  in 
their  disposition,  and  of  noble  and  gene- 
rous natures  ;  in  short,  they  were  altoge- 
ther two  as  fine  young  fellows   as  the  city 

of    G— could    produce.      They   we^e 

both,  at  this  time,  about  five-and-twenty 
years  of  age.  As  there  were  many  points 
of  similaiity  between  them,  and  many 
striking  coincidences  in  various  circum- 
stances, so  did  this  sort  of  parallel  progres- 
sion continue  after  they  had  entered  into 
life.  They  fell  in  love  nearly  at  the  same 
time  ;  and,  after  a  courtship  of  some 
month  or  two's  continuance — during  all 
which  time  they  had  made  confidants  of 
each  other,  and  faithfully  reported  pro- 
gress, from  time  to  time,  as  they  advanced 
in  their  suits — they  determined  on  "  pop- 
ping the  question  "  on  the  same  day,  and, 
if  favorably  answered,  that  the  same  day 
should  see  them  united. 

The  objects  of  their  choice  were  both 
beautiful  and  accomplished  girls,  and  pos- 
sessed of  considerable  fortunes.  1  knew 
them  intimately,  and  was  perfectly  aware 
of  the  relationship  in  which  thoy  stood  to 
my  two  friends  ;  for   I,  too,  was   made  a 


confidant  in  this  matter,  and  was  occasion- 
ally informed   by  the   young  men   them- 
selves of  the  progress  of  thair  courtships. 
This  attachment  at    length   came  to   the 
usual  crisis  where  the  course  of  true  love 
does  run    smooth.     The    lovers    declared 
themselves,  and   were  accepted   with    the 
full  and   free    consent    of   all    interested. 
The  matches  were  thought  highly  eligible 
on  all  sides.     I  have  already  said  that  my 
friends  had  agreed  to   "  propose  "  on  the 
same  day  ;  nay,  they  reduced  this  under- 
standing, as  nearly  as  they  possibly  could, 
to  the  same  hour.     To  this  arrangement  I 
was   made    privy  ;    and    it    was    agreed 
amongst  us   that  they  should  meet   in   my 
room  immediately  after  the  important  in- 
terview had  taken  place,  and  then  and  there 
announce  to  each  other  the  results  of  their 
respective  overtures.     The  hour  of  meet- 
ing at  my  apartments  was   fixed  for   eight 
o'clock  in   the   evening  ;    and  at   six  the 
lovers  repaired  to  their  mistresses.      Feel- 
ing deeply  interested  in  the   proceedings 
of  my  friends  on  this  eventful  night,  it  was 
with  no   little   impatience  and    anxiety    1 
waited  for  their  appearance  as  the  hour  of 
eight  approached.      I  tried  to  beguile  the 
time  by  reading,  but  it  would  not  do  ;  the 
intense  curiosity  I  felt  as  to  the  results  of 
the  affair   on   the   tapis  with  my  friends, 
prevented  me  applying  my  mind  to  any- 
thing but  wandering   speculations  on  the 
deeply   interesting   matter  in   which   they 
were  engaged.      While  I  was  thus  employ- 
ed the  appointed  hour   struck  ;  and,  in  a 
few  minutes  after,  I  heard  a  rapid  foot  on 
the  stair.     1  knew  it  to  be  either  Maitland 
or   Brown  ;    and  I  augured  well    for  the 
happiness  of  the  party,  whichever  of  them 
it  was,  from  the  lightness  and  vivacity  of 
his  footsteps.      I  was  right  in  my  conjec- 
ture as  to  the  coming  visiter  :  in  a  second 
after,  Maitland,  with  a  face   radiant   with 
joy,  and  with  a  loud  expression  of  exulta- 
tion, burst  into  my  room. 

"  Ah  !  ha !  Bob,"  said  I,  stretching 
out  my  hand  to  him,  "  I  see  I  may  wish 
you   joy.      You  need  not  say  a  word    on 


311 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


the  subject;    your    looks  tell  the  happy 
tale." 

"  Right,  right,    Tom,"   replied   Mait- 
land,  seizing  my  hand  with  wild  glee  ;  "  1 
am    a  happy  man.     It's   all  settled  with 
father   and    all.      But   what's    become  of 
Brown.?     I   hope,  poor   fellow,  he's  been 
as  successful  as   I   have   been ;    it  would 
lessen  my  happiness  greatly  if  he  wasn't." 
The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  iVl  ait- 
land's  mouth,  when  Brown  also  burst  into 
the  apartment ;   and  his  countenance  also 
told  a  tale  of  success.     He  was  in  exube- 
rant  spirits  ;    and   a  furious    shaking    of 
hands  and  noisy  interchange  of  congratu- 
lation marked  the  felicity  of  the  trio  ;  for 
I,  too,  rejoiced  by  sympathy  in  the  happi- 
ness of  my  friend  :  and,  though  not  perso- 
nally interested  in  the  events  of  the  evening, 
was  scarcely  less  obstreperous  in  my  glee. 
It  was  now  proposed,  I  think  by  Brown, 
that  we  should  instanter  adjourn  to  a  cer- 
tain well-known  tavern  in  the  city,  and 
conclude  the  joyous  evening  by  a  supper. 
I,  for  some  time,  stoutly  resisted  this  pro- 
posal, insisting  that    they  should  remain 
where  they  were,  and  sup  with  me.  Would 
to   God    they   had    complied  ! — for,   had 
they  done  so,  the  fearful  scene  which  after- 
wards occurred  would  not  have  taken  place. 
But  it  was  otherwise  ordered.     My  friends 
would  not  listen  to  my  proposal  of  their  re- 
maiuino;  with  me  ;  and  threatened,  jocular- 
ly, that,  if  I  did  not  accompany  them  of  my 
own  accord,  they  would  carry  me  by  force. 
"  You   must  come   and   sup   with   us, 
Tom,"  said    Maitland  ;    ^' you    must;  so 
don't  compel  us  to  use  violence.     Why, 
man,  we're  such  happy  dogs  to-night,  that 
no  man  can  with  safety  deny  us  anything." 
Seeing  it  useless  to  make  any  further  ob- 
jections or  resistance,  I  at  length  consent- 
ed to  accompany  them  ;  and  away,  accord- 
ingly, we  went  in  high  spirits  to  the  tavern 
alluded  to.     Supper  was  ordered  and  dis- 
patched.    A  bottle  of  wine  followed,  then 
another,  and  another,  till   it  became    evi- 
dent, in  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  that  we 
had  attained  a  crisis,  and  could  not  possi- 


bly hold  out  much  longer.     We  were   all, 
in  short,  very  tipsy  ;  and  our  mirth,  par- 
taking, of  course,  of  the  character  of  our 
condition,    was    noisy    and      outrageous. 
Feeling,  at  length,  that  we  had  reached  a 
consummation,  and  aware  that  the  hour  was 
late  (it  might  be  about  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning),  we  arose,   paid   our   reckoning, 
and  left  the  house.     On  gaining  the  street, 
we  o-ave  full  swingr  to  the  excitation  which 
a  sense  of  propriety   had   kept   somewhat 
under  while  we  remained  in  the    tavern, 
and  shouted  and  sans;  as  other  fools  do  in 
similar    circumstances  ;      that     is,    when 
laboring  under    the   insanity  of  intempe- 
rance.     In  this  way,  we  came  noisily  and 
joyously  along,  until  we  arrived    in    front 
of  the  house  in  which  Maitland  lived.     It 
was  his  father's,  and  lay  directly  in  our  way. 
"  Now,  my  friends,"  said   Maitland,  as 
we  were  about  to  bid  him  good  night,  "  we 
will  not  part  yet.     My  father   is   not  at 
home,  and  there's   nobody   in   the    house 
but  an  old  woman  ;  so  you'll  just  go   up 
with  me,  and  we'll  have  one  single  tumbler 
before  we  part.     I'll  promise  you  a  glass 
of  as  fine  old  rum  as  ever  came   from  Ja- 
maica." 

This  proposal  I  met  with  a  decided  ne- 
gative. Not  so  Brown  :  he  at  once  closed 
with  it. 

"  Faith,  we  shall,  we  shall.  Bob,"  he 
said  ;  "  we'll  have  one  tumbler  of  your  old 
stingo.  Our  bachelor  days  are  nearly  at 
a  close  now,  and  we'll  see  them  merrily 
out." 

Saying  this,  he  seized  me  by  the  collar 
on  one  side,  while  Maitland  did  the  same 
by  the  other  ;  and  thus  was  I  forcibly 
dragged  into  the  house.  I  determined, 
however,  to  drink  no  more,  but  to  wait 
patiently  till  my  friends  should  think  fit  to 
close  the  scene  of  their  own  accord.  The 
old  housekeeper  having  been  roused  from 
her  bed,  tumblers,  glasses,  and  hot  water 
were  soon  produced  ;  and  to  these  Mait- 
land himself  added  a  bottle  of  rum,  which 
he  took  from  an  adjoining  closet.  In  a 
few  minutes  my  two  friends  had  each  mix- 


THE  INTENDED  BRIDEGROOMS. 


315 


ed  up  a  large  tumbler  ;  and,  at  their  ob- 
streperous importunities,  I  also  mixed  up 
one  ;  but  I  resolved  not  to  taste  it ;  and 
neither  did  I — a  dereliction  which  escaped 
the  notice  of  my  companions,  who,  satisfied 
by  seeing  me  with  a  dose  before  me,  forgot 
to  compel  me  to  swallow  it.  This,  how- 
ever, was  a  proceeding  which  they  did  not 
forget.  In  a  very  short  time,  both  of 
their  tumblers  were  drained  to  the  bottom, 
and  another  couple  prepared.  It  was  at 
this  moment  that  I  first  observed  a  curious 
change  in  the  manner  of  Brown  :  he  all  at 
once  became  strangely  incoherent — an  in- 
coherence that  appeared  to  me  more  like 
that  of  insanity  than  intoxication.  It  is 
true  that  this  is  a  common,  nay,  a  neces- 
sary consequence  of  the  latter  ;  and  it  is 
true  also  that  Brown  had  drunk  quite 
enough  to  account  for  it ;  but  there  was  a 
peculiarity,  a  wildness  in  his  incoherence, 
that  both  surprised  and  alarmed  me.  He 
did  not  seem  to  know  where  he  was,  who 
he  was  with,  or  what  he  was  doing.  Nor 
was  this  state  accompanied  by  the  physical 
imbecility  or  sottish  lethargy  which  usually 
characterizes  excessive  inebriety  ;  on  the 
contrary,  his  animal  energies  seemed  un- 
naturally increased.  He  was  furious,  al- 
though not  ill-natured  ;  and  his  unsettled 
eye  roved  about  with  a  wild  expression, 
and  with  restless  activity.  It  might  be, 
that  all  this  was  merely  the  efibcts  of  in- 
toxication— and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  there  lay  its  origin  ;  but  I  had  never 
seen  such  efiects  before  from  the  same 
cause. 

I  have  already  casually  adverted  to  one 
feature  of  Brown's  case — his  not  seeming 
to  know  whom  he  was  with.  This  obli- 
viousness came  suddenly  upon  him  ;  for, 
but  an  instant  before,  he  had  been  addres- 
sing both  Maitland  and  I  by  our  names. 
In  a  moment  after,  he  stared  at  us  alter- 
nately, with  a  wild  and  inquiring  look.  It 
was  evident  he  did  not  recognise  us.  I 
now,  by  signs,  called  Maitland's  attention 
to  the  condition  of  our  friend  ;  and  he  ac- 
knowledged the  communication,   by  pro- 


posing, in  an  afibcted  off-hand  manner,  as 
it  was  now  so  late,  and  the  mornins:  so 
wet  (it  was  at  this  moment  raining  heavi- 
ly),  that  we  should  not  leave  the  house  at 
all,  but  take  our  beds  with  him.  To  this 
proposal,  thinking  it  advisable  on  Brown's 
account,  I  at  once  agreed,  and  suggested 
that  we  should  retire  to  bed  immediately. 
Brown  made  no  remark  on  his  friend's 
suggestion  that  he  should  remain  all  night ; 
he  neither  dissented  from  nor  approved  of 
it,  but  seemed  quite  passive,  and  willino" 
to  submit  to  any  arrangement  that  we 
chose  to  make.  Taking  advantage  of  this 
apparent  pliancy  and  indifference,  we  con- 
ducted him  to  a  sofa,  which  was  in  the 
apartment,  as  the  most  convenient  resting- 
place  for  him ;  and  having  desired  the 
housekeeper  to  bring  in  some  bed-clothes, 
we  covered  him  up,  and  left  him,  as  we 
thought,  snug  for  the  remainder  of  the 
night.  Having  thus  disposed  of  our  friend, 
Maitland  and  1  retired  to  bed,  as  did  also 
the  old  housekeeper ;  and,  in  a  few  min- 
utes, all  was  quiet  in  the  house.  I  almost 
immediately  fell  into  a  profound  sleep,  and 
might  have  been  thus  for  about  an  hour, 
when  I  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  vio- 
lent noise  in  the  apartment  in  which  Brown 
was.  He  had  got  up,  and  was  overturning 
everything  he  came  across  in  the  room, 
and  shouting  violently.  I  listened  for  a 
moment,  and  heard  him  demanding  to  be 
let  out,  and  threatening  the  demolition  of 
everything  within  his  reach,  if  he  was  not ; 
and  he  was  already  acting  on  his  threat, 
by  smashing  pictures  and  mirrors,  and 
everything  else  that  came  into  his  hands 
that  he  could  destroy.  But  his  great  ob- 
ject seemed  to  be  to  get  out  ;  and  he  ap- 
peared the  more  bent  on  this,  that  he  did 
not  yet  know  where  he  was.  Of  this  he 
had  no  idea,  as  I  perceived  from  his  out- 
rageous and  incoherent  expressions.  He 
seemed,  however,  to  be  under  an  impres- 
sion that  he  was  forcibly  detained  by  some 
persons  ;  and,  conceiving  himself  ill-used, 
was  in  a  furious  rage. 

Alarmed    at   the    destruction   he  was 


316 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


making,  I  hastily  arose,  and,  finding  my 
way  to  where  Maitland  slept,  I  awoke 
hirn  ;  for  he  was  sound  asleep,  and  had 
heard  nothing  of  the  noise  and  ruin  -which 
his  friend  was  occasioning. 

"  He  must  be  let  out  instantly,"  said  T, 
"  or  he'll  destroy  everything  in  the  room. 
I  wonder  he  did  not  find  the  way  out  him- 
self, for  I  heard  him  working  at  the  handle 
of  the  door." 

"  Oh,  I  locked  it,"  said  Maitland,  "  for 
fear  he  should  get  up  through  the  night 
and  leave  the  house."  Here,  then,  was  in 
part  explained  the  cause  of  Brown's  outra- 
geous passion.  He  had  found  himself 
locked  in,  and  this  had  irritated  him,  and 
inspired  him  with  the  notion  of  his  being 
forcibly  detained. 

"  But  we  must  let  him  out  instantly," 
said  I. 

"  Oh,  surely,  surely,"  replied  Mait- 
land, leaping  on  the  floor  ;  "  but  go  you 
to  bed,  Tom — no  occasion  for  you  disturb- 
ing yourself;  I'll  pacify  him  in  a  minute 
— and  perhaps  the  more  readily  that  none 
are  present  but  ourselves."  Saying  this, 
he  hurried  away  in  his  night-gown  to  the 
apartment  in  which  Brown  was  confined, 
while  1  retired,  as  he  recommended,  to 
bed,  and  listened  for  the  result  of  Mait- 
land's  proceedings.  The  house  was  a  large 
one,  with  a  very  long  passage  running 
down  the  centre  ;  and,  as  Brown's  apart- 
ment was  at  the  further  end,  I  could  not 
hear  distinctly  what  passed  ;  but  I  was 
surprised  at  a  sudden  cessation  of  all  noise 
in  Brown's  room,  the  moment  Maitland's 
footsteps  approaching  it  by  the  passage 
became  audible.  It  seemed  as  if  Brown 
had  become  silent  on  discoverins;  that 
some  one  was  moving  towards  him  ;  and 
this  perfect  silence  he  maintained  while 
his  friend  was  for  sometime  unsuccessfully 
endeavoring  to  introduce  the  key  into  the 
key-hole  ;  neither  did  he  make  any  reply 
to,  or  take  any  notice  whatever  of  the  ex- 
pressions which  Maitland  was,  from  time 
to  time,  addressing  to  him  from  the  out- 
side, while  employed  in  searching  for  the 


key-hole.  I  considered  the  circumstance 
odd,  and,  without  being  able  to  account 
for  it,  felt  uneasy  at  it.  At  length,  while 
listening  with  intense  anxiety  for  the  issue, 
1  heard  the  key  enter  the  lock,  I  heard 
the  door  opening,  and,  in  the  next  instant, 
heard — I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  with 
what  sensations — the  cry,  uttered  in  a  wild 
unearthly  voice,  "  I  am  murdered!  I  am 
murdered  !"  The  voice  was  Maitland's. 
I  leaped  frantically  from  my  bed,  and 
rushed  along  the  passage.  I  met  my  un- 
fortunate friend  coming  towards  me.  He 
was  starracerinf!:.  "  A  lia'ht !  a  li^ht!"  he 
exclaimed — "  I  am  murdered  !  I  am  mur- 
dered, Tom  !"  I  flew  to  the  kitchen, 
found  a  lamp  burning  on  the  hearth, 
snatched  it  up,  and  ran  again  to  the  pas- 
sage, when  and  where  a  sight  presented  it- 
self to  me,  which,  to  this  hour,  fills  me 
with  horror  when  I  think  c  f  it.  Seated 
in  the  middle  of  this  passage — he  had 
been  able  to  got  no  farther — I  found  Mait- 
land, with  both  hands  endeavoring  to  cover 
a  large  wound  in  the  lower  part  of  his 
body.  Here  was  a  winding  up  of  the  mer- 
riment and  joyous  recklessness  of  the  pre- 
cedino-  nif^ht  !  On  seeino;  the  horrible  and 
deplorable  condition  in  which  my  unfortu- 
nate friend  was,  1  instantly  ran  away  for 
a  suro-eon,  without  waitino-  to  excban-iije 
words  with  him,  or  to  make  any  inquiries 
into  the  dreadful  occurrence.  I  conceived 
that  the  first  thing  to  be  done,  was  to  pro- 
cure him  surgical  assistance. 

On  knocking  up  the  medical  gentleman 
whose  aid  I  desired,  and  hurriedly  stating 
the  case  to  him,  ho  recommended  to  me 
to  run  instantly  and  call  up  other  two  of 
the  profession^  whom  he  named.  This  I 
did  ;  and,  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes,  the 
whole  were  in  consultation  around  the 
unhappy  suff"crer.  I  am  not  myself  a  medi- 
cal man,  and  therefore  cannot  describe  the 
proceedings  which  those  who  attended  on 
this  occasion  adopted.  Indeed  I  was  but 
little  present,  being  unable  to  endure  tlis 
horrible  sight  which  my  ill-fated  friend 
presented.     He  was,   however,    perfectly 


THE  INTENDED  BRIDEGROOMS. 


317 


calm  and  collected  ;  and,  short  as  the  time 
for  preparation  had  been,  resigned  to  his 
fate  ;  which,  from  the  first,  he  believed  to 
be  certain,  and  all  but  immediate  death. 

The  surgeons  having  done  what  they 
could  for  the  sufi'orer,  although  with  no 
hope  whatever  of  saving  his  life — this, 
from  the  hideous  nature  of  the  wound,  be- 
ing altogether  out  of  the  question — a  search 
was  instituted  for  the  murderer  ;  a  pro- 
ceeding which  was  neither  difficult  nor  te- 
dious, as  he  was  found  lying  quietly  on  the 
sofa  where  the  kindness  of  his  murdered 
friend  had  first  laid  him.  Beside  him,  on 
the  floor,  lay  a  large  carving  knife.  It 
was  with  this  he  had  done  the  fatal  deed  ; 
and  it  was  now  discovered,  or  rather  per- 
haps conjectured,  that  he  had  come  by 
the  possession  of  it  by  accidantally  over- 
turning, or  coming  in  contact  with  a^knife 
case,  which  stood  on  a  side-board  in  the 
apartment. 

When  we  first  approached  Brown,  as  he 
lay  on  the  sofa,  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  kind 
of  stupor  ;  his  eyes  were  open,  but  he  ap- 
peared to  be  wholly  unconscious  of  what 
was  passing  around  him.  One  of  the  medi- 
cal gentleman  present  now  laid  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and,  shaking  him  with 
some  violence,  to  arouse  him,  asked  him 
if  he  knew  what  he  had  done.  To  this  he 
made  no  reply,  but  stared  at  us  with  a  be- 
wildered look.  The  question  was  again 
repeated,  when  a  confused  recollection  of 
the  horrid  occurrence  seemed  to  pass 
through  his  mind  ;  for  he  became  agitated 
and  deadly  pale.  To  the  question  put  to 
him,  however,  he  replied  in  the  negative : 
— "  No,"  he  said — "  what  have  I  done  .?" 

"  You  have  murdered  your  friend,  Mait- 
land,"  replied  one  of  the  medical  gentle- 
men ;  "  you  have  stabbed  him,  mortally 
wounded  him,  and,  we  have  every  reason 
to  believe,  with  this  knife  ;  and  he  held 
up  the  fatal  instrument. 

Brown  made  no  reply  for  some  time, 
but  looked  earnestly  at  the  knife,  and  then 
at  us,  alternately.     At  length — 

"  This  is  dreadful,'^  he  said,  in  a  low. 


hollow  voice — "  dreadful,  dreadful,  dread- 
ful !"  And  he  struck  his  hand  on  his 
forehead  with  convulsive  violence,  and  his 
whole  frame  shook  with  the  intensity  of 
his  mental  agony. 

He  seemed  now  fully  alive  to  the  hor- 
rors of  his  situation,  and  to  have  a  perfect 
recollection  of  the  shockino-  occurrence 
that  had  taken  place.  After  a  silence  of 
some  seconds,  disturbed  only  by  the  loud 
sobbings  of  a  difficult  and  strugo-lino;  re- 
spiration,  he  again  burst  out  with — • 

"  O  my  God  !  my  God  ! — what  is  this  ? 
But  it  cannot  be  a  reality  ;  it  is  impossible  ; 
it  must  be  some  horrid  dream.  There 
must  be  some  fearful  delusion  somewhere. 
I  murder  Robert  Maitland  !  /  stab  him 
with  a  knife  . — my  dearest,  my  best  friend  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — nonsense — impossible,  im- 
possible !  I  would  st:ib  myself  sooner — 
much  sooner,  God  knows  !  I  would  not  hurt 
a  hair  of  his  head  for  worlds.  7  loved  him, 
loved  him  most  sincerely — and  yet  you  tell 
me  I  murdered  him  !  Base  slanderers  ! 
who  would  believe  you  ?  Who  would  be- 
lieve so  utterly  improbable  a  story  }  None, 
none.  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  None,  none.  I 
am  safe — who  would  believe  you?"  He 
again  burst  out  into  a  hysterical  laugh.. 

It  was  now  evident  that  the  unfortunate 
young  man's  senses  had  deserted  him. 
But,  whether  this  proceeded  from  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  the  atrocity  of  his  crime, 
and  of  the  dreadful  situation  in  which  he 
stood,  or  was  but  a  continuation  of  the 
consequences  of  the  preceding  night's  de- 
bauch, could  not  be  determined.  It  ap- 
peared to  me  to  proceed  in  part  from  both. 
But,  from  whatever  cause  it  proceeded,  it 
was  most  painful  to  witness ;  and-  it  was 
impossible  to  look  on,  or  listen  to  the  wail- 
ino-s  of  the  unhappy  man,  great  as  his 
guilt  was,  without  a  feeling  of  compassion. 

One  of  the  medical  gentlemen  present 
now  made  a  signal  to  the  other — the  third 
having  remained  by  the  patient — to  step 
aside  with  him.  He  did  so  ;  and,  though 
they  spoke  in  whispers,  I  overheard  as 
much  as  informed  me  that  they  were  con- 


318 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


suiting  as  to  the  propriety  of  giving  imme- 
diate information  of  the  occurrence  to  the 
Fiscal,  with  a  view  to  having  Brown  ap- 
prehended ;  and  one  of  them  eventually 
undertook  this  duty,  and  was  about  to  de- 
part on  its  execution,  when  his  attention, 
and  that  of  us  all,  was  suddenly  called  to 
the  patient,  by  the  medical  gentleman,  who 
had  remained  with  him,  coming  hastily  to 
the  door  of  the  apartment  we  were  in,  and, 
in  a  hurried  voice,  summoning  his  brethren 
to  the  bedside  of  the  sufferer.  He  was 
expiring.  We  all  hastened  to  the  cham- 
ber of  death,  and  were  just  in  time  to  hear 
the  last  words  of  poor  Maitland.  These 
conveyed  an  earnest  entreaty  that  no  harm 
should  come  to  Brown  for  the  occurrence 
of  that  night. 

"  For  I  feel  perfectly  assured,"  said 
the  dying  man,  ^'  that  it  was  either  done 
altogether  unintentionally,  or  that  he 
neither  knew  me  nor  what  he  was  doing. 
I  am  certain  of  that  Brown  would  not 
knowingly  do  me  an  injury.  See,  then, 
gentlemen,"  he  continued,  "  1  entreat 
of  you,  with  my  dying  breath,  that  he  be 
not  in  any  way  troubled  for  what  has  hap  - 
pened.  On  the  solemn  declaration  of  a 
dying  man,  I  acquit  him  of  all  intention 
of  doing  me  a  wilful  injury." 

These  were  the  last  words  he  uttered  ; 
but  he  continued  to  breathe  for  some  time 
afterwards,  and  the  medical  gentlemen 
still  remained  by  his  bedside. 

Takina;  advantao-e  of  this  interval,  I  stole 
out  of  the  apartment,  and  hastened'to  that 
in  which  Brown  had  been  left,  to  warn  him 
of  his  danger,  and  to  prevail  upon  him  to 
fly.  But  he  was  not  there.  1  went  to  the 
street  door  and  found  it  open.  Impelled 
by  a  natural  instinct.  Brown  had  already 


fled 


and  I  was  glad  to  find  that  he  had. 


On  my  return  to  the  room  which  Mait- 
land was,  1  was  informed  that  he  was  dead. 
His  murderer,  as  just  mentioned,  had  left 
the  house  ;  but  he  had  not  gone  far  :  he 
was  apprehended  in  his  father's  house  on 
the  following  morning,  and  carried  to  jail. 
He  was  subsequently  brought  to  trial  be- 


fore  the  High  Court  of  Justiciary  ;  but 
escaped  with  his  life,  on  the  plea  of  insani- 
ty, supported  by  other  extenuating  circum- 
stances.    What  became  of  him  afterwards 
I  could  never  learn,  nor  do  1  know  to  this 
hour.     The  general  belief  was,  however, 
that  he  was  conveyed  out  of  the  country ; 
and  this  seems  confirmed  by  the  fact  that 
he  was  never   again  seen   or  heard  of  by 
any  one  who  knew  him.     I  need  not  enter 
into  any  description  of  the  misery  and  deso- 
lation with  which  the  dreadful  occurrence 
just  related   overwhelmed   the  families  of 
the  unfortunate  young  men,  equally  that 
of  the  injurer  as  the    injured,  and  almost 
equally  likewise  those  of  their  respective 
biides   elect.       The   young  ladies   never 
again  appeared  at  any  place  of  public  re- 
sort ;  one  of  them,  the  chosen  of  the  unfor- 
tunate Maitland,  followed  him  to  a  prema- 
ture grave  ;  and  the  other,   in  about   two 
years    after    the    fatal    occurrence,    went 
abroad  to  reside  with  a  relative,  where  she 
also  shortly  afterwards  died. 

Such,  then,  was  the  appalling  termina- 
tion to  ^vhich  one  night  of  unguarded  ia- 
dulsjence  brou2;ht  the  careers  of  two  most 
promising  young  men — hurling  both,  in  a 
few  short  hours,  from  the  summit  of  human 
felicity,  the  one  into  a  premature  and 
blood-stained  grave,  the  other  into  the 
lowest  depths  of  human  misery — into  a 
situation  of  as  utter  wretchedness  as  the 
human  mind  can  perhaps  conceive. 

1  have  but  one  remark  to  add  to  this 
dismal  tale  ;  and  I  leave  the  reader  to  em- 
ploy his  own  reasoning  on  it,  and  to  draw 
from  it  his  own  conclusions.  The  excess 
which  led  to  the  melancholy  results  just 
related,  was  not  habitual  to  the  unfortu- 
nate young  men  whose  history  exhibits 
them  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  were  remark- 
able for  the  general  temperance  of  their 
habits,  and  the  uniform  correctness  of  their 
lives.  It  was  an  indulgence  excited  by  a 
particular  occasion,  and  given  way  to  for 
a  time  under  peculiar  circumstances  and 
feelings.  If  there  is  a  lesson  here,  let  it 
be  learned. 


LADY   RAE. 


319 


LADY    RAE. 


During  the  time  that  Oliver  Cromwell 
was  in  Edinburgh,  a  lady  called  one  day 
at  his  lodgings  and  solicited  an  interview. 
She  was  closely  wrapped  up  in  a  large  and 
loose  mantle,  and  deeply  veiled.  The 
former,  however,  did  not  conceal  a  shape 
of  singular  elegance,  nor  mar  the  light  and 
graceful  carriage  of  the  wearer.  Both 
were  exceedingly  striking  ;  and  if  the  veil 
performed  its  duty  more  effectually  than 
the  mantle,  by  completely  hiding  the 
countenance  of  the  future  Protector's  fair 
visitor,  it  was  only  to  incite  the  imagina- 
tion to  invest  that  countenance  with  the 
utmost  beauty  of  which  the  "  human  face 
divine  "  is  susceptible.  Nor  would  such 
creation  of  the  fancy  have  surpassed  the 
truth  ;  for  the  veiled  fair  one  was,  indeed, 
"  beautiful  exceedingly." 

On  its  being  announced  to  Cromwell 
that  a  lady  desired  an  interview  with  him, 
he,  in  some  surprise,  demanded  who  and 
what  she  was.  The  servant  could  not  tell. 
She  had  declined  to  give  her  name,  or  to 
say  what  was  the  purpose  of  her  visit. 

The  Protector  thought  for  a  moment  ; 
and,  as  he  did  so,  kept  gazing,  with  a  look 
of  abstraction,  in  the  face  of  his  valet. 
At  length — 

"  Admit  her,  Porson,  admit  her  !"  he 
said.  "  The  Lord  sends  his  own  messen- 
gers in  his  own  way  ;  and  if  we  deny  them, 
he  will  deny  us." 

Porson,  who  was  one  of  Cromwell's  most 
pious  soldiers — for  he  served  in  the  double 
capacity  of  warrior  and  valet — stroked  his 
sleek  hair  down  over  his  solemn  brow,  and 
uttered  a  sonorous  "  Amen  "  to  the  un- 
connected and  unintelligible  observation 
of  his  master,  who,  it  is  well  known,  dealt 
much  in  this  extraordinary  sort  of  jargon. 
Having  uttered  his  lugubrious  Amen, 
Porson  withdrew,  and,  in  a  few  minutes, 


returned,  conducting  the  lady,  of  whom 
we  have  spoken,  into  the  presence  of 
Cromwell. 

On  entering  the  apartment,  the  former 
threw  aside  her  veil,  and  discovered  a 
countenance  of  such  surpassing  beauty  as 
moved  the  future  Protector  to  throw  into 
his  manner  an  air  of  unwonted  gallantry. 

At  the  lady's  first  entrance,  he  was  busy 
writing  ;  and  had  merely  thrown  down  his 
pen  when  she  appeared,  without  intending 
to  carry  his  courtesy  any  further ;  but  he 
had  no  sooner  caught  a  sight  of  the  fair 
face  of  his  visitor,  than,  excited  by  an  in- 
voluntary impulse,  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  advanced  towards  her,  smiling  and 
bowing  most  graciously ;  the  latter,  how- 
ever, being  by  no  means  remarkable  either 
for  its  ease  or  its  elegance. 

"  Pray,  madam,"  now  said  Cromwell, 
still  looking  the  agreeable — so  far  as  his 
saturnine  features  would  admit  of  such  ex- 
pression— ^'  to  what  happy  circumstance 
am  I  indebted  for  the  honor  of  this  visit .?" 

"  The  circumstance,  sir,  that  brings  me 
here,  is  by  no  means  a  happy  one,"  replied 
the  lady,  in  tones  that  thrilled  even  the 
iron  nerves  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  "  I  am 
Lady  Rae,  general ;  the  wife  of  John,  Lord 
Rae,  at  present  a  prisoner  in  the  Tolbooth 
at  Edinburgh,  for  his  adherence  to  the 
cause  of  the  late  King." 

"  Ah,  my  Lady  Rae,  I  am  sorry  for 
you;  sorry  for  you,  indeed ;  but,  doubt- 
less, you  have  found  consolation  in  the 
same  source  whence  your  afflictions  have 
sprung.  Truly  may  I  reckon — indeed 
may  I,  doubtless — that  the  Lord,  who  has 
seen  fit  to  chastise  you,  has  also  comforted 
you  under  this  dispensation." 

"  None,  Sir  General,  who  seek  the  aid 
of  the  Almighty  in  a  true  spirit,  ever  seek 
that   aid   in   vain,"   replied  Lady  Rae; 


320 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


"  and  I  have  been  a  seeker  and  have  found ; 
nor  have  I,  I  trust,  been  wanting  on  this 
occasion,    in    a    due    submission    to    his 

will." 

"  Truly,  I  hope  not  ;  indeed  do  I," 
replied  Cromwell.  "  Then,  what  would 
ye  with  me,  fair  lady  }  What  would  ye 
with  one  so  feeble  and  humble  as  I  am  ; 
who  am  but  as  a  tool,  a  mean  instrument 
in  the  hand  of  the  artificer .?"  and  the 
speaker  assumed  a  look  of  the  deepest 
humility. 

"  I  dare  not  utter  it  !  I  dare  not  utter 
it,  general!"  exclaimed  Lady  Rae,  now 
o-ivino- way,  for  the  first  time,  to  that  emo- 
tion which  was  agitating  her  whole  frame, 
although  she  had  hitherto  endeavored,  and 
not  unsuccessfully,  to  conceal  it.  "  I 
dare  not  utter  it,"  she  said,  ''  lest  it  should 
bring  death  to  my  hopes  ;  yet  came  I 
hither  for  no  other  purpose." 

"  Speak,  lady,  speak,"  said  Cromwell. 
"  What  wouldst  thou  with  me  .?" 

Lady  Rae  flung  herself  on  her  knees, 
and  exclaimed,  with  upraised  countenance 
and  streaming  eyes — 

"  Save  my  husband,  general  !  Restore 
him  to  liberty,  and  to  me  ;  and  thus,  on 
my  knees,  shall  I  daily  ofi"er  up  prayers  to 
heaven  for  thy  safety  and  prosperity.  O 
refuse  me  not ! — refuse  me  not !  general — 
as  thou,  thyself,  hopcst  for  mercy  from 
thy  God  in  the  hour  of  retribution  !"  and 
she  wildly  grasped  the  knees  of  the  repub- 
lican commander. 

Without  saying  a  word,  Cromwell  gently 
disengaged  himself  from  the  fair  suppliant, 
and,  turning  his  back  upon  her,  stalked 
to  the  further  end  of  the  apartment,  seem- 
ingly much  agitated. 

On  gaining  the  extremity  of  the  room, 
Cromwell  stood  for  two  or  three  minutes, 
still  keeping  his  back  to  Lady  Rae,  with 
arms  folded,  and  drooping  his  head,  as  if 
musing  deeply.  At  the  expiry  of  this 
period,  he  suddenly  turned  round,  and, 
advancing  towards  his  fair  visitor,  with 
quick  and  hurried  step,  said — 

"  My  Lady  Rae,  may  the  Lord  direct 


me  in  this  matter,  and  in  all  others.  I 
have  been  communing  with  myself  anent 
your  petition;  truly  have  1,  but  see  not 
that  I  can  serve  thee  ;  I  cannot  indeed. 
If  we  would  all  walk  in  the  straight  path, 
we  had  need  to  walk  warily ;  for,  in  this 
matter  I  cannot  help  thee,  seeing  my  Lord 
Rae  is  a  State  prisoner,  and  I  have  no 
power  over  him  ;  none,  truly,  none  what- 
ever. The  law  is  strong,  and  may  not  be 
trifled  with.  But  I  will  consider,  fair 
lady,  indeed  will  I ;  I  will  seek  direction 
and  counsel  in  the  matter  from  on  high. 
I  will  do  so  this  night  ;  1  will  have  this 
night  to  think  of  the  matter,  and  thou  wilt 
call  upon  me  at  this  hour  to-morrow ;  and 
I  will  then  see  if  the  Lord  will  vouchsafe 
me  any  light,  as  to  how  1  m^ay  assist  thee 
and  thy  poor  husband ;  for,  on  thy  ac- 
count, 1  would  do  so  if  I  could." 

Confused,  and  all  but  wholly  unintelli- 
gible, as  was  this  address  of  Cromwell's, 
Lady  Rae  perceived  that  it  contained  a 
gleam  of  comfort,  that  a  ray  of  hope- 
inspiring  light,  however  feeble,  played 
through  its  obscurity ;  and,  satisfied  with 
this,  she  urged  her  suit  no  further,  but, 
with  a  thankful  acceptance  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary, general's  invitation  to  her  to  wait 
upon  him  on  the  following  day,  she  with- 
drew. 

On  Lady  Rae's  issuing  from  Cromwell's 
lodgings,  she  stood  in  the  street,  gazing 
around  her  for  an  instant,  as  if  lookins;  for 
some  one  whom  she  had  expected  to  find 
waiting  her,  but  who  was  not,  at  the  mo- 
ment, in  sight.  This  was  the  case ;  but 
it  was  only  for  a  moment  that  she  was  so 
detained.  She  had  glanced  but  two  or 
three  times  around  her  when  she  was 
joined  by  a  personage  of  very  striking  ap- 
pearance. This  was  a  huge  Highlander, 
considerably  above  six  feet  in  stature,  pro- 
portionably  stout  and  well  made,  and,  ap- 
parently, of  enormous  strength.  He  was 
dressed,  in  the  full  costume  of  his  country, 
and  armed  to  the  teeth.  By  his  side  de- 
pended a  tremendous  claymore ;  in  his 
belt  were  stuck  a  dagger  and  a  brace  of 


LADY  RAE. 


321 


pistols  ;  and,  on  his  shoulder,  rested  that 
formidable  weapon  called  a  Lochaber  axe. 

The  countenance  of  this  tremendous 
personage  was  in  keeping  with  his  other 
charms :  it  was  manly,  and  decidedly 
handsome,  but,  withal,  was  marked  with 
an  expression  of  fierceness  that  was  ap- 
palling to  look  upon  ;  and  was  thus  cal- 
culated, when  associated  with  his  gigantic 
figure, to  inspire  at  once  admiration  andfear. 

As  this  formidable  personage  approach- 
ed Lady  Rae,  he  touched  his  bonnet  with 
an  air  of  the  most  profound  respect,  and. 
assumed  a  look  and  attitude  of  devoted 
attention  to  her  commands. 

"  I  have  seen  him,  John,"  said  Lady 
Rae,  addressing  her  Goliath  of  an  attend- 
ant,  who  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  a 
retainer  of  Lord  Rae''s,  but  one  who  stood 
hish  in  the  e-stimation  of  both  the  former 
and  latter  for  his  fidelity,  and,  fierce  as  he 
looked,  for  the  gentleness  of  his  nature. 
John  M'Kay — for  such  was  his  name — 
was,  in  short,  an  especial  favorite  of  both 
Lord  and  Lady  Rae,  and  was  admitted  to 
a  degree  of  confidence  and  familiarity  that 
elevated  him  much  above  his  real  condi- 
tion. They  were  proud,  too,  of  his  superb 
fio-ure,  and  delio-hted  to  exhibit  him  in  the 
fall  dress  of  his  country,  as  a  specimen  of 
the  men  which  it  produced — "  I  have  seen 
him,  John,"  said  Lady  Rae,  whose  pro- 
tector and  attendant  John  always  was, 
when  she  went  forth  on  occasions  of  bu- 
siness or  importance  like  the  present. 

"  And  what  he'll  say,  my  Letty  ?"  in- 
quired John,  in  a  low  and  gentle  tone, 
and  stopping  to  catch  Lady  Rae's  com- 
munication. 

"  Not  much  that  is  quite  satisfactory, 
John.  He  speaks  in  a  strange  style,  but 
I  think  there  is  ground  of  hope.  He  did 
not  altogether  refuse  the  prayer  of  my 
petition,  but  bade  me  call  upon  him  again 
to-morrow." 

John  looked  grave,  but  made  no  reply. 
His  lady  walked  on,  and  he  followed  at  a 
respectful  distance. 

The  former  now  directed  her  steps  to  a 

VOL.  II.  ^^ 


locality  in  the  city  with  which  she  was  but 
too  familiar,  and  which  she  had  had  occa- 
sion of  late  but  too  often  to  frequent.  This 
was  the  Tolbooth — the  place  of  her  hus- 
band's confinement. 

On  reaching  the  outer  entrance  to  the 
jail,  the  low  half  door,  thickly  studded 
with  huge-headed  nails,  by  which  it  was 
temporarily  secured  during  the  day,  was 
immediately  thrown  open  for  her  admis- 
sion by  the  turnkey — a  little  crusty-looking 
personage  in  a  fur  cap — who  had  been 
leaning  over  it,  listlessly  looking  around 
him,  on  her  Ladyship's  approach.  As  the 
latter  entered  the  prison  door,  the  former 
stood  to  one  side,  dofi"ed  his  little  fur  cap, 
and  respectfully  wished  her  Ladyship  a 
good  mornino:. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  James  .^"  said 
Lady  Rae,  in  kindly  tones  ;  "  and  how  is 
my  Lord  .^" 

"  Quite  well,  my  Lady,  quite  well," 
replied  the  little  turnkey — extremely 
proud,  seemingly,  of  the  condescension  of 
her  Ladyship.  The  latter  passed  on,  and 
commenced  threading  her  way  through  the 
tortuous  but  well-known  passages  which 
led  to  her  husband's  prison  room.  John 
M'Kay  followed  his  mistress  into  the  jail, 
previously  leaving  his  arms  at  the  door — 
a  condition  to  which  he  had  always  to 
submit  before  gaining  admission.  Having 
denuded  himself  of  his  weapons,  John  also 
passed  on,  but  not  before  he  had  shaken 
his  fist  ominously  in  the  face  of  the  little 
jailer.  This  was  John's  constant  practice, 
every  time  he  entered  the  prison;  and, 
simple  as  the  act  was,  it  had  a  good  deal 
of  meaning.  It  meant,  in  the  first  place,  | 
that  John  associated  the  misfortune  of  his 
master's  confinement  with  the  little  turn- 
key's employment :  that  he  considered 
him  as  aiding  and  abetting  in  the  same. 
It  further  meant,  that  if  it  were  not  for 
one  thin<Tf  more  than  another,  or,  as  John 
himself  would  have  expressed  it,  "  for  ted- 
der things  more  nor  ones,"  he  would  have 
brought  his  Lochaber  axe  and  the  turn- 
key's  head  into  more  intimate  contact. 


322 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


]n  the  meantime,  Ladj  Rae  having  as- 
cended seve.al  flights  of  dark  and  narrow 
stairs,  and  traversed  several  passages  of  a 
similar  description,  had  arrived  at  a  par- 
ticular door,  on  either  side  of  which  stood 
a  grenadier,  with  shouldered  musket,  and 
bayonet  fixed.  They  were  the  guards 
placed  upon  her  husband,  who  occupied 
the  apartment  which  they  sentinelled. 

The  soldiers,  who  had  orders  to  admit 
her  Ladyship  and  attendant  to  the  prisoner, 
at  any  time  between  the  hours  of  nine  in 
the  morning  and  seven  at  night,  offered  no 
hindrance  to  her  approaching  the  door  and 
rapping  for  admittance.  This,  she  now 
did,  and  the  "  who's  there  .^"  of  the  cap- 
tive was  replied  to,  in  a  powerfully  Celtic 
accent,  by  John  M'Kay,  with — "  My 
Letty  Ras,  my  Lort."  The  door  instantly 
flew  open,  and  its  inmate  came  forth,  with 
a  smiling  and  delightful  countenance,  to 
receive  his  beautiful  and  faithful  wife. 

]n  the  meantime,  John  M'Kay  took  his 
station  on  the  outside  of  the  door — a  more 
friendly  guard  over  the  inmates  of  the 
apartment  to  which  it  conducted,  than 
those  who  stood  on  either  side  of  him. 
Here  the  same  feeling  which  had  dictated 
John's  significant  hint  to  the  turnkey  be- 
low, suggested  his  general  bearing  and 
particular  manner  to  the  two  soldiers  now 
beside  him. 

Maintaining  a  profound  and  contemptu- 
ous silence,  he  strutted  up  and  down  the 
passage — without  going,  however,  more 
than  two  or  three  yards  either  way — in 
front  of  the  door  of  his  Lordship's  apart- 
ment, keeping  his  huge  form  proudly  erect, 
as  he  thus  paced  the  short  walk  to  which 
he  had  limited  himself,  and  casting,  every 
now  and  then,  a  look  of  fierce  defiance  on 
the  appalled  soldiers,  who  looked  with  fear 
and  dread  on  the  chafed  lion  with  whom 
they  found  themselves  thus  unpleasantly 
caged,  and  who  seemed  every  moment  as 
if  he  would  spring  upon  and  tear  them  to 
pieces  ;  and,  in  truth,  little  provocation 
would  it  have  taken  to  have  brought  John 
M'Kay's  huge  fists  into  play  about  their 


heads.  There  can  be  no  doubt,  that  there 
was  nothing  at  that  moment  which  would 
have  given  John  more  satisfaction  than 
their  afibrdin2  him  an  excuse  for  attacking 
them.  This,  however,  the  soldiers,  care- 
fully avoided  ;  and,  not  content  with  re- 
fraining from  giving  the  slightest  off"ence, 
either  in  word,  look,  or  deed,  endeavored 
to  conciliate  John  by  an  attempt  to  lead 
him  into  friendly  conversation.  But  the 
attempt  was  in  vain.  Their  advances 
were  all  repelled,  either  with  silent  eon- 
tempt,  or  with  a  gruff  uncourteous  re- 
sponse. A  specimen  of  the  conversation 
which  did  take  place,  between  M'Kay  and 
the  guards,  may  be  given  : — 

"  Delightful  day,  friend  I"  said  one  of 
the  soldiers. 

"  S'pose  it  is  !"  replied  John,  sternly, 
and  continuing  his  walk. 

A  pause. 

"  Anything  new  in  the  town  to  day  .-" 
at  lencrth  said  the  other  soldier. 

"  S'pose  something  new  every  tay  !"  re- 
plied John,  gruffly. 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  dare  say  ;  but  have  you  any- 
thin";  new  to  tell  us  .^" 

*'  Maype  1  have  !"  said  John  with  a 
grim  smile. 

^' What  is  it .?" 

"  Tat  I'll  knock  your  tarn  thick  head 
against  tat  wall,  if  you'll  pe  hotter  me  wi' 
any  more  o'  your  tarn  nonsense.  Tat's 
news  for  you  !"  and  John  gave  one  of 
those  peculiar  Celtic  grunts,  which  no  com- 
bination of  letters  can  express.  "  And 
you,  you  scarecrow-looking  rascal,"  he 
continued,  addressing  the  other  sentinel, 
"  if  you'll  spoke  anoder  word,  FU  cram 
my  sporran  doon  your  tam  troat." 

Havino;  delivered  himself  of  these  friend- 
ly  addresses,  John  resumed  his  march,  with 
additional  pride  of  step  and  bearing.  In 
a  minute  after,  he  was  summoned  into 
Lord  Rae's  apartment,  where  he  remained 
until  Lady  Rae  left  the  prison,  which  she 
did  in  a  short  time  afterwards. 

It  was  with  a  beating  heart  and  anxious 
mind  that  Lady  Rae  wended  her  way,  on 


LADY  RAE. 


323 


the  following  day — attended,  as  usual,  by 
her  gigantic  serving-man — to  the  lodgings 
of  Oliver  Cromwell.  On  reachino-  the 
house,  M'Kay  took  his  station,  as  on  a 
former  occasion,  on  the  outside  ;  while  her 
Ladyship  advanced  towards  the  door, 
"within  which  she  speedily  disappeared, 
her  admittance  having  been  more  prompt 
on  the  present  visit  than  the  former. 

In  an  instant  after  Lady  Rae  was  again 
iu  the  presence  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  As, 
on  the  former  occasion,  he  was  employed 
in  writinor  when  she  entered,  and  as  on  that 
occasion  so,  also,  he  threw  down  his  pen, 
and  rose  to  receive  her. 

"  Anent  this  matter  of  yours,  my  La- 
dy," began  Cromwell,  abruptly,  and  with- 
out any  previous  salutation — although  he 
looked  all  civility  and  kindness — "  I  really 
hardly  know  what  to  say  ;  truly  do  I  not ; 
but  the  Lord  directs  all,  and  he  "will  gui'de ' 
us  in  this  thing  also." 

"  I  trust  so  !"  interrupted  Lady  Rae, 
meekly. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  the  future  Protector 
of  England  ;  "  for  we  are  but  weak  crea- 
tures, short-sighted  and  erring.  But,  in- 
deed, as  I  told  you  before,  my  Lady,  your 
husband  is  a  State  prisoner ;  truly  is  he, 
and,  therefore,  may  I  not  interfere  with 
him.  I  cannot ;  i  have  not  the  power. 
Yet  would  I  serve  thee  if  I  could  ;  truly 
would  I  with  great  pleasure.  But  these,  you 
see,  are  strange  times,  in  which  all  men  must 
walk  warily,  for  we  are  beset  with  enemies, 
■with  traitors  ;  deceivers  on  all  sides,  men 
who  fear  not  the  Lord.  Yet,  for  this  matter 
of  yours,  my  Lady  Rae,  1  will  tell  you ;  1 
cannot  take  your  husband  from  prison  ;  it 
should  be  unseemly  in  the  sight  of  all  God- 
fearing men  ;  but,  truly,  if  you  could  in  any 
way  manage  to  get  his  Lordship  once  with- 
out the  prison  walls,  I  would  take  upon  me 
to  prevent  his  being  further  troubled.  He 
should  have  a  protection  under  my  hand  ; 
truly  he  should,  although  it  might  bring 
me  to  some  odium  with  my  friends.  But 
he  should  have  it,  nevertheless,  out  of  my 
respect  for  you,  my  Lady.     Now,  go,  go 


my  Lady ;  I  may  say  no  more  on  the  sub- 
ject. Go,  try  and  fall  on  some  means  of 
getting  thy  husband  without  the  walls  of 
his  prison  ;  this  done,  come  instantly  to 
me,  and  thou  shalt  have  a  protection  for 
him  under  my  hand  ;  indeed  thou  shalt." 

To  Lady  Rae,  this  proposal  was  a 
grievous  disappointment.  It  contained 
an  arrangement  which  she  had  never  con- 
templated, and  which  seemed  as  impracti- 
cable as  it  was  strange  ;  yet  she  saw  it 
was  all  she  had  to  expect,  and  that  what- 
ever might  be  the  result,  she  must  be  con- 
tent with  the  extent  of  interference  on  her 
husband''s  behalf,  which  was  included  in 
the  singular  measure  suggested  by  Crom- 
well. 

Impressed  witK  this  conviction,  Lady 
Rae  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  said 
she  would  endeavor  to  get  her  husband 
without  the  prison  gates  by  some  means 
or  other,  and  would  then  again  wait  upon 
him  for  the  protection  he  was  so  generous 
as  to  offer. 

"  Do  so,  my  Lady,  do  so,"  said  Crom- 
well, escorting  her  Ladyship  to  the  door 
with  an  air  of  great  gallantry  ;  "  and  may 
the  Lord  have  thee  in  his  holy  keeping." 

Lady  Rae  turned  round,  again  thanked 
the  general,  courtsied,  and  withdrew. 

On  reaching  the  street,  her  Ladyship 
was  instantly  joined  by  her  faithful  attend- 
ant, M'Kay,  who  had  been  waiting  with 
the  greatest  anxiety  and  impatience  for 
her  return  ;  for  to  him  his  master's  life 
and  liberty  were  dearer  far  than  his  own, 
and  he  well  knew  that  both  were  much  in 
the  power  of  the  extraordinary  man  on 
whom  his  Lady  was  now  waiting. 

On  the  first  glance  which  he  obtained 
of  his  mistress's  countenance,  John  saw 
with  a  feeling  of  disappointment  that 
leno-thened  his  own  several  inches  that  the 
interview  had  not  been  a  satisfactory  one. 
His  native  sense  of  politeness,  however, 
and  of  the  deference  due  to  his  mistress, 
prevented  him  making  any  inquiries  as  to 
what  had  passed  until  she  should  herself 
choose  to  communicate  with  him  on  the 


324 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


subject.  For  such  communication,  how- 
ever, he  had  longer  to  wait  than  usual  ; 
for,  lost  in  thought  and  depressed  with 
disappointment,  Lady  Rae  walked  on  a 
good  way  without  taking  any  notice  what- 
ever of  her  attendant,  who  was  following 
at  a  distance  of  several  yards.  At  length, 
she  suddenly  stopped,  but  without  turning 
round.  This  John  knew  to  be  the  signal 
for  him  to  advance.  He  accordingly  did 
so,  and,  touching  his  bonnet,  waited  for 
the  communication  which  it  promised. 

"  I  am  afraid,  John,"  now  said  Lady 
Rae — "  I  am  afraid  we  shall  be  disappoint- 
ed, after  all.  The  general  has  made  the 
strangest  proposal  you  ever  heard.  He 
says  that  he  cannot,  without  compromising 
himself,  or  to  that  effect,  liberate  his  Lord- 
ship from  jail ;  but  that  if  he  were  once 
out — that  is,  if  he  could  be  got  out  by  any 
means  — he  would  save  him  from  being  fur- 
ther troubled,  and  would  grant  him  a  pro- 
tection under  his  own  hand.  But  how  on 
earth  are  we  to  get  him  out  ?  It  is  im- 
possible. These  two  guards  at  the  door, 
be-sides  other  difficulties,  render  it  alto- 
gether impracticable.  I  know  not  what  is 
to  be  done." 

It  was  some  seconds  before  M'Kay  made 
any  reply.     At  length — 

"  I'll  no  think  ta  diffaculty  fery  crate, 
after-  all,  my  Letty,"  replied  John. 
"  There's  shust  ta  bodachan  at  ta  dore, 
I  could  put  in  my  sporran,  and  ta  twa 


so  O'er. 


»7 


"  Yes,  John ;  the  first  you  might,  per- 
haps, manage,"  said  Lady  Rae,  smiling, 
and  glancing  unconsciously  at  the  huge 
figure  of  her  attendant,  which  presented  so 
striking  a  contrast  to  that  of  the  little,  slim, 
crusty  turnkey  ;  "  but  the  two  soldiers — " 

"  Whoich,"  exclaimed  John,  contempt- 
uously ;  "  if 's  no  far  prettier  men  than 
was  there  yesterday,  it'll  no  trouble  me 
much  to  manage  them  too,  my  Letty.  A 
wee  bit  clamshcuchar  wi'  my  Lochapcr 
axe,  or  a  brog  wi'  myskean  dhu,  will  make 
them  quate  aneuch,  my  Letty.  Tat's  but 
a  small  shob." 


"  John,  John,  no  violence,  no  violence  f" 
exclaimed  Lady  Rae,  in  great  alarm,  at 
the  sanguinary  view  of  the  process  for  her 
husband's  liberation  which  John  had  ta- 
ken. "  No  violence.  If  his  Lordship's 
liberation  be  attempted  at  all,  there  must 
be  no  violence  ;  at  least  none  to  the  shed- 
dinoj  of  blood,  or  to  the  inflictin2  the 
smallest  injury  on  any  one.  The  idea  is 
horrible  ;  and  if  acted  on,  would  only  make 
matters  worse.  Your  own  life,  John, 
would  be  the  forfeit  of  such  an  atrocious 
proceeding." 

"  Foich,  a  figs  for  that,  my  Letty,  beg- 
gin  your  Lettyship's  pardon,"  replied 
John,  a  good  deal  disappointed  at  the 
peaceful  tone  of  his  mistress,  and  at  the 
loss  of  an  opportunity,  such  as  he  had  long 
desired,  of  taking  vengeance  on  his  mas- 
ter's guards  and  jailors. 

"  Foich,  a  figs  for  tat,  my  Letty,  beggin 
your  Lettyship's  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I 
could  teuk  to  the  hills  in  a  moment's  no- 
tice, and  see  who'll  catch  John  M'Kay 
then.'' 

"  Well,  well,  perhaps,  John,  you  mighty 
but  you  must  speak  no  more  of  violence  ; 
I  charge  you,  speak  no  more  of  it.  We 
will,  in  the  meantime,  go  to  his  Lordship 
and  submit  the  matter  to  him.,  and  be 
guided,  thereafter,  by  his  advice." 

Having  said  this.  Lady  Rae  directed 
her  steps  to  the  jail,  and,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  M'Kay,  was  soon  after  in  the 
apartment  of  the  prisoner. 

Lord  Rae  having  been  a.pprised,  by  his 
lady,  of  the  result  of  her  interview  with 
Cromwell,  a  secret  consultation  between 
the  two,  which  lasted  nearly  an  hour,  en- 
sued. 

During  this  consultation,  many  differ- 
ent plans,  for  effecting  the  liberation  of 
the  prisoner,  were  suggested,  and,  after 
being  duly  weighed,  abandoned  as  imprac- 
ticable. One  at  length,  however,  was 
adopted,  and  this  one  was  proposed  by 
M'Kay  ;  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man, 
and  came  as  close  in  its  nature  to  his  origi- 
nal one  as  he  durst  presume  upon. 


LADY   RAE. 


325 


This  plan,  wliicli  was  a  Bimple  enough 
one,  was,  to  seizo  the  two  guards  at  the 
ou'side  of  the  door,  and  hold  them  fast 
until  Lord  Rae  should  have  rushed  past 
them,  and  got  out  of  the  prison.  The 
turnkey  at  the  outer  door,  who,  as  has 
been  already  said,  was  a  little  slender  inan, 
his  Lordship  was  to  seize,  and  throw  down, 
and  then  get  over  the  little  half  door,  which 
was  under  his  guardianship,  the  best  way  he 
could.  A  row  of  short,  sharp  spikes, 
however,  with  which  it  was  fenced  on  its 
upper  edge,  rendered  this  a  formidable 
difficulty  ;  but  it  was  thought  that  it  might, 
to  speak  literally,  be  got  over,  by  the  aid 
of  a  long  form  which  stood  on  the  side  of 
the  passage  of  the  jail,  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  visitors. 

All  this  trouble  a  touch  of  the  key 
would  have  saved,  but  this,  the  little  man 
always  carried  in  his  pocket,  never  allow- 
ius;  it  to  remain  in  the  lock  an  instant, 
however  fre(|uent  or  numerous  his  visitors 
mio'ht  be. 

The  securino;  of  the  two  cruards  at  the 
prisoner's  door,  by  far  the  most  serious 
part  of  the  business,  M'Kaj^  took  upon 
himself,  and  with  a  degree  of  confidence 
that  sufficiently  showed  how  well  he  was 
aware  of  his  own  surpassing  strength. 

This  plan  of  proceedings  arranged,  it 
was  resolved  that  it  should  be  put  in  exe- 
cution that  very  afternoon.  On  that  after- 
noon, accordingly,  John  M'Kay  again  ap- 
peared at  the  jail  door,  demanding  admit- 
tance to  his  master.  The  door  was 
immediately  thrown  open  to  him  by  the 
little  turnkey,  whom  he  now,  for  the  first 
time    addressed  in  a  friendly  tone. 

The  same  chancre  of  manner  marked  his 
salutation  to  the  guards  at  the  door  of  his 
master's  apartment.  To  these  he  spoke 
in  the  ra^st  civil  and  obliging  terms  f)Ossi- 
ble.  TM  men,  who  had  often  winced  un- 
der his  savage  growls  and  fierce  looks, 
wondered  at  the  change,  but  were  glad 
enough  to  meet  with  it,  in  place  of  his  for- 
mer ferocity. 

John,  after  talking  for  a  few  minutes 


with  the  sentinels,  Went  into  his  Lordship's 
room.  The  latter  was  dressed,  and  ready 
for  the  bold  proceeding  about  to  be  adopt- 
ed. 

"  Think  you,  you  can  manage  them, 
Jolml"  said  his  Lordship  in  a  whisper, 
after  the  door  had  been  secured  in  the  in- 
side. 

*'  Pooch  a  dizzen  o'  them,  my  Lort!" 
replied  M'Kay,  ih  the  same  under-tone. 
It's  twa  bits  o'  shachlin  podies  no  wors 
speakin  aboot." 

"  But  they  are  armed,  John  ;  they  have 
guns  and  bayonets,  and  the  former  are 
loaded." 

"  Fooch,  their  guns!  Nvhat'U  sicknify 
their  guns,  my  Lort,  when  I'll  have  cot  a 
hold  o'  the  cratursthemsels,inmy  hants.'" 
and  he  held  out  his  enormous  brown  paws 
as  if  to  certify  their  power.  "I'll  crush 
the  podies  like  a  mussel  shells." 

"  No  violence,  John,  remember,"  said 
Lord  Rae,  energetically,  but  smiling  as 
he  spoke  ;  "  that  is,  to  the  extent  of  doing 
the  men  any,  the  smallest,  personal  injury. 
Remember,  now,  John ;  do  otherwise," 
continued  his  Lordship,  in  a  more  severe 
tone,  "  and  you  forfeit  my  favor  and  es- 
teem forever.  Mark,  John,  besides," 
add6d  his  Lordship,  who  seemed  most 
anJiioiis  on  the  point  which  he  was  now 
pressing  on  M'Kay's  consideration,  "  your 
doing  any  injury  to  these  men  would  be 
destruction  to  me  ;  for,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, the  general  would  not  grant 
me  a  protection  after  I  was  out,  and  my 
case  would,  otherwise,  be  rendered  infi- 
nitely worse,  and  more  hopeless  than  it  is. 
Now,  remember  all  this,  John,  and  do  the 
men  no  personal  injury,  I  charge  you." 

John's  face  reddened  a  little  at  the  ear- 
nestness with  which  these  injunctions  were 
delivered  ;  and,  probably,  he  thought  they 
indicated  something  like  degeneracy  in  his 
chief;  but  he  promised  compliance  with 
his  commands  ;  and,  to  render  his  obedi- 
ence more  certain,  by  lessoning  the  tempta- 
tion to  infringe  them,  he  denuded  himself 
of  a  concealed  dirk,  which  he  always  car- 


32G 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ried  about  him,  over  and  above  the  arms  \ 
he  openly  wore.  Of  this  proceeding,  which  j 
was  voluntary  on  McKay's  part,  his  raas-  i 
ter  hi-hly  approved,  but,  smiling,  said— 

"  You  have  still  your  fists,  John,  nearly  , 
as  dangerous   weapons   as   that  you  have 
just  laid  aside ;  but  1  hope  you  will   use 
them  sparingly." 

John  smiled,  and  promised  he  would. 
In  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  M'Kay 
came  forth  from  Lord  Rae's  apartment  to 
perform  the  daring  feat  of  securing  two 
armed  men  by  the  mere  force  of  physical 
strength  ;  for  he  was  now  without  weapon 
of  any  kind.  When  he  came  out,  however, 
it  was  with  an  appearance  of  the  most 
friendly  feeling  towards  the  soldiers.  He 
came  out  smiling  graciously,  and  he  enter- 
ed into  familiar  chat  with  the  men,  alleg- 
ing that  he  came  to  put  off  the  time  till 
his  master  had  written  a  letter,  which  he 
was  to  deliver  to  a  person  in  town. 

Thrown  off  their  guard,  by  M'Kay's 
jocular  and  cordial  manner,  the  soldiers 
grounded  their  muskets,  and  began  to  en- 
ter, in  earnest,  into  conversation  which  he 
was  promoting.  M  Kay,  in  the  mean- 
time, was  watching  his  opportunity  to 
seize  them  ;  but  this,  as  it  was  necessary 
he  should  be  placed,  with  regard  to  them, 
so  as  to  have  one  on  either  side  of  him, 
that  he  might  grasp  both  at  the  same  in- 
stant, he  did  not  obtain  for  some  time. 

By  dint,  however,  of  some  exceedingly 
cautious  and  wary  manoeuvring,  IVrKay  at 
length  found  himself  in  a  position  favora- 
ble to  his  meditated  proceedings.  On 
doing  so,  he,  with  the  speed  and  force  of 
li'ditniuir,  darted  an  arm  out  on  either  side 
of  him,  seized  a  soldier  by  the  breast  with 
each  hand,  and  with  as  much  ease  as  a  pow- 
erful dog  could  turn  over  a  kitten,  laid 
them  both  gently  on  their  backs  on  the 
floor  of  the  passage,  where  he  lield  them 
extended  at  full  length,  and  immovable  in 
his  tremendous  grasp,  till  he  felt  assured 
that  Lord  Rae  had  cleared  the  prison. 
This  the  latter  effected  with  the  most  per- 
fect success.     The  moment  M'Kay  seized 


the  soldiers — an  act   of  which   Lord  Rae 
was  apprised  by  the  former's  calling  out, 
''  Noo,  noo,  my   Lort" — he  rushed  out, 
ran  along  the  passage,  descended  the  stair 
in  three  or  four  leaps,  came  upon  the  lit- 
tle turnkey  unawares,  as  he   was  lookincr 
over  the  half  door  of  the  prison  entrance 
— his  sole  occupation  during  three  fourths 
of  the  day — seized  him  by  the  neck  of  the 
coat  behind — laid  him  down,   as  M'Kay 
had  done  by  the  soldiers,  at  his  full  length 
— no  great  length  after  all — on  the  floor 
— drew  the  form  to  the  door — placed  it 
over  the  little  turnkey  in  such  a  way  as  to 
prevent  his  rising — jumped   on  it — leapt 
into  the  street  at  one  bound,  and  instantly 
disappeared.     All   this  was    done   in  the 
tenth  jDart  of  the  time  that  it  has  been  ta- 
ken to  relate  it.     It  was,   in  truth,    the 
work  of  but  a  moment. 

On  being  satisfied  that  Lord  Rae  had 
made  his  escape. 

"  Noo,  lads,  ye  may  got  up,*"  said 
M'Kay,  loosening  his  hold  of  the  men,  and 
starting  himself  to  his  feet.  "  Ta  burd's 
flown  ;  but  ye  may  look  after  ta  cage,  and 
see  tat  no  more  o'  your  canaries  got 
awav." 

Freed  from  the  powerful  grasp  which 
had  hitherto  pinned  them  to  the  floor,  the, 
soldiers  sprung  to  their  feet,  and  endea- 
vored to  get  hold  of  their  muskets.  Seeing 
this,  M'Kay  again  seized  them,  and  again 
threw  them  to  the  floor  ;  but,  on  this  oc- 
casion, it  was  merely  to  show  the  power 
he  had  over  them,  if  they  should  still  have 
any  doubt  of  it. 

''  Noo,  lads,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is," 
said  M'Kay,  addressing  the  prostrate  sol- 
diers—" if  you'll  behave  yoursels  deseuly, 
and  no  be  botherin  me  wi'  ony  more  o' 
your  tarn  nonsense,  I'll  aloo  you  to  make 
me  your  prisoner  ;  for  Tm  not  intending 
to  run  away  ;  Til  kive  myself  up  to  save 
your  hides,  and  take  my  shance  of  ta  law 
for  what  I'll  do.  Tat's  my  mind  of  it, 
lads.  If  you  like  to  acree  to  it,  goot  and 
well  ;  if  not,  I  will  knock  your  two  heads 
togidder,  till  your  prains  go  into  smash," 


LADY  RAE. 


3-27 


But  too  liappy  to  accept  of  such  terms, 
the  soldiers  at  once  assented  to  them  ;  and 
on  their  doing  so,  were  permitted  once 
more  to  resume  their  legs,  when  M'Kay 
peaceably  yielded  himself  their  prisoner. 
The  gigantic  Highlander  could  easily  have 
effected  his  own  escape  ;  but  he  could  not 
have  done  so  without  having;  recourse  to 
that  violence  which  had  been  so  anxious- 
ly deprecated  by  both  his  master  and  mis- 
tress. Without  inflicting!;  some  mortal  in- 
jury  on  the  soldiers,  he  could  not  have 
prevented  them  from  pursuing  him  when 
he  had  fled,  and  probably  firing  on  him 
as  he  did  so.  Ail  this,  therefore,  had 
been  provided  for  by  the  arrangements 
previously  agreed  upon  by  Lord  Rae  and 
his  retainer.  By  these  it  was  settled,  that 
he  should,  on  the  former's  making  his  es- 
cap  e ,  p  eaceably  yield  himself  up  to ' '  unde  r- 
lie  the  law,"  in  a  reliance  on  the  friendly 
disposition  of  Cromwell  towards  the  fugi- 
tive, which,  it  was  not  doubted,  would  be 
exerted  in  behalf  of  his  servant.  Such 
proceeding,  it  was  thought  too  would  bring 
Lord  Rae's  case  sooner  to  issue  ;  and  be, 
with  regard  to  the  law,  as  it  were,  throw- 
ing a  bone  in  the  dog's  way  to  arrest  his 
attention,  and  interrupt  his  pursuit  of  the 
original,  and  more  important  object  of  his 
vengeance. 

On  delivering  himself  up,  M'Kay  was 
immediately  placed  in  confinement,  and 
shortly  after  brought  to  trial,  for  aiding 
and  abetting  in  the  escape  of  a  State 
prisoner.  The  trial  wafS-.a  very  brief  one  ; 
for  the  facts  were  easily  established,  and 
sentence  was  about  to  be  passed  on  the 
prisoner,  when  a  stir  suddenly  arose  at  the 
court  door.  The  presiding  judge  paused. 
The  stir  increased.  In  the  next  instant 
it  was  hushed  ;  and  in  that  instant  Crom- 
well entered  the  court.  On  advancing  a 
pace  or  tsvo  within  the  apartment,  ho  took 
off  his  hat,    bowed   respectfully    to    the 


judges,  and  proceeding  onwards,  finally 
ascended  the  bench  and  took  his  seat  be- 
side them. 

When  a  man  feels  himself  master,  he 
need  be  under  no  great  ceremony,  neither 
need  he  trouble  himself  much  about  forms 
or  rules  which  regulate  the  conduct  of  in- 
feriors. Cromwell,  on  this  occasion,  got 
up  in  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  taken  his 
place,  and  delivered  to  the  court,  a  long, 
and,  after  his  usual  fashion,  obscure  and 
unconnected  oration,  in  favor  of  the  pri- 
soner at  the  bar.  The  chief  ground,  how- 
ever,  on  which  he  rested  his  defence  and 
exculpation  of  M'Kay,  was  the  fidelity  to 
his  master,  which  the  crime  with  which 
he  was  charged  implied,  and  the  worse  ef- 
fect to  the  cause  of  morality  than  good  to 
the  political  interests  of  the  State,  which 
the  infliction  of  any  punishment  in  such 
case  would  produce.  "  if,"  concluded 
Cromwell,  "  fidelity  to  a  master  is  to  be 
punished  as  a  crim.e,  where  shall  we  look 
for  honest  servants." 

The  reasoning  of  Cromwell,  even  had 
it  been  less  cogent  than  it  was,  could  not 
be  but  convincing  to  those  who  knew  of 
and  dreaded  his  power.  He  was  listened 
to  with  the  most  profound  attention,  and 
the  justness  of  his  arguments  and  force  of 
his  eloquence  acknowledged  by  the  acquit- 
tal of  the  prisoner. 

As  M'Kay  rose  from  his  seat  at  the 
bar  to  leave  the  court.  Cromwell  eyed  him 
attentively  for  some  seconds,  and  struck 
with  his  prodigious  size  and  fierce  aspect, 
whispered  to  one  of  the  judges  near  him  : 
— "  May  the  Lord  keep  me  from  the 
devil's  and  that  man's  gTasp." 

We  have  now  only  to  add,  that  the 
protection  promised  by  Cromwell  to  Lady 
Rae  for  her#  husband  was  duly  made  out 
and  delivered  to  her.  We  need  not  say 
that  it  was  found  to  be  a  perfectly  efficient 
document. 


328 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


A    BITING    EVIDENCE. 


It  has  often  been  remarked  that  crimes 
are  discovered  in  strange  ways.  The  in- 
stances on  record  are,  indeed,  so  numer- 
ous, that  the  moralist  stands  in  no  need  of 
any  assistance  from  us  to  enable  him  to 
give  his  lesson  to  the  workers  of  iniquity. 
Yet  we  may  aid  the  good  cause  to  which 
our  efforts  have  always  been  directed,  by 
giving  an  example,  perhaps  as  curious  as 
any  that  has  been  recorded,  of  the  singu- 
lar ways  by  which  the  eternal  laws  of 
right  are  often  vindicated,  though  we  claim 
at  the  same  time,  an  exemption,  in  the 
present  instance,  from  the  gravity  that  is 
generally  reputed  to  belong  to  moral 
teachers. 

Those  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in 
large  towns,  and  who  are,  consequently, 
accustomed  to  rumors  of  robberies,  lar- 
cenies, and  all  sorts  of  illegal  appropria- 
tion of  property,  can  form  no  idea  of  the 
dreadful  stir  which  the  burglarious  en- 
trance of  some  person  or  persons  unknown 
into  the  premises  of  William  Ritchie,  far- 
mer, Searig,  created  in  the  adjoining  vil- 
lage of  Cranstoun.  It  was  tremendous. 
The  honest  and  simple  villagers  stood 
aghast  at  the  appalling  relation,  and  won- 
dered at  the  enormous  wickedness. 

The  robbery- had  been  committed  dur- 
ing the  night.  It  was  an  outhouse  that 
had  been  entered,  and  the  articles  ab- 
stracted were,  a  quantity  of  linen,  several 
cheeses,  and  an  entire  barrel  of  excellent 
salt  beef,  which  the  lawful  owner  thereof, 
little  dreaming  of  what  was  to  happen, 
had  laid  up  for  winter  store ;  and  often 
had  William  Ritchie,  since  he  drove  the 
last  hoop  that  secured  the  head  of  the  said 
barrel  (for  William  had  coopered  it  up 
with  his  own  hands) — often,  we  say,  had 
he,  since  that  period,  revelled  in  imagin- 
ation on  the  savory  and  nutritious  feeds  of 


beef  and  greens  which  he  fondly  hoped 
he  had  secured.  Often  had  his  mental 
vision  dwelt  with  rapture  on  the  sappy 
rounds  embedded  in  their  vegetable  ac- 
companiment smoking  deliciously  on  the 
board  ;  often  had  the  same  peep  into  fu- 
turity presented  William  Ritchie  (for 
William  Ritchie  liked  a  good  dinner  with 
great  sincerity  of  affection)  with  distinct 
simulations  of  the  carving  knife  entering 
the  said  rounds,  and  severinu;  therefrom 
thick,  juicy  slices  of  well  proportioned  fat 

and  lean.     Often But  where  is  the  use 

of  enlarging  on  all  the  beatific  visions 
which  the  lost  barrel  of  beef,  before  it  was 
lost,  summoned  up  before  the  mind's  eye 
of  William  Ritchie.  Let  us  rather  pro- 
ceed with  our  story,  leaving  it  to  the  read- 
er to  mark,  with  the  sympathy  which  the 
circumstance  demands,  the  ruin,  the  utter 
prostration  of  all  William's  hopes,  as  re- 
garded his  salted  provender,  of  which  this 
nefarious  robbery  was  the  cause. 

It  was  a  good  while  after  the  perpetra- 
tion of  the  burglary  and  theft  before  the 
slightest  clue  could  be  obtained  to  the  dis- 
covery of  the  perpetrator.  One  or  two, 
indeed  were  suspected,  but  they  were  so 
more  on  the  general  ground  of  their  being 
habit  and  repute  loose  fish,  than  from  any 
particular  indications  of  their  guilt  in  the 
special  case  of  the  robbery  of  William  Rit- 
chie's outhouse. 

So  long,  indeed,  was  it  before  any  trace 
of  the  perpetrator  of  this  offence  could  be 
discovered,  that  people  were  beginning  to 
abandon  all  hopes  of  its  ever  being  made 
out.  It  is  curious,  however,  to  mark 
how  strangely  things  sometimes  come  | 
round.  i 

About  two  months  after  the  robbery  in 
question,  William  Ritchie  had  occasion  to 
call  one  day  on  a  certain  Mr.  John  John- 


A  BITING  EVIDENCE. 


329 


stone  who  kept  a  grocery  shop  in  the  vil- 
la2;e  of  CraDstomi.  It  was  to  order  some 
tea  and  sugar — Mr.  Ritchie  being  a  cus- 
tomer of  Mr.  Johnstone'Sj  and  one  of  the 
best  he  had. 

"  Ony  word  yet,  'hh.  Ritchie,"  said  the 
shopkeeper,  after  the  first  greetiligs  had 
passed  between  himself  and  the  former — 
"  ony  word  yet  o'  your  late  visitors  .^" 

Mr.  Ritchie  shook  his  head,  and,  with  a 
melancholy  smile,  replied — • 

"  No,  nae  word  yet ;  and,  I  fancy,  there 
never  v/ill  be  noo." 

"  No  quite  sure  o'  that,"  said  Mr. 
Johnstone,  with  a  look  of  peculiar  and 
somewhat  m3^sterious  intelligence.  "  Was 
the  barrel  o'  saut  beef  they  took  frae  ye  a 
gey  big  ane  .'  As  muckle  as  wad  keep  a 
sma'  family  chowin  for  sax  weeks  or 
sae  .■^" 

"  I  daur  say  it  micht,"  replied  William 
Ritchie,  with  a  sigh,"  if  they  warna  a'  the 
greedier  on't." 

"  Just  sae,"  said  Mr.  Johnstone,  with 
the  same  expression  of  latent  meaning  ; 
and,  in  the  next  moment — "  Will  ye  ste^D 
ben  the  way  a  minat,  Mr.  Ritchie.  I 
want  to  speak  to  ye."  And  he  led  the 
way  to  a  back  apartment,  followed  by  his 
customer. 

On  reaching  this  retreat,  Mr.  Johnstone 
carefully  shut  the  door,  and  advancing, 
almost  on  tiptoe,  to  Mr.  Ritchie,  said,  in 
a  half  vvhisper  : — 

'•  I'll  tell  ye,  William,  what  I  was  want- 
ing to  say  to  ye.  If  I'm  nat  greatly  mis- 
taen,"  continued  Johnstone — and  now 
adding  to  the  force  of  the  mysterious  ex- 
pression of  countenance  formerly  alluded 
to,  by  placing  his  forefinger  significantly 
on  the  side  of  his  nose — "  If  I'm  no  o;reat- 
ly  mistaen,  I  hae  gotten  an  inklin  o'  wha 
it  was  that  broke  into  your  premises." 

"  No  !"  exclaimed  William  Ritchie, 
with  a  look  of  intense  iuLerest.  ''  Wha 
are  they  .^" 

'•  What  wad  ye  think  if  it  were  Raggit 
Rab  ?" 

''  That  it  wasna  the  least  unlikely,"  re- 


plied William  Ritchie.  "  Twa  or  three 
hae  suspeckit  him,  and  mysel  amang  the 
the  lave  ;  but  nae  mair  could  be  made  o't. 
Hoo  come  ye  to  be  sae  sure  he's  the  ma^n, 
John  .'" 

"  Isna  mustard  a  fine  thing  to  a  bit  saut 
beef  .'^"  rejoined  John  Johnstone,  with  an- 
other of  his  deep  intelligent  looks. 

"  Nae  doot  o't,"  said  William  Ritchie, 
surpri-sed  at  the  oddness  and  apparent  ir- 
relevancy of  the  remark.  "  But  what  o' 
that .?" 

"  ril  tell  ye  what  o'  that,  William," 
replied  Mr.  Johnstone.  "  I've  noticed 
that  ever  since  your  premises  war  broken 
into,  Rab  has  bocht  mair  mustard  frae  me 
than  he  ever  did  in  the  hale  course  o'  his 
life  before.  There's  no  a  day  noo,  but 
ane  o'  his  weans  is  here  for  a  pennyworth  ;" 
and  John  Johnson  looked  triumphantly  at 
William  Ritchie, 

The  latter  said  nothing  for  a  few  se- 
conds, but  at  leagth  remarked,  that  it  was 
a  queer  aneuch  circumstance,,  and  looked 
geyin  suspicious.  But  added,  that  it  was 
a  new  way  o'  makin  out  a  charge  o', rob- 
bery. 

"  It  may  be  sae,"  replied  Johnstone  ; 
"  but  I  think  it  pretty  conclusive  evidence, 
for  a'  that." 

"it  wad  be  a  funny  aneuch  circum- 
stance," Sctid  William  Ritchie,  smiling, 
"  to  detect  a  thief  throusrh  the  medium  o^ 
mustard.  There  wad  be  novelty  in't,  at 
ony  rate." 

"  Faith,  Tm  sae  convinced  o't,  I  wad 
hae  ye  try't,  William,"  said  Mr.  Johnstone. 
"  Gie  ye  lang  Jamie  the  messenger  the 
hint,  and  let  him  search  Rob's  huose  in- 
continently, and,  ril  wad  a  firkin  o'  but- 
ter to  a  far  din  cannle,  tliat  ye '11  fin  some- 
thino-  there  that  Rab  Borland  '11  no  ba 
very  weel  able  to  account  for." 

Notwithstanding  the  confidence  Mr. 
Johnstone  evinced  in  the  accuracy  of  his 
conjectures  regarding  the  guilt -of  the  per- 
sonage above-named,  William  Ritchie 
could  not  help  thinking,  as  indeed,  he  had 
said,  that    the    mustard  formed  rather  a 


330 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS 


strange  ground  of  proceeding  in  a  case  of  j 
criminal  dereliction  ;  still,  as  Robert  was  a 
gentleman  of  very  indifferent  reputation 
in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  in  one  or 
two  other  places  besides,  perhaps  he 
thouo-hi  there  could  be  neither  great  harm 
nor  risk  in  adopting  the  process  recom- 
mended by  his  friend,  Johnstone. 

Being  of  this  opinion,  Mr.  Ritchie  im- 
mediately proceeded  to  seek  out  the  legal 
functionary  before  alluded  to — namely, 
James  Rathbone,  or  Lang  Jamie,  as  he 
was  more  familiarly  called  ;  this  soubri- 
quet being  highly  descriptive  of  the  per- 
sonal conformation  of  the  worthy  in  ques- 
tion, whose  legs  were  of  prodigious  length, 
but  not  with  body  corresponding.  Indeed, 
so  marked  was  the  discrepancy  here — that 
is,  between  the  lenirth  of  Jamie's  lesis  and 
his  body — that  although  he  stood  six  feet 
three  on  his  stocking  soles,  he  was  found 
too  short  for  admission  into  a  dragoon  re- 
giment, to  which  he,  on  one  occasion, 
made  offer  of  his  services ;  for,  being  all 
legs,  he  sunk  down  nearly  to  his  neck  on 
the  saddle  when  mounted  on  horseback, 
and  thus  presented  no  superstructure 
worth  counting  upon.  Jamie,  in  short,  so 
far  as  appearance  went,  was  merely  a  pair 
of  animated  tono;s.  But  this  is  somethinsi; 
of  a  digression. 

William  Ritchie  havins;  sought  out  Lang 
Jamie,  whom  he  found  in  the  act  of  writ- 
ing out  some  summonses  against  certain 
defaulters  in  Cranstoun,  thus  cautiously 
opened  the  business  of  his  call. 

"  Ony  word  yet,  Jamie,  o'  the  depreda- 
turs .?"  Jamie  had  been  previously  em- 
ployed in  the  matter  to  which  this  ques- 
tion referred. 

"  No  ;  nae  scent  o'  them  yet,"  replied 
Jamie.  "  But  Pm  keepin  a  sharp  look 
oot,  and  houp  to  hae  some  o'  them  by  the 
cuff  o'  the  neck  before  lang." 

"  Hae  ye  nae  idea  wha  they  could  be, 
Jamie  .?"  again  inquired  William  Ritchie. 

"  Maybe  1  hae,  and  maybe  I  haena," 
replied  the  former.  "  It's  no  safe  speakin, 
ye  ken,  anent  thae  things.     There's  yevi-  \ 


dence  wanted,  Mr.  Ritchie — strong  steeve 
yevidence  ;  or,  at  least,  weel-giounded 
suspicion,  to  allow  o'  a  man  openin  his 
mind  on  thae  subjects  wi'  perfect  safety." 

*'  Bootless,  dootless,"  said  William  Rit- 
chie ;  "  but  if  there  war  now  onythiug  like 
fair  and  reasonable  grounds  o'  suspicion 
against  ony  body,  wad  ye  act,  Jamie,  and 
proceed  thereon  as  the  law  directs  .'" 

"  Undootedly,  I  wad  nab  them  at 
ance,"  replied  Jamie. 

"  Just  sae,"  said  William  Ritchie. 
^'  Weel  then,  if  a  certain  person  bocht  an 
unusual  quantity  o'  mustard  within  a  cer- 
tain time,  what  wad  ye  infer  frae  that, 
Jamie  .^" 

"  I  wad  infer  frae  that,  that  he  Hkit  it. 
That's  a',''  said  Jamie. 

"  But  folk  dinna  usually  eat  mustard  its 
lane,"  rejoined  William  Ritchie ;  "  they 
maun  hae  something  till't.  Noo,  what's 
the  maist  likely  thing  that  they  wad  eat  it 
wi'  in  this,  or  in  onv  ither  similar  case  .''" 

*'  1  dinna  ken,  I'm  sure,"  said  Jamie, 
musingly.  ^'  Maybe  a  bit  saut  fish,  or 
something  o  that  kind." 

"  What  wad  ye  think  o'  a  bit  saut  beef.'" 
inquired  Ritchie. 

"  Very  guid,"  said  Jamie.  *'  Just  an 
excellent  association.  Sautbeef  and  mus- 
tard ;"  and  he  licked  his  lips,  as  he  thought 
of  the  condiment  thus  accompanied. 

'^  Weel  then,"  continued  William  Rit- 
chie, "  micht  ye  no  infer,  think  ye,  frae 
this  extraordinary  consumption  o'  mustard, 
that  the  consumer  had  a  comfortable  sup- 
ply o'  saut  beef  in  his  larder  P'' 

"  The  inference,  I  think,  wad  be  fair 
aneuch,"  said  Jamie  ;  "  at  least  there  wad, 
certainly,  be  strong  probability  o'  the 
fact." 

"  I  think  sae,"  rejoined  William. 
"  Then,  keepin  in  mind  that  I  lost  a  bar- 
rel o'  saut  beef,  what  wad  ye  think  if  Rob 
Borland  sent  every  day  since  syne  to  John- 
ny Johnstone's  shop  for  a  pennyworth  o' 
mustard  .^" 

"  I  wad  think  it  a  gey  suspicious  lookin 
thing,  surely,"  replied  Jamie  ;  "  and  wad 


A   BITING  EVIDENCE. 


331 


conclude  that  Borland  and  your  beef,  Mr. 
Ritchie,  were  on  rather  owre  intimate  a 
footin.  It  wad,  indeed,  I  confess,  be 
rather  a  queer  sort  o'  proof  to  go  on  ;  but " 
feth,  there's  something  in't.  Can  ye  in- 
struct as  to  the  mustard  r" 

"  'Deed  can  I,"  said  William  Ritchie  ; 
and  he  proceeded  to  inform  Jamie  of  what 
had  passed  between  him  and  Johnstone  on 
the  subject  in  discussion;  adding,  that  he 
had  come  to  him  by  the  advice  of  the  lat- 
ter, and  concluding  by  requesting  Jamie 
to  search  the  premises  of  Mr.  Robert  Bor- 
land. 

Jamie,  at  first,  shyed  a  little  at  taking 
so  very  decisive  a  step  on  such  strange 
grounds  ;  but,  at  length,  agreed  to  adven- 
ture on  the  proceeding. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  very  day, 
Jamie,  accompanied  by  two  drunken,  pim- 
ple-faced concurrents,  visited  the  domicil 
of  Mr.  Robert  Borland,  and  there  found, 
not  William  Ritchie's  beef,  but  the  bar- 
rel which  had  contained  it ;  the  last  piece 
of  the  former  having  made  the  family  din- 
ner on  that  very  day. 

The  barrel,  however,  having  been  identi- 
fied, and  sworn  to  by  its  owner,  Mr.  Bor- 
land was  consigned  to  the  county  jail,  and 
subsequently  brought  to  trial  before  the 
circuit  court  for  the  robbery. 

A  young  lawyer,  who  was  desirous  of 
fleshing  his  legal  sword  for  the  first  time, 
undertook  Mr.  Borland's  defence  without 
fee  or  reward,  and  labored  hard  to  show 
that  the  circumstance  of  the  panel  at  the 
bar's  buying  a  quantity  of  mustard  daily, 
was  no  proof  whatever  that  he  was  living 
on  stolen  salt  beef,  or,  indeed,  on  salt  beef 
at  all.  "  It  might  have  been  salted  fish. 
He  might  have  bought  it  to  eat  with  salt 
fish,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  this  un- 
fledged orator,  "  or  with  a  hundred  other 
articles  of  food.  Why  salt  beef  more  than 
anything  else  ?     I  say,  that  to  allege  that 


it  was  salt  beef,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  is 
to  presume  that  to  be  a  fact  which  is  a 
mere  hypothesis — a  hypothesis  founded  on 
an  association  of  ideas — the  association  of 
salt  beef  with  mustard,  or  vice  versa. 
Now,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  continued 
our  incipient  Cicero,  "  you  will  be  so  good 
as  observe  that  however  natural  this  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  may  be — that  is,  however, 
natural  it  may  be  to  suppose  that  the 
panel  at  the  bar  bought  the  condiment  in 
question  to  eat  with  salt  beef — the  infer- 
ence is  by  no  means  either  a  necessary  or 
an  inevitable  one.  Very  far  from  it.  It 
is  indeed  monstrous  to  insist  on  its  being 
SD.  Can  a  man  I  would  ask — can  a  man, 
I  say — not  purchase  a  pennyworth  of  mus- 
tard without  being  suspected  of  having 
stolen  salt  beef  to  eat  with  it  ?  Or,  take 
another  view  of  the  case — is  a  man  to  be 
suspected  of  having  stolen  salt  beef,  because 
he  buys  a  pennyworth  of  mustard  ?  No? 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  will  never,  I 
am  sure,  give  in  to  such  a  monstrous 
doctrine  as  this — a  doctrine  that  would 
destroy  at  one  fell  blow  the  liberty  of  the 
subject,  and  the  trade  in  mustard." 

Much  more  to  the  same  purpose  did 
this  promising  young  lawyer  say  ;  but,  we 
regret  to  add,  to  no  purpose.  The  jury 
insisted  on  sticking  by  the  mustard,  as  at 
least,  a  presumptive  proof  of  guilt,  when 
corroborated  by  the  circumstances  of  Mr. 
Borland's  "  habit  and  repute  "  character, 
and  the  empty  barrel's  having  been  found 
on  his  premises.  The  result  of  this  view 
of  the  case  was  a  verdict  of  guilty  ;  and 
the  consequence  of  that  verdict,  sentence 
of  transportation  for  fourteen  years. 

Such  was  the  doom  awarded  against  the 
ino-enious  Mr.  Borland  ;  and.  we  daresay, 
the  reader  'will  allow  that  seldom  has 
crime  owed  its  detection  to  so  curious  a 
circumstance. 


332 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


A  PASSAGE   IN   THE   LIFE    OF   ST.   KENTIGERN. 


This  celebrated  personags,  as  is  well 
known,  first  began  business  as  a  saint  in 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  city  of  Glas- 
gow. 

On  his  first  settlement  in  that  neighbor- 
hood, he  built  himself  a  hut — said  hut 
bearing  a  felicitous  resemblance  to  a  pig's 
sty — on  the  site  of  the  ancient  cathedral 
called  by  his  name. 

While  the  saint  was  yet  but  little  known 
as  a  person  of  eminent  piety,  he  was  one 
day  surprised  by  the  visit  of  a  young  and 
very  beautiful  lady,  who  called  at  his  cot- 
ta-^G.  He  was  listlessly  leaning  over  the 
little  half- door  of  his  domicil  when  the 
lady  approached,  thinking  how  he  had 
best  go  to  work  to  establish  a  reputation, 
and  but  little  imagining,  worthy  man,  that 
an  opportunity  of  accomplishing  this  de- 
sirable end  was  at  that  very  moment  about 
to  be  presented  to  him. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Kentigern .'" 
said  the  lady,  with  a  gracious  smile  and 
profound  courtsey,  on  coming  within  a 
yard  or  so  of  the  former. 

"  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am," 
replied  the  saint,  respectfully,  and  at  the 
same  time  doffing  a  red  nightcap,  which 
he  happened  to  have  on  at  the  moment. 

"  Could  1  have  a  private  word  with  you. 
Sir,"  said  the  lady. 
I  Saint  Kentigern  looked  embarrassed  by 
this  request.  He  thought  it  wouldn't  look 
well  in  a  person  of  his  pretensions  to  be 
giving  private  audiences  to  young  ladies. 
However,  his  natural  urbanity  and  polite- 
ness finally  prevailed,  and,  opening  the 
half  door  as  he  spoke — "  Oh,  certainly, 
ma'am,"  he  said.  "  By  all  means.  Walk 
in  if  you  please." 
The  lady  complied. 

'•  Grieved,  ma'am,  to  be   obliged  to  in- 
troduce you  to  such  sorry  quarters,"  said 


ways  sat. 
Ha^-ingr 


the  saint,  dusting  a  rush-bottomed  chair 
with  half  the  bottom  away,  and  the  re- 
maining half  all  tag-rag  and  bobtail,  for 
the  lady  to  sit  upon.      She  sat  down. 

The  saint  drew  in  the  only  other  chair 
he  had  for  his  own  accommodation.  It 
was  a  curiosity  in  its  way.  The  bottom 
was  driven  full  of  nails,  points  projecting 
upwards.  It  was  a  sort  of  a  mortification 
chair,  and  the  one  in  which  the  saint  al- 
He  would  sit  in  no  other, 
seated  himself,  St.  Kentiorern 
waited  the  lady's  communication.  She 
began : — 

"  Mr.  Kentigern,  the  favorable  reports 
I  have  heard  of  your  piety  (here  St.  Ken- 
tigern bowed  politely  to  his  visitor),  have 
induced  me  to  call  upon  you,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  asking  your  advice  and  aid  in  a 
very  awkward  and  unpleasant  affair.  You 
must  know.  Sir,  that,  about  three  weeks 
ago,  my  husband,  who  is  one  of  the  most 
jealous  men  alive,  presented  me  with  a 
gold  ring.  Well,  this  ring  I  most  unfor- 
tunately lost  while  bathing  one  day  lately 
in  the  river  Clyde,  on  the  banks  of  which 
we  live.  It  had  dropped  off  my  finger 
while  I  was  in  the  water,  for  I  missed  it 
the  moment  I  came  out ;  but  it  was,  of 
course,  irrecoverable.  Well,  Mr.  Kenti- 
gern, would  you  believe  it,  my  husband, 
unfeeling  brute  that  he  is,  swears  that  I 
never  lost  the  ring,  but  have  given  it  to 
some  gallant.  He  suspects  my  virtue,  Mr. 
Kentigern.  He  does,  he  does.  Oh!  [can- 
not live  under  the  vile  imputation  ;"  and 
here  the  afflicted  fair  one  burst  into  tears. 

"  Be  composed,  my  dear  madam,  be 
composed,  I  beg  of  you,"  said  the  saint, 
with  an  extremely  kind  and  consolatory 
manner.  "  It  seems 
case,  certainly.'' 

"  It  is.  Sir,  a  very 


to  be  a  very  hard 
hard  one — a  very 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  ST.   KENTIGERN. 


333 


cruel  one.  I  am  an  ill-used,  a  shockinly 
ill-used  woman,  Mr.  Kentigern.  Now,  my 
dear  Sir,"  continued  the  lady,  getting  a 
little  more  calm,  "  can  you  do  anything 
for  me  ?  Can  you  assist  me  to  disabuse 
my  husband  of  the  infamous  notion  he 
has  taken  into  his  head  ?" 

"  Why,  ma'am,  not  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment ;  not  to-night,"  said  the  saint, 
stroking  his  chin  thoughtfully.  "  I  must 
have  a  little  time  to  think,  ma'am  ;  and, 
moreover,  ma'am — pray,  be  not  offended 
— I  must  make  some  inquiries  into  the 
case  before  I  can  do  anything  in  it ;  andj 
to  be  plain  with  you  ma'am — plain  dealing 
is  best  in  all  cases — I  must  make  some  in- 
cjuiries  regarding  yourself,  before  I  can 
promise  you  any  assistance,  although  I 
have  no  doubt  that  the  result  of  these  in- 
quiries will  be  perfectly  satisfactory.  No 
doubt  of  it  whatever. 

"  This  being  the  case,  then,  ma'am,  if 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  call  upon  me 
again — say  to-morrow,  about  this  time — I 
will  see  what  can  be  done  ;  and,  in  the 
meantime,  beg  to  assure  you  that  it  will 
afford  me  infinite  pleasure  if  I  can  be  of 
any  S3rvice  to  you  in  this  or  any  other 
matter." 

''•  Oh,  thank  you,  Sir  ! — thank  you  ! — 
you  are  very  kind,"  said  the  lady,  rising 
from  her  seat.  '•'  I  cannot  tell  you  Mr. 
Kentigern,  how  much  I  am  obliged  to 
you ;  for,  feeling  confident  of  the  result 
of  the  inquiries  you  quite  reasonably  pro- 
pose to  make,  I  may  reckon,  I  dare  say, 
on  having  secured  your  kind  assistance  in 
this  most  unhappy  affair.  I  will  be  punc- 
tual, to-morrow  afternoon.  Good  morn- 
ing. Sir — good  morning." 

"  Good  morning,  madam,"  replied  the 
saint,  also  rising.  "  Sorry,  ma'am,  that 
I  can  offer  you  no  refreshment  of  any  kind. 
1  keep  no  bottle,''  he  added,  smiling.  "  A 
few  herbs  from  the  Fir  Park,  and  a  pitcher 
of  water  from  the  Molendinar,  form  the 
staple  of  my  living." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  Mr.  Kentigern  ! — 
don't   mention    it,   my    dear   sir,    if  you 


please.  You  have  been  but  too  kind  in 
saying  the  many  obliging  things  you  have 
said.     Good  mornino;  ao-ain,  sir." 

The  saint  bowed,  and  the  lady  departed 
having  previously  given  the  former  to  un- 
derstand that  her  name  was  Mrs.  Milligan. 

The  worthy  saint  lost  no  time  in  mak- 
ing the  inquiries  regarding  the  lady  which 
he  had  proposed  to  make.  She  was  not 
half-an-hour  gone  when  he  drew  on  his 
greatcoat,  the  night  being  chilly,  rolled  a 
red  comforter  about  his  neck,  took  a  stick 
in  his  hand,  and  sallied  forth  in  quest  of 
Mrs.  Milligan's  character. 

The  result  was  highly  gratifying.  He 
found  that  she  was  a  most  virtuous  wo- 
man ;  most  exemplary,  as  the  obituaries 
have  it,  in  all  the  relations  of  life,  and 
that  her  husband  was  a  brute. 

Possessed  of  this  satisfactory  informa- 
tion, the  saint  returned  home,  and  waited 
with  some  impatience — for  he  delighted  in 
doing  good — the  promised  reappearance 
of  I\irs.  ]Millio;an. 

The  lady  came  at  the  appointed  time. 
St.  Kentigern  received  her  with  a  cordial 
welcome.  There  was  now,  on  his  part, 
no  doubt — no  hesitation — no  reserve.  The 
information  he  had  received  resjardins:  her 
had  banished  all  that. 

"  Come  away,  my  dear  madam,"  he 
said,  taking  her  affectionately  by  the  hand, 
and  contemplating  her  with  a  smile  of 
great  benignity.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
and  still  more  glad  to  inform  you  that  all's 
right.  I  have  had  the  most  satisfactory 
accounts  of  you  in  all  quarters." 

The  lady  blushed  and  curtsied. 

"  Then  sir,"  she  said,  '•  I  may  hope,  I 
presume,  for  your  kind  assistance  in  help- 
ins:  me  to  re-establish  mv  character." 

"  Most  certainly,  ma'am." 

"  You  will  probably  take  the  trouble 
of  calling  on  my  husband,  and,  by  reason- 
ing with  him,  convince  him  of  the  injus- 
tice he  has  done  me." 

"  No,  ma'am.  I  will  serve  you  in  a 
much  more  effectual  way." 

"  Indeed,  sir  ;  and  how,  pray  .'" 


334 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  I  will  perform  a  miracle,  madam,  in 
your  behalf,"  said  the  saint.  "  A  miracle, 
madam  ;  and  one  of  the  neatest  that  has 
been  done  for  a  long  while.  Quite  a  gem 
of  a  thing." 

"  A  miracle  I"  exclaimed  the  lady  in 
raptures.  "  O  dear  !  that  will  be  so  de- 
lightful, so  charming." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  St.  Kentigern, 
with  a  look  of  grave  importance — "  It 
shall  be  a  very  pretty  thing.  It  will  con- 
found your  enemies,  madam,  especially 
your  unfeeling  monster  of  a  husband — 
whom  it  will  strike  as  dumb  as  an  oyster." 

"  Pray,  what  sort  of  a  miracle  will  it 
be,  Mr.  Kentigern  r"  inquired  the  lady, 
eagerly. 

"  Excuse  me,  ma'am,"  said  the  former. 
"  It  never  does  to  divulge  these  things  be- 
fore hand.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
have  to  do,  ma'am.  Without  mentioning 
anything  of  this  matter  to  your  husband, 
endeavor  to  prevail  upon  him  to  walk  with 
you  by  the  river  side,  a  little  above  the 
village  of  Bridgegate,  to-morrow  afternoon 
about  this  time.  I  will  be  on  the  ground, 
and  will,  then  and  there,  perform  the  mira- 
cle 1  have  spoken  of." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir — a  thousand 
thanks,"  said  Mrs.  Milligan,  rising  to  de- 
part. '*  I  shall  be  punctual,  and  shall  en- 
deavor to  coax  my  husband  to  come  along 
with  me ;  although  it  will  not  be  an  easy 
task,  as  he  is  in  shocking  bad  humor  just 
now,  about  that  confounded  ring.  How- 
ever, I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  manage 
him,  after  all." 

"I  hope  you  will,  ma'am — I  hope  you 
will,"  said  St.  Kentigern,  bowing  his  fair 
visitor  to  the  door. 

On  the  followinii;  afternoon,  Mrs.  Millif'an 
and  her  husband  appeared  at  the  appoint- 
ed place.  IJow  she  had  prevailed  on  him 
to  accompany  her  is  not  known  ;  but  there 
they  were.  That  they  were  still,  however, 
on  very  indifferent  terms,  was  evident, 
from  the  circumstance  of  their  not  walk- 
ing arm-in-arm  together,  but  one  after 
the  other — the   gentleman  first,  and  the 


lady  several  yards  behind.  The  former, 
too,  was  looking  most  horribly  sulky  and 
discontented. 

While  thus  dodging  along  the  banks  of 
the  river,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milligan  saw  a 
stout  gentleman,  carrying  a  stick  in  his 
hand,  and  wearing  a  very  broad-brimmed 
hat,  approaching  with  a  slow  and  stately 
step,     it  was  St.  Kentigern. 

Mrs.  Milligan  immediately  recognised 
him  ;  and,  running  forward,  extended  her 
hand  to  him.  The  saint  took  it  cordially  ; 
touching  his  hat,  at  the  same  time,  re- 
spectfully, with  his  left  hand. 

''  My  husband,  Mr.  Kentigern,"  said 
the  lady,  introducing  the  latter  to  the  for- 
mer— "  Mr.  Kentigern,  Peter." 

"  Hope  you're  well,  sir,"  said  the  saint 
to  Mr.  Milligan,  raising  his  hat  politely, 
but  at  the  same  time  looking  very  cold 
and  stern. 

"  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  su',"  replied 
the  latter,  somewhat  gruffly. 

"  Mr.  Milligan,  sir,  I  am  sorry  to  say," 
resumed  St.  Kentigern,  "  that  you  are 
using  your  poor  wife  here  very  ill — very 
ill,  indeed.  She  is  a  paragon  of  virtue, 
sir  ;  and  your  accusing  her  of  having  given 
away  the  ring  you  presented  her  with 
lately,  is  a  most  unjust  one.  She  lost  the 
ring,  sir,  and  precisely  in  the  way  she 
says." 

"  That's  all  in  my  eye,"  replied  the 
uncourteous  Mr.  Milligan.  "  I  know  bet- 
ter." 

"  I'll  prove  it,  sir,"  said  Kentigern, 
indignantly. 

*'  Will  you,  by  Jingo  !"  replied  Mr. 
Milligan.     ^''  I  should  like  to  see  you." 

St.  Kentifijern  deis-ned  no  further  alter- 
cation  on  the  subject ;  but,  turning  to- 
wards the  river,  where  were  some  fisher- 
men dragging  a  net  to  shore — 

"  I  say,  lads,"  he  called  out,  addressing 
the  fishermen,  "  bring  hither  the  first  sal- 
mon you  catch." 

One  of  the  men  tauched  his  hat,  and 
said  he  would ;  and,  in  a  minutes  after, 
came  towards  the  saint  with  a  fine  large 


A  PASSAGE  IN  THE   LIFE  OF  ST.   KENTIGERK 


335^ 


fish,  which  had  just   been  taken,  in  his 
arms. 

*'  Put  it  down  on  the  grass  there,"  said 
the  saint  to  the  fisherman.  "  Now,  mj 
man,  kneel  down,  open  the  fish's  mouth, 
and  see  if  it  contains  anything  extraordi- 
nary." 

The  man  did  as  he  was  desired.  He 
knelt  down,  opened  the  salmon's  mouth, 
when,  lo  and  behold  !  it  was  found  to  con- 
tain a  gold  ring.  The  fisherman  was 
amazed.  St.  Kentis-ern  was  not  so  in  the 
least,  but  coolly  desired  the  man  to  hand 
it  to  him.  He  did  so,  when  the  saint, 
presenting  it  to  Mr.  Milligan,  said — 

"  Examine  that  ring,  sir,  and  see  if  you 
recognise  it.  I  rather  think  you  will  find 
it  to  be  the  same  with  that  you  gave  to 
your  wife,  and  which  you  kicked  up  such 
a  dust  about." 

"  It  is — it  is,  indeed  !"  exclaimed  the 
astonished  and  confounded  Mr.  Milligan, 
turnino-the  rin<;  round  and  round.  "  The 
identical  ring,  as  I'm  a  sinner  !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  it;  is,"  said  St.  Kentigern, 
with  a  severe  aspect.  "  And  now,  sir, 
are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself,  and  of 
the  gross  injustice  you  have  done  this  most 
innocent  and  most  virtuous  woman  here  .'' 
Does  not  this  satisfy  you  that  she  indeed 
lost  the  rins;  as  she  said  ?  Is  not  its  beino; 
found  in  the  river  sufficient  proof  that  it 
was  lost  there .?" 

"  It  is — it  is  !  I  am-  satisfied — perfectly 
satisfied,"  replied  the  contrite  and  hum- 
bbd  Mr.  Milligan  ;  "  and  heartily  sorry  am 
I  for  the  injury  I  have  done  you,  my  dear. " 

And  he  tenderly  embraced  his  wife, 
who,  so  far  from  triumphing  over  her  hus- 
band in  an  insolent  manner,  as  she  might 
well  have  done,  or  rejecting  his  advances, 
was  all  meekness  and  humility.  Her  in- 
nocence had  been  proven,  and  she  was 
satisfied  ;  it  was  all  she  desired. 


*'  iSow,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  repent- 
ant husband,  addressino;  St.  Kentio-crn, 
''how  am  I  to  recompense  you  for  the 
trouble  you  have  taken  in  this  little  family 
afi'air  of  mine  .^" 

"  I  want  no  recompense,  sir,"  replied 
the  saint  ;  "  I  do'  good  for  its  own  sake 
a;lone,  and  not  for  reward." 

"  You  will,  at  least,  do  us  the  honor  of 
going  home  with  us,  and  taking  a  bit  of 
dinner  with  us,"  said  Mr.  Milligan. 

"  Excuse  me  ;  I  never  dine  out,"  re- 
plied St.  Kentigern  ;  "  nor  is  it  a  practice 
I  approve  of.  Good  evening,  sir ;  and' 
allow  me  to  hope  that  you  will  benefit  by 
this  lesson."  Then,  turning  to  Mrs.  Mil- 
ligan— "  Good  evening,  my  dear  madam," 
hti  said,  taking  her  tenderly  by  the  hand. 
"  Your  innocence  is  now  fully  and  fairly 
established,  and  your  enemies  fully  and 
fairly  confounded.  Believe  me,  madam, 
I  am  delighted  at  having  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  serving  you  ;  and  I  beg  that  you 
will  not  hesitate  to  apply  to  me  should  you 
ever  again  stand  in  need  of  any  such  aid 
or  advice  as  I  can  aiFord.  Farewell,  my 
dear  madam  !" 

And  the  saint,  raising  his  hat  politely 
to  the  lady,  who  was  so  much  afi"ected  that 
she  could  not  say  a  word,  and  rather 
coldishly  saluting  the  gentleman,  turned' 
him  round  and  departed. 

Such  is  the  well  authenticated  tradition 
which  has  introduced  into  the  arms  of  the 
city  of  Glasgow,  amongst  other  emblema- 
tical insignia,  the  figure  of  a  salmon  with  » 
ring  in  its  mouth. 

This  famous  miracle,  we  may  add,  set 
St.  Kentigern  at  once  upon  his  feet.  It 
made  him  as  a  saint,  throwing  around  him. 
an  odor  of  sanctity,  which  the  lapse  of 
some  eight  or  ten  hundred  years  has  but 
little  abated. 


336 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


THE     BRIDE. 


Fifty  years  ago,  William  Percy  rented  a 
farm  that  consisted  of  about  a  hundred 
acres,  and  which  was  situated  on  the  banks 
of  the  Till.  His  wife,  though  not  remark- 
able for  her  management  of  a  farm-house, 
was  a  woman  of  ma^y  virtues,  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  kind  and  aflfectionate  heart. 
They  had  an  only  daughter,  whose  name 
was  Agnes ;  and,  as  she  approached 
towards  womanhood,  people  began  to 
designate  her  The  Rose  of  Till-side.  Her 
beauty  was  not  of  the  kind  that  dazzles  or 
excites  sudden  admiration  ;  but  it  grew 
upon  the  sight  like  the  increasing  bright- 
ness of  a  young  rainbow — its  influence 
stole  over  the  soul  as  moonlight  on  the 
waters.  It  was  pleasant  to  look  upon  her 
fair  countenance,  where  sweetness  gave  a 
character  to  beauty,  mellowing  it  and  soft- 
enino;  it,  as  though  the  soul  of  innocence 
there  reflected  its  image.  Many  said 
that  no  one  could  look  upon  the  face  of 
Agnes  Percy  and  sin.  Her  bair  was  of 
the  lightest  brown,  her  eyes  of  the  softest 
blue,  and  the  lovely  rose  which  bears  the 
name  of  Maidcn^s  Blush  is  not  more  deli- 
cate in  the  soft  glow  of  its  coloring,  than 
was  the  vermilion  tint  upon  her  cheeks. 
She  was  of  middle  stature,  and  her  fisfure 
might  have  served  a  sculptor  as  a  model. 
But  she  was  good  and  gentle  as  she  was 
beautiful.  The  widow  mentioned  her 
name  in  her  prayers — the  poor  blessed  her. 
Now,  Agnes  was  about  eighteen,  when 
a  young  man  of  her  own  age,  named  Hen- 
ry Cranstoun,  took  up  his  residence  for  a 
few  months  in  her  father's  house.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  distant  relative  of  her  mother, 
and  was  then  articled  as  a  clerk  or  appren- 
tice to  a  writer  to  the  siimet  in  Edinburcjh. 
He  also  was  the  only  child  of  his  parents  ; 
for,  though  they  had  had  eight  others,  he  was 
all  that  death  had  left  them.     He  was  the 


youngest  son  of  his  mother  ;  and  there  was 
a  time  when  there  was  no  mother  had 
greater  cause  to  be  proud  of  her  children. 
Yea,  as  they  hand  in  hand,  or  one  by  one 
went  forth  on  the  Sabbath  morning  with 
their  parents  to  their  place  of  worship, 
there  was  not  an  eye  that  looked  not  with 
delight  or  admiration  on  the  little  Cran- 
stouns.  The  neatness  of  their  dress,  the 
loveliness  of  every  countenance,  the  family 
likeness  of  each,  the  apparent  affection  of 
all,  the  propriety  of  their  demeanor,  inte- 
rested all  who  looked  upon  them.  But,  as 
untimely  flowers,  that,  by  a  returning  frost, 
are  stricken  down  in  beauty,  so  drooped, 
so  perished,  this  fair  and  happy  family. 
Some  had  said  that  they  were  too  beauti- 
ful to  live  ;  and,  as  they  also  manifested 
much  quickness  and  wisdom  for  their  years, 
there  were  others  who  said  to  Mrs.  Cran- 
stoun, as  she  was  sheddina;  their  shinins; 
hair  upon  their  brows,  that  she  would 
never  comb  an  old  head  !  This  is  a  cold, 
cruel,  and  ignorant  prophecy.  It  has  sent 
foreboding  and  unhappincss  into  the  bosoms 
of  many  a  fond  mother  ;  but,  in  this  case, 
it  needed  not  the  gift  of  a  seer  to  foretell 
the  gloomy  tidings.  Consumption  lurked 
amidst  the  beauty  that  glowed  on  every 
cheek  ;  and  seven  of  the  fair  family  had 
fallen  victims  to  the  progre;^  of  the  insi- 
dious destroyer,  till  Henry  alone  was  left. 
And  now,  even  upon  him  also,  it  seemed 
to  have  set  its  mark.  The  hollow  cough 
and  the  flushed  cheek,  the  languidness  by 
day  and  the  restlessness  by  night,  gave 
evidence  that  the  disease  was  there. 

Change  of  air  and  less  study  were  re- 
commended by  the  physicians  as  the  only 
means  by  which  Henry  might  be  saved  ; 
and  he  was  sent  over  to  Northumberland, 
to  the  ho^se  of  William  Percy,  his  mother's 
friend. 


THE  BRIDE. 


337 


It  was  about  that  period  of  the  year 
which  is  spoken  of  as  the  "  fall  of  the  leaf," 
when  Henry  Cranstoun  first  arrived  at 
Till-side.  William  Percy  had  just  gather- 
ed in  his  harvest,  and  Henry  met  with  the 
kindly  welcome  of  a  primitive  family.  The 
father,  the  mother,  and  their  daughter,  re- 
ceived him  as  one  whom  they  were  to 
snatch  from  the  hands  of  death.  In  a  few 
days,  the  goafs  milk,  and  the  bracing  air, 
which  came  with  health  on  its  wings  from 
the  adjacent  mountains,  wrought  a  visible 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  invalid. 
His  cough  became  more  softened,  his  eyes 
less  languid,  his  step  more  firm,  and  he 
panted  not  as  he  walked.  He  felt  return- 
ing strength  flowing  through  his  veins — in 
his  bosom,  in  the  moving  of  his  fingers,  he 
felt  it.  He  walked  out  by  the  side  of 
Agnes — she  led  him  by  the  banks  of  the 
Till,  by  the  foot  of  the  hills,  by  the  woods 
where  the  brown  leaves  were  falling,  and 
by  the  solitary  glen. 

Perhaps  I  might  have  said  that  the  pre- 
sence of  Agnes  contributed  not  less  than 
the  mountain  air,  and  the  change  of 
scenery,  to  his  restoration  to  health.  Of 
this  I  have  not  been  told.  Certain  it  is 
that  her  beauty  and  her  gentleness  had 
spread  their  influence  over  his  heart,  as 
spring,  with  its  wooing  breath,  awakens 
the  dreaming  earth  from  its  winter  sleep. 
It  was  not  the  season  when  nature  calls 
forth  the  soul  to  love  ;  for  the  cushat  was 
silent  in  the  wood,  the  mavis  voiceless  on 
the  thorn,  the  birds  were  dumb  on  every 
spray  the  wild-flowers  had  closed  their 
leaves  and  drooped,  and  the  meadows  lost 
their  fragrance.  But,  as  they  wandered 
forth  together,  a  lark  started  up  at  their 
feet ;  it  raised  its  autumn  song  over  their 
heads  ;  it  poured  it  in  their  ears.  Both 
raised  their  eyes  in  joy  towards  the  sing- 
ing bird ;  they  listened  to  it  with  delight. 
His  fingers  were  pressed  on  hers  as  he 
heard  it,  as  though  he  would  have  said — 
"  How  sweet  it  is  !"  But  the  lustre  for- 
sook his  eyes  while  he  yet  listened — he 
sighed,  and  was  silent.     They  returned 

VOL.  II.  59 


home  together,  and  Agnes  strove  to  cheer 
him  ;  but  his  spirit  was  heavy,  and  he 
pressed  her  hand  more  fervently  in  his. 
The  sons  of  the  lark  seemed  to  have 
touched  a  chord  of  sadness  in  his  bosom. 
Henry  was  heard  walking  backward  and 
forward  in  his  room  throughout  the  night ; 
and,  on  the  following  morning  at  break- 
fast, he  put  a  paper  into  the  hands  of 
Aj^nes,  on  which  were  written  the  follow- 
ing  rhymes : — 

THE  LARK'S  AUTUMNAL  SONG.l 

(inscribed    to    AGNES    PERCY.) 

Again  in  the  heavens  thy  hymn  is  heard, 

Bird  of  the  daring  wing  ! 
When  last  ye  sprang  from  the  daisied  sward 

Making  the  welkin  ring, 
Thy  lay  the  dreaming  buds  awoke  — 
Thy  voice  the  spell  of  winter  broke — 
The  primrose,  on  the  mossy  brae, 
Burst  beauteous  into  life  and  day, 

And  smiled  to  hear  thee  sing  I 
The  children  clapped  their  tiny  hands  ; 
The  shout  rang  through  their  little  bands, 

Hailing  the  bird  of  spring  I 
Thy  lay  made  earth  and  air  rejoice, 
And  Nature  heard  thee  as  an  angel's  Toice. 

Again  in  the  heavens  thy  hymn  is  heard, 

Bird  of  the  mournful  song  I 
A  lonely  daisy  yet  decks  the  sward, 

The  last  of  the  summer  throng. 
"While  here  and  there,  upon  the  brae 
Some  primrose,  languid  as  the  ray, 
Of  hope  that  vanisheth  away. 

Upon  the  cheek  of  death, 
Untimely  opes  its  golde-^  wing, 
Mistaking,  as  it  hears  thee  sing, 
That  thou  art  come  to  tell  of  spring, 

And  not  of  winter's  wrath. 
But  now  thy  strain  is  as  one  that  grieves — 
Thou  singest  the  dirge  of  the  falling  leaves  I 

Again  in  the  heavens  thy  hymn  T  hear. 

Bird  of  the  merry  song  ! 
Thou  art  ringing  a  lay  in  old  winter's  ear— 
Ye  bid  him  farewell,  and  ye  welcome  him  here— 

Ye  help  the  old  man  along  ! 
Ye  are  singing  to  look  on  the  fruits  of  the  year 
Gathered  in,  and  in  ripeness,  with  plenty  around  ; 
And  ye  pour  o"er  earth's  fulness  a  rapturous  sound. 
Ye  are  singing  a  strain  that  man  should  have  sung— 
Man  with  ingratitude  sealed  on  his  tongue  ! 
At  seed-time,  thy  joyous  and  hope-breathing  lay, 
To  the  ploughman  was  sung,  as  an  anthem,  all  day, 
And  now,  at  his  harvest,  ye  greet  him  again, 
And  call  him  to  join  in  thy  thanksgiving  strain  .' 

Ao-nes  wept  as  she  perused  the  fore- 
boding lines,  which  he  had  marked  in 
what  printers  call  italics,  in  the  second 
stiinza,  by  drawing  a  line  under  them. 
She  felt  interested  in  the  fate  of  Henry 


338 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Cranstoun — deeply  interested.  We  be- 
lieve that,  like  the  gentle  Desdemona,  she 
wished  that 

"  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  ;" 

for,  though  the  young  writer  to  the  signet 
spoke  not 

"  Of  war,  and  broils,  and  battles,-' 

his  tongue  was  the  interpreter  of  nature — 
he  dwelt  as  an  enthusiast  on  its  beauties, 
its  mysteries,  its  benevolence,  its  glorious 
design  ;  and,  through  all,  he  would  point 

"  Through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God  !" 

It  is  a  common  saying,  "  that  you  can- 
not put  an  old  head  upon  young  shoul- 
ders ;"  but,  if  ever  the  truth  of  the  saying 
might  be  disputed,  it  was  in  the  case  of 
Henry  Cranstoun.  The  deaths  of  his 
brothers  and  his  sisters  had  rested  upon 
his  young  mind — they  had  struck  it  with 
awe — they  had  made  him  to  feel  that  he, 
too,  must  die — he,  indeed,  felt  as  though  the 
shadow  of  death  were  creeping  over  him  ; 
and  the  thoughts  and  the  hopes  of  eter- 
nity early  became  the  companions  of  his 
spirit.  He  treasured  up  the  words  of  the 
inspired  preacher,  "  Remember  thy  Crea- 
tor in  the  days  of  thy  youth."  He  trea- 
sured them  up,  and  he  practised  them  ; 
and  his  deportment  gave  him  a  deeper 
interest  in  the  eyes  of  the  Northumbrian 
farmer  and  his  family. 

William  Percy  was  esteemed  by  his 
neighbors  as  a  church-going  and  a  good 
man.     He  was  kind  to  his   servants  ;  he 


paid  every  man  his  own  ;  he  was  an  affec- 
tionate husband,  and  a  fond  father  ;  the 
poor  turned  not  away  murmuring  from  his 
door  ;  and,  every  Sunday  night,  he  knelt 
with  his  wife  and  with  his  daughter,  before 
his  Maker,  in  worship,  as  though  it  were 
a  duty  which  was  to  be  discharged  but 
once  in  seven  days.  Now,  it  was  late  on 
a  Saturday  night  when  Henry  Cranstoun 
arrived  at  their  house  ;  and,  on  the  follow- 
ing evening,  he  joined  in  the  devotions  of 
the  family.  But  Monday  night  came,  and 
the  supper  passed,  and  the  Bibles  were 
not  brought.  Henry  inquired — 
"  Is  it  not  time  for  worship  .?" 


The  question  went  to  the  conscience  of 
the  farmer — he  felt  that  before  his  Crea- 
tor, who  preserved  him,  who  gave  him 
every  breath  he  drew,  he  had  knelt  with 
his  family  but  once  a-week.  "  Is  not  He 
the  Almighty  of  all  time  and  of  all  eter- 
nity .^"  asked  his  conscience  ;  "  and 
have  I  not  served  Him  as  though  He  were 
Lord  of  the  Sabbath  only }  J  forsake 
Him  for  a  week — where  should  I  be  if  He 
left  me  but  for  a  moment  ?" 

"  Agnes,  love,"  said  he  aloud,  "  bring 
the  books." 

She  cheerfully  obeyed  ;  and  the  Bibles 
were  laid  upon  the  table.  The  psalm 
was  read,  and  the  voice  of  praise  was 
heard  ;  and  as  the  hinds  in  the  adjoining 
houses  heard  the  sound  they  followed  the 
example  of  their  master.  Hitherto  like 
their  employer,  they  had  lifted  their 
voices  in  thanksgiving  but  once  a  week  ; 
as  if  a  few  minutes  spent  in  praise  and  in 
prayer,  and  in  the  reading  of  a  chapter, 
were  all  that  was  necessary  for  example  to 
a  family,  or  for  gratitude  to  Him  who 
sustained,  protected,  and  gave  them  being 
from  moment  to  moment.  I  should  not 
dwell  upon  this,  were  it  not  that  there  are 
many  good  and  Christian  parents,  who 
conceive  that  they  fulfil  the  injunction  of 
'^  praying  often  with  and  for  their  chil- 
dren," by  causing  them  to  kneel  around 
them  on  a  Sabbath  night.  But  this,  cer- 
tainly, is  a  poor  fulfilment  of  the  oath 
which  they  have  taken — or  which,  if  they 
have  not  taken,  they  are  equally  bound  to 
perform.  I  do  not  say  that  the  man  who 
daily  prays  with  his  family  will  have  the 
gratification  of  seeing  all  of  them  following 
in  his  footsteps,  or  that  all  of  them  will 
think  as  he  thinks  ;  but  he  may  be  of  one 
sect,  and  some  of  them  of  another  ;  yet, 
let  them  go  where  they  will,  let  them  be 
thrown  into  what  company  they  may,  let 
temptation  assail  them  in  every  form,  and 
absence  throw  its  shadows  over  their  fa- 
ther's house,  yet  the  remembrance,  the 
fervor,  the  words  of  a  father's  prayers, 
will  descend  upon  their  souls  like  a  whis- 


THE    BRIDE. 


339 


per  from  Heaven,  kindling  the  memory 
and  awakening  the  conscience  ;  and,  if 
the  child  of  such  a  man  depart  into  sin, 
the  small  still  voice  will  not  die  in  his  ear. 
Nay,  the  remembrance  of  the  father's 
voice  will  be  heard  in  the  son's  heart 
above  the  song  of  the  bacchanal,  and  the 
lowly  remembered  voice  of  psalms  rise 
upon  his  memory,  making  him  insensible 
to  the  peal  of  instruments.  1  have  listen- 
ed to  the  sonorous  swell  of  the  organ  in 
the  Roman  church  and  Episcopal  cathe- 
dral, to  the  chant  of  the  choristers  and 
the  music  of  the  anthem,  and  I  have  been 
awed  by  the  sounds  ;  but  they  produced 
not  the  feelings  of  peace  and  of  reverence, 
I  might  say  of  religion,  which  are  inspired 
by  the  lowly  voices  of  a  congregated 
family  joining  together  in  their  hymn  of 
praise.  I  have  thought  that  such  sounds, 
striking  on  the  ear  of  the  guilty,  would 
arrest  them  in  their  progress. 

Such  was  the  change  which  Henry 
Cranstoun  introduced  into  the  house  of 
his  host.  From  that  moment,  Agnes  re- 
garded him  with  a  deeper  interest,  her  fa- 
ther loved  him,  and  her  mother  looked  on 
him  as  a  son.  But,  although  his  mind 
had  been  early  imbued  with  serious  im- 
pressions, he  was  a  lover  of  all  that  was 
beautiful  in  nature — he  was  warm  of  heart 
and  eloquent  of  speech — and  his  form  was 
such  as  the  eye  of  a  maiden  might  look  on 
with  €omplacency. 

Christmas  had  passed  before  he  left  the 
house  of  his  mother's  friend,  and  health 
again  glowed  on  his  cheeks,  strength  re- 
visited his  frame.  No  one  that  saw  Hen- 
ry Cranstoun  on  his  entering  the  house  of 
jNIr.  Percy  three  months  before,  and  who 
had  not  seen  him  in  the  meanwhile,  would 
have  known  him  to  be  the  same  individual. 
But  Agnes  noted  no  change  in  him.  She 
knew  that  his  health  was  now  restored  ; 
but  she  had  begun  to  hope  and  love  at  the 
same  moment,  and  she  had  never  thought 
that  Henry  would  die.  His  eyes  had  ever 
been  bright  to  her — his  voice  ever  pleas- 
ing ;  and  her  beauty,  her  gentleness,  her 


sweetness  of  temper,  her  kindness,  her 
looks,  her  tones  of  affection,  had  fallen 
upon  his  bosom,  till  every  thcright,  fcave 
the  thought  of  Agnes,  was  banished. 

He  was  to  leave  her  father's  house — he 
bade  her  farewell ;  till  that  moment,  they 
had  not  known  how  dear  they  were  unto 
each  other.  They  had  never  spoken  of 
love — and,  to  hearts  that  do  love,  there  is 
little  need  for  such  declarations.  The 
affection  of  every  glance,  the  guarded 
delicacy  of  every  action,  speaks  it  more 
plainly  than  the  impassioned  eloquence  of 
language.  True  eloquence  is  feelincj", 
and  feeling  dictates  the  words  to  be  used, 
pouring  them  forth  in  the  full  tide  of  the 
heart's  emotion  ;  but,  though  love  also  be 
feeling,  it  is  not  of  that  kind  which  makes 
men  eloquent.  True  love  is  dumb,  as 
true  gratitude.  It  speaks  from  the  glow- 
ing eye  and  the  throbbing  bosom  ;  from 
the  hand  passionately  grasped — not  from 
the  tongue. 

Henry  and  Agnes  said  little ;  but  they 
fell  upon  the   necks  of  each   other  when 


they  parted.  She  wept,  and  from  his 
eyes  the  tear  was  ready  to  fall.  He  kiss- 
ed her  brow,  and  said  that  in  the  spring 
he  would  return. 

He  left  Northumberland,  and  his  par- 
ents welcomed  him  as  one  received  from 
the  dead.  He  was  strong  and  healthy, 
and  he  alone,  of  all  their  children,  seemed 
to  have  overcome  the  power  of  the  des- 
troyer. Yet  a  week  never  passed  but  he 
wrote  to  his  friends,  who  had  snatched  him 
as  from  the  gates  of  death  ;  or  rather  I 
should  say,  that  he  wrote  to  the  gentle 
Agnes,  requesting  that  the  expression  of 
his  gratitude  might  be  given  to  her  parents, 
until  he  returned  to  thank  them.  But 
spring  came,  and  with  it  Henry  Cranstoun 
returned  to  Till-side.  Health  still  glowed 
in  his  eyes  and  beamed  upon  his  checks. 
He  was  fond  of  angling,  and,  with  his  rod 
in  his  hand,  he  sought  amusement  in  the 
gentle  art ;  yet  his  favorite  pastime  afford- 
ed him  no  pleasure,  save  when  Agnes  was 
by  his  side,  and  then  they  would  sit  down 


340 


TALES   OP  THE  BORDERS. 


on  the  brae-side  together,  with  her  hand  in 
his,  and  the  fishing-rod  on  the  ground,  and 
they  forgot  that  he  had  gone  out  to  fish, 
until  evening  came,  and  he  returned  with 
his  creel  empty. 

Thus  five  years  passed  on,  and,  twice  in 
every  year,  Henry  Cranstoun  visited  his 
friends  in  Northumberland.  He  had  com- 
menced practice  in  Edinburgh  ;  fair  pros- 
pects opened  before  him  ;  his  marriage-day 
was  fixed ;  and  need  I  say  that  the  bride 
was  Agnes  ? 

The  ceremony  was  to  be  performed  in 
the  parish  church,  which  was  situated  about 
a  mile  from  her  father's  house.  Henry 
was  only  expected  to  arrive  an  hour  or  two 
before  the  marriage  was  to  take  place. 
The  bosom  of  fair  Agnes  throbbed  with 
tumultuous  joy.  Her  parents  gazed  upon 
her — blessed  her,  and  were  happy.  She 
sat  before  them,  arrayed,  a  bride  for  the 
altar.  He  whom  she  loved  and  they  es- 
teemed, was  that  day  to  make  her  his  wife. 
Her  mother  gazed  on  her  with  pride — she 
blessed  her  Agnes.  Her  father's  heart 
glowed  within  him.  The  bridemaidens 
were  come — Agnes  was  impatient,  but 
still  happy  ;  no  fear,  no  doubt  had  risen 
in  her  mind.     She  knew  her  Henry. 

But  the  last  hour  arrived,  and  Henry 
came  not.  Her  uneasiness  increased. 
The  servants  were  sent  to  a  neio-hborincr 
hill  •  but  no  chaise,  no  horseman  appear- 
ed in  sight.  Agnes  became  unhappy ; 
paleness  overspread  her  cheeks.  The  com- 
pany were  silent.  Her  father's  watch  hung 
over  the  mantel-piece,  and  she  sat  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room ;  yet  its  ticking 
fell  upon  her  ears  slow  and  heavy,  as 
sounds  from  a  hammer  on  an  anvil.  Tears, 
which  she  had  struggled  to  conceal,  now 
gathered  in  her  eyes.  Some  evil,  she  said, 
and  wept,  had  befallen  Henry. 

The  hour  which  had  been  appointed  for 
the  ceremony  was  passed  ;  but  still  be 
came  not.  Her  fears,  her  anxiety  increas- 
ed, and  she  wept  the  more,  refusing  to  be 
comforted  She  knew  not  what  she  fear- 
ed ;  but  her  breast  was  filled  with  misery. 


She  had  received  a  letter  from  him  but 
three  days  before.  She  read  it  again — it 
breathed  the  language  of  impassioned 
affection,  but  his  truth  she  doubted  not ; 
yet  there  was  an  incoherency,  a  vehemence, 
in  some  parts  of  the  letter,  which  were  not 
like  the  style  of  Henry.  A  vague  horror 
shot  across  her  thoughts,  and  her  hand 
trei::ibled  as  she  laid  the  letter  aside. 

Still  the  servants  were  despatched  to 
see  if  he  approached,  and  at  length  they 
brought  tidings  that  two  horsemen  were 
riding  towards  the  house.  Agnes  strove  to 
wipe  away  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  but  her 
heart  yet  throbbed,  and  others  rose  in  their 
place.  The  horsemen  drew  near  the  house. 
Those  of  the  company  who  beheld  them 
from  the  windows  drew  back  with  a  look 
of  dismay.  Agnes  clasped  her  hands  to- 
gether as  she  beheld  the  expression  of 
their  countenances.  The  evil  she  appre- 
hended was  about  to  be  revealed.  The 
parish  clergyman,  and  the  minister  of  the 
congregation  to  which  Mr.  Percy  belong- 
ed, entered  the  room.  She  started  from 
her  seat  as  they  entered — she  rung  her 
hands  on  her  bosom — her  eyes  seemed  fix- 
ed and  motionless  with  misery — her  lips 
moved — her  tongue  struggled  for  utterance. 

"  Be  comforted  !"  said  one  of  the  rev- 
erend visitors,  kindly. 

"  Is  my  Henry  dead  .?"  she  exclaimed — 
"  is  he  dead  .?" 

"  He    is   not  dead,"   was    the   reply ; 

"  but" and  the  clergyman  hesitated  a 

moment  to  proceed. 

*'  His  mind  is  deadP''  added  the  wretch- 
ed bride,  and  sank  back  in  her  mother's 
arms.  The  dismal  thought  flashed  upon 
her  soul,  the  vague  horror  that  she  had 
shrank  from  before  became  tangible — the 
incoherency  and  vehemence  of  passages  in 
his  last  letter  were  suddenly  and  fearfully 
interpreted. 

The  tidings  which  the  clergymen  had  to 
communicate,  her  fears  had  already  told. 
The  mind  of  Henry  Cranstoun  had  be- 
come a  wreck.  A  cloud  fell  upon  his  rea- 
son ;  and,  on  the  day  that  he  was  to  lead 


THE  BRIDE. 


341 


his  bride  to  the  altar,  he  was  placed  an 
inmate  of  the  gloomy  cells  of  Bedlam. 

Several  months  had  passed,  and  the 
grief  of  Agnes  beca.me  more  tranquil,  but 
not  less  deep.  She  intreated  permission 
to  visit  her  bridegroom  im  the  place  of  his 
confinement,  and  her  parents  fondl}'-  en- 
deavored to  dissuade  her  from  her  pur- 
pose ;  but  it  became  the  one,  the  ruling 
wish  of  her  heart,  and  thej  consented.  Her 
father  accomp  anied  her  to  the  dreary  pri- 
son-house. But  I  shall  not  attempt  to  dis- 
cribe  the  heart-rending  interview,  nor  to  tell 
how  the  iron  which  fettered  him  entered  her 
soul.  He  knew  her — he  wept  before  her 
as  a  child — he  exclaimed,  "  My  brain  ! — 
my  brain!"  and  pressed  his  hand  upon 
his  brow.  Around  him  were  strewed  scraps 
of  paper  :  she  beheld  her  name  upon  each  ; 
they  were  covered  with  verses  of  love,  and 
of  wildness.  But  I  will  not  dwell  upon 
the  harrowing  scene,  upon  the  words  that 
were  spoken,  and  the  fitful  gleams  of  rea- 
son that  fiitted  across  his  soul,  as  his  eyes 
remained  rivetted  on  the  face  he  loved. 
But  when  her  father,  with  a  faltering  voice, 
suggested  that  they  should  depart,  and 
took  her  hand  to  lead  her  from  the  cell,  a 
scream  of  loud  and  bitter  agony  burst 
from  the  wretched  maniac.  "  Agnes  ! — 
Affnes  !"  he  cried,  and  his  wailino;  was  as 
the  lamentation  of  a  lost  spirit.  Anguish 
overpowered  her,  and  she  was  borne  in- 
sensible from  the  cell,  in  her  father's  arms. 

Seven  long  and  dreary  years  passed, 
and  the  mind  of  Henry  was  still  be- 
wildered ;  still  was  he  an  inmate  of  the 
melancholy  asylum,  and  no  hope  was  en- 
tertained of  his  recovery.  But  the  heart 
of  A  sues  knew  no  chanfje — for  him  she 
still  shed  the  secret  tear,  and  offered  up 
the  secret  prayer. 

But  her  father's  fortunes  were  altered. 
He  had  been  induced  to  enter  into  a  specu- 
lation with  one  who  deceived  him,  and  in 
it  the  industry  of  years  was  swallowed  up 
and  lost.  He  was  obliged  to  leave  his 
farm,  and  he  now  resided  in  a  small  cot- 
tao-e  in  its  neiirhborhood.     Still  there  were 


many  who  sought  the  hand  of  the  fair  Rose 
of  Till-side  ;  but  she  chose  rather  to  brood 
over  the  remembrance  of  poor,  ruined 
Henry,  than  to  listen  to  their  addresses. 
But  amonsfst  them  was  a  young  gentleman 
named  Walker,  whose  condition  was  far 
above  hers,  and  who  for  two  years  had 
vainly  sought  a  place  in  her  affections.  In 
the  day  of  her  father's  distress  he  had 
been  his  friend,  and  he  yet  sought  to  place 
him  again  in  a  state  of  independence. 
The  health  of  Mr.  Percy,  also,  began  to 
dechne  ;  the  infirmities  of  age  were  grow- 
ing upo^  him  ;  and  the  little  that  he  had 
been  able  to  save  from  the  wreck  of  his 
capital,  was  wasting  rapidly  away.  He  be- 
came melancholy  with  the  thought  that  he 
■should  die  a  pauper,  or  leave  his  wife  and 
his  daughter  in  want ;  and,  in  the  presence 
of  Agnes,  he  often  spoke  of  Mr.  Walker — 
ef  the  escellence  of  his  character — of  his 
Wealth — of  what  he  had  done  for  him,  in 
the  midst  of  his  misfortunes — of  what  he 
still  desired  to  do — and  of  his  affection  for 
her.  She  listened  to  her  father's  words  in 
sorrow  and  in  silence,  and,  on  her  pillow 
by  night,  she  wept  because  of  them.  To 
her  the  remembrance  of  Henry  Cranstoun 
was  dearer  then  the  temptations  of  wealth, 
and  her  heart  clung  to  him  with  a  con- 
stancy which  neither  time,  misery,  nor 
hopelessness  could  shake.  She  was  grate- 
ful to  her  lather's  friend  for  the  kindness 
he  had  shown  him,  and  for  the  generosity 
of  the  proposals  he  had  -made — yet  she 
found  that  she  could  not  love  him,  that  her 
bosom  had  room  for  none  but  Henry. 

Poverty,  however,  entered  her  parents' 
dwelling,  and  her  father  seemed  drooping 
for  lack  of  nourishment,  which  his  increas- 
ing feebleness  required.  Her  mother,  too, 
sat  silent  and  melancholy,  occasionally 
raising  her  eyes  to  her  daughter's  face, 
with  a  look  that  implored  her  to  save  her 
father.  The  old  man  had  been  ordered 
wine  daily ;  but  their  penury  was  now 
such  that  they  could  not  purchase  it,  and 
the  plainest  food  had  become  scanty  on 
their  table. 


342 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


Such  was  tbeir  situation,  and  they  were 
sitting  sorrowful  together,  when  Mr. 
Walker  entered  the  room.  He  approached 
Agnes  respectfully,  he  took  her  hand. 

*'  Dear  Agnes,"  ho  began,  "  can  one 
with  so  kind  a  heart  look  with  indifference 
on  the  wants  and  the  sufferings  of  a  father 
and  a  mother  ?  It  is  in  your  power  to 
make  them  happy,  to  restore  ihem  to  pros- 
perity. For  two  years  I  have  sought  your 
hand,  without  meeting  one  look  of  encour- 
agement, or  one  word  of  hope.  Yet  be- 
lieve me,  Agues,  I  admire  the  eanstancy 
which  induces  you  to  cherish  a  hopeless 
passion  and  reject  me.  If  not  for  my 
sake,  yet  for  the  sake  of  your  poor  father, 
for  that  of  your  fond  mother,  yea,  for 
your  own  sake,  dearest,  permit  me  to  call 
you  mine.  I  do  not  ask  your  love  now ; 
give  me  but  your  esteem,  and  I  will  study  to 
deserve  your  affaction.  Dear  friends,  plead 
for  me,"  he  added,  addressing  her  parents. 
Her  father  laid  his^hand  upon  hers  — 
"  Dear  Agnes,"  said  he,  "  your  father  is 
now  a  poor  man — he  is  very  poor.  I  fear 
the  hand  of  death  is  already  upon  me; 
and  when  I  am  gone,  who  will  provide  for 
your  poor  mother — who  will  protect  thee, 
my  child  ?  It  is  the  only  wish  of  my  heart 
to  see  you  provided  for,  and  your  father 
would  die  in  peace.  And  oh,  my  Agnes, 
as  your  father's  dying  request,  permit  me  to 
bestow  jouT  hand  upon  this  generous  youth. " 
"  Save  us,  ray  sweet  one!''  cried  her 
mother,  and  she  flung  her  arms  around  her 
daughter's  neck. 

"  It  is  done  !"  exclaimed  Agnes,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  and  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  Mr.  Walker. 

A  few  weeks  afterwards,  and  the  village 
bells  rang  a  merry  peal,  children  scattered 
flowers,  and  there  was  joy  on  every  face, 
«ave  upon  the  face  of  the  fair  bride,  who 
wont  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  altar.  She  heard 
not  the  words  of  the  clergyman  as  he  read 
the  ceremony.  She  trembled,  she  would 
have  fallen  to  the  ground,  but  that  the 
bride 's-maid  supported  her. 


The  marriage-party  were  returning  by 
a  foot-path  from  the  church,  the  sorrowful 
bride  restino;  on  the  arm  of  her  bridegroom. 
A  stranger  mot  them — he  turned  aside, 
that  they  might  pass.  His  eyes  fell  upon 
the  countenance  of  the  bride. 

"  O  Heavens  !  my  Agnes !"  cried  the 
stranger,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 

"  Henry  !  my  Henry  !"  screamed  the 
wretched  bride,  and  starting  from  the  side 
of  the  bridegroom,  she  sank  on  the  breast 
of  the  stranger. 

That  stranger  was  indeed  Henry  Cran- 
stoun.  A  severe  illness  had  brousiht  him 
to  the  verge  of  death,  and  with  his  restor- 
ation to  health  reason  was  restored  also. 
He  had  come  to  take  his  bride  to  his  bo- 
som— he  met  her  the  bride  of  another.  It 
was  a  scene  of  misery. 

"  0  Agnes  !  Agnes  1"  groaned  Henry, 
"  would  to  Heaven  I  had  died  !  You  are 
another's,  though  your  heart  is  mine ! 
Farewell !  farewell  !— we  must  meet  no 
more  !  I  have  endured  mu:ch,  but  never 
misery  like  this  !" 

She  could  only  exclaim — "  Henry  I" 
and  speech  failed  her — recollection  fled. 
Henry  Cranstoun  struck  his  hand  upon  his 
brow,  and  rushed  wildly  away.  Agnes 
was  conveyed  to  her  father's  house,  as  be- 
inof  nearer  than  that  of  her  bride o;ro-om's. 
She  was  laid  upon  her  bed,  she  seemed 
unconscious  of  all  around,  and  her  tongue 
only  uttered  the  word  "  Henry."  She  rose 
not  aoiain  from  the  bed  on  which  she  was 
laid,  and,  within  a  week,  her  gentle  spirit 
fled.  The  shock  which  Henry  had  met 
with  occasioned  a  relapse  of  the  fever, 
from  which  he  had  but  recently  recovered. 
He  was  taken  to  the  village  inn.  He  felt 
that  death  was  about  to  termiaate  his 
sufferings,  and  when  he  heard  of  the  death 
of  his  Agnes,  he  requested  to  be  buried 
by  her  side.  Within  three  weeks  after  he 
died,  and  his  latest  wish  was  fulfilled — he 
was  laid  by  the  side  of  Agnes  Percy, 
and  a  rose-tree  was  planted  over  their 
grave. 


PHEBE   FORTUNE. 


343 


PHEBE    FORTUNE. 


I  HAVE  now  been  upwards  of  fortj  years 
minister  of  the  parish  of  C — — .  Soon 
after  I  became  miaistsr,  I  stumbled  one 
moi-ning  upon  a  small  parcel  lying  in  a 
turnip  field  adjoining  the  manse.  It  ap- 
peared to  me  at  first  to  be  a  large  hedge- 
hog ;  but,  upon  further  investigation,  1 
found  that  it  was  a  seemingly  new-born 
infant,  wrapped  carefully  up  in  warm  flan- 
nel, and  dressed  in  clothes  which  indicated 
anything  but  extreme  poverty.  There 
was  a  kirk-road  through  the  turnip  field 
— my  wonted  passage  to  my  glebe  land 
every  morning  ;  and  the  infant  had  mani- 
festly been  deposited  with  a  reference  to 
my  habits.  I  could  not  possibly  miss  see- 
ing it — it  lay  completely  across  my  path — 
a  road  almost  untrod  by  anybody  save 
myself 

As  I  happened  to  have  a  young,  and  a 
pretty  large — or,  in  other  phrase,  small — 
family  of  my  own,  I  hesitated  at  first  how 
to  proceed ;  but  a  moment's  reflection 
taught  me  the  necessity  of  acting  rather 
than  of  thinking  ;  and  I  gathered  up  the 
little  innocent  in  my  arms,  and  hastened 
back,  with  all  possible  speed,  to  the  manse. 
The  little  hands  of  the  helpless  existence 
were  moving  backwards  and  forwards,  up 
and  down  ;  and  its  lips  plainly  indicated  a 
desire  for  its  natural  beverage. 

'"'  Bless  me  !"  said  my  dear  wife,  as  I 
entered;  '•  bless  rae,  my  dear,  what's  that 
you  are  bringing  us  .^" 

"  It's  a  child,"  said  I ;  "  an  infant — 
beautiful  as  day — only  look  at  it." 

"  None  of  your  nonsense,"  said  spousie, 
looking  somewhat  archly  in  my  face. 
"  Tm  sure,  ye  ken,  we  hae  mae  weans 
than  we  hae  meat  for  already.  But  where 
in  all  the  world  did  you  pick  up  this  sweet 
little  darling  .?" — for,  by  this  time,  my 
wife  had  opened  the  flannel  coverings,  and 


examined  the  features  of  the  young  stran- 
ger carefull}''. 

My  second  youngest  girl,  about  four 
years  of  age,  had  joined  us,  and,  falling 
down  on  her  knees,  kissed  the  foundling's 
cheeks  all  over.  In  fact,  the  news  spread 
all  over  the  manse  in  less  than  no  time  ; 
and  I  had  my  two  eldest  boys — then  pre- 
paring for  school — my  eldest  daughter,  and 
the  two  maid-servants,  all  tumbling  into 
the  parlor  in  a  world  of  amazement  My 
wife,  however,  having  recovered  from  her 
first  surprise,  and  burst  of  natural  affection, 
began,  very  naturally,  to  speculate  about 
the  parentage  of  this  uninvited  visitant. 
She  examined  its  dress ;  and,  amongst 
other  discoveries,  found  a  piece  of  paper 
attached  to  the  body  of  the  frock,  inscribed 
with  these  words,  in  a  plain  printed  hand 
— ''  I  am  not  what  I  seem.  My  name  is 
P^e6e."  On  searching  a  little  more  par- 
ticularly, a  hundred-pound  note  was  found 
stitched  into  a  small  purse  or  bag,  sus- 
pended from  the  infant's  neck.  We  were 
all  amazement.  My  wife  was  all  at  once 
persuaded  that  the  infant  must  be  the  off- 
spring of  some  lady  of  high  quality,  and 
that,  by  keeping  her  in  our  family,  we 
should  be  absolutely  enriched  by  presents 
of  hundred-pound  notes  every  other  morn- 
ing. She  seemed  to  look  upon  poor  Phebe 
as  the  philosopher's  stone,  and  thought 
that  gold  would,  in  future,  be  as  plentiful 
in  our  house,  as  brass  coinage  had  hitherto 
been.  But  who  could  be  the  mother  of 
this  pretty,  sweet,  dear,  darling,  lovely 
child  .^  Could  it  be— and  she  whispered 
me  knowingly  in  the  ear  ;  but  I  shook  my 
head,  and  looked  cquall}'  knowing.    Could 

it  be  Lady  M ?    I  looked  incredulity, 

and  my  wife  pushed  her  speculations  no 
further.  By  this  time  my  eldest  daughter 
had  arranged  Phebe's  dress,  and  made  all 


344 


TALES   OP  THE  BORDERS. 


snuo- ;  and  the  poor  little  infant  gave  au- 
dible intimation  of  a  desire  for  food. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  This  question 
occupied  us  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
when   we    at   last  recollected  that  Lord 

C 's   gardener's   wife   had   yesterday 

buried  her  infant.  She  was  immediately 
sent  for,  and,  having  no  children  of  her 
own,  agreed,  after  some  persuasion,  and 
the  promise  of  a  handsome  reward,  to 
suckle  poor  Phebe.  It  was,  indeed,  beau- 
tifully interesting  to  observe  how  Phebe 's 
little  hands  wandered  over  the  source  of 
her  sustenance,  and  seemed  to  say,  as 
plainly  as  hands  could  speak  it,  "  I  have 
you  now,  and  will  not  part  with  you 
again."  Phebe  grew — opened  her  sweet 
blue  eyes — smiled — and  won  all  hearts  in 
the  course  of  a  month.  But  she  was  still 
a  heathen,  or,  in  other  words,  unbaptized  ; 
and,  after  consulting  the  session,  whom  I 
advertised  of  all  the  circumstances,  it  was 
agreed  that  the  gardener's  wife  should  take 
the  vows,  and  name  the  child.  We  all 
wept  at  the  christening ;  there  was  some- 
thing so  unusual  and  overpowering,  so 
mysterious  and  exciting,  in  the  whole 
transaction.  My  wife  suggested  that  she 
should  be  called  "  Phebe  Monday,"  that 
being  the  day  on  which  she  was  found  ;  but, 
somehow  or  other,  I  disliked  the  combina- 
tion of  sounds  exceedingly  ;  and,  at  last, 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  nurse  mother,  we 
affixed  Fortune  to  her  Christian  designa- 
tion ;  and,  after  the  ceremony,  which  was 
performed  in  the  gardener's  house,  we 
drank  a  glass  of  ginger  wine  to  the  health 
and  long  life  of  little  Phebe  Fortune,  the 
foundling.     Through  the  kindness  of  Lord 

C ,  I  had  the   privilege    of  walking 

when  I  chose  in  his  extensive  gardens  and 
pleasure-grounds,  which  were  in  my  parish, 
and  adjoining  to  the  manse ;  and  it  was  on 
one  of  the  smooth  rolled  grass  walks  of 
this  garden  that  I  conducted  little  Phebe 's 
first  steps,  when  she  put  down  her  little 
foot  for  the  first  time,  and  stood  almost 
erect  on  the  grass.  Oh,  how  the  little 
doll  screamed  and  chuckled  as  she  tumb- 


led over  and  rolled  about  ;  ever  and  anon 
stretching  out  her  little  hand,  and  asking, 
as  it  were,  my  assistance,  in  aiding  her 
inexperience  and  weakness.  However, 
"  Tentando  jimus  fabri,''''  by  efibrt  fre- 
quently repeated  success  is  at  last  secured  ; 
and  Phebe  at  last  flew  off  from  me  like  an 
arrow,  and,  like  an  arrow,  too,  alighted, 
head  foremost,  on  the  soft  sward.  Phebe 
won  all  hearts  when  she  began  to  syllable 
people's  names.  Me  she  called  "  minny- 
man  ;"  my  wife,  "  minny-man-minny  ;" 
and  her  own  nurse,  "  mother,  ma,  ma, 
bonny  ma!  guid  ma!"  Year  rolled  on 
after  year,  and  little  Phebe  was  the  talk  of 
all  the  country  round.  People  passing  on 
the  highroad  stopped  and  spoke  to  her. 
Phebe  used  often  to  visit  the  manse,  and 
to  play  with  my  youngest  daughter  only  a 
few  months  younger  than  herself,  whilst  I 
have  often  sat  in  my  elbow  chair,  called  in 
the  family  "  Snug,"  and  said  to  myself, 
"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  which  of  these 
children  I  am  most  attached  to."  A.11  the 
features  and  properties  of  little  Phebe  were 
aristocratic  :  beautiful  feet  and  ankles  ; 
small,  little  plump  hands,  and  finely  ta- 
pered fingers  ;  an  eye  of  the  purest  water 
and  of  the  most  noble  expression,  beaming 
through  a  curtain  of  deep  blue,  under  a 
canopy  of  the  finest  auburn  ;  a  brow,  nose, 
lips,  and  chin,  all  exquisitely  formed  and 
proportioned.  No  child  in  the  neighbor- 
hood could  be  compared  with  Phebe. 
Even  my  wife,  prejudiced  as  she  naturally 
was  in  favor  of  her  own  offspring,  used 
sometimes  to  say — "  Our  Jessie  looks  well 
enough,  but  that  child  Phebe  is  a  pear  of 
another  tree."  To  this  I  readily  assented, 
as  I  had  no  inclination  to  hint  even  the 
identity  of  the  tree,  or  the  affinity  of  the 
fruit. 

One  day  1  was  walking  with  little  Phebe 
(who  had  now  attained  her  seventh  year, 
and  exhausted  the  last  penny  of  the  hun- 
dred pounds)  in  my  own  little  garden — 
we  were  quite  alone,  when  the  girl  all  at 
once  stopped  her  playfulness  (for  she  was 
now  a  very  lark) ,  and,  taking  a  hold  r»f  uiy 


PHEBE  FORTUNE. 


345 


hand,  pulled  me  gently,  nothing  loath,  into 
an  adjoining  little  arbor  ;  after  I  was  seat- 
ed, and  Phebe  had  taken  her  wonted  sta- 
tion betwixt  my  knees,  reserving  either 
knee  for  future  convenience,  the  little 
angel  looked  up  in  my  face  so  innocently 
and  so  sweetly,  saying — 

"  You  are  Jessie's  pa,  are  not  you  ?" 
"Yes,"  I  replied,  "my  dear  child,  I 
am." 

"  But  where  is  my  pa  ?  have  I  na  pa  .'' 
Gardener  says  you  know  all  about  it." 

I  regretted  exceedingly  that  anything 
should  have  passed  betwixt  the  foster- 
parents  and  their  charge,  upon  the  subject ; 
but  since  it  was  so,  I  judged  it  best  at 
once  to  tell  the  child  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Phebe 
looked  me  most  intently  in  the  face  as  I 
proceeded,  and,  when  I  had  finished  by 
kissing  her,  and  assuring  her  that,  whilst 
I  lived,  she  should  never  want  a  pa,  the 
poor  dear  burst  into  tears,  exclaiming,  in 
an  accent  of  complete  misery — 

"  No  pa !  no  ma  !  Everybody  has  pa's 
and  ma's  but  Phebe.  Dear,  dear  minny" 
— a  term  by  which  she  still  addressed  me 
— "  can  you  not  tell  me  anything  about 
my  own  ma  .^" 

I  assured  her  that  I  could  cot,  having 
not  the  least  information  on  the  subject. 

"  Maybe  she's  dead" — and  here  again 
her  feelings  overcame  her,  and  she  laid 
her  head  on  my  knee,  with  all  its  luxuriant 
tresses  ;  and  I  felt  the  tears  warm  on  my 
person. 

From  this  day  Phebe  Fortune  became  a 
different  child.  Even  at  an  early  age  she 
had  learned  to  think ;  but  had  been 
hitherto  very  averse  to  learning,  or  school 
education.  She  was  henceforth  diligent 
and  attentive,  making  rapid  progress  in 
reading,  writing,  and  accounts.  Her 
foster-mother  taught  her  sewing  ;  and  lit- 
tle Phebe,  by  the  time  she  was  eleven 
years  old,  was  quite  accomplished  in  all 
the  necessary  and  useful  parts  of  a  female 
education.  But,  alas  !  the  instability  of 
liuman  affairs  I — poor  Phebe  caught  a  fe- 


ver, which  she  communicated  to  her  foster- 
mother,  and  which  occasioned  her  death 
in  a  few  \Yeeks,  whilst  Phebe  slowly  reco- 
vered. The  gardener's  heart  was  broken 
— he  had  long  been  subject  to  occasional 
fits  of  low  spirits.  Whether  from  accident 
OY  not  was  never  fully  ascertained,  nor 
even  closely  investigated ;  but  he  was 
found  one  morning  drowned,  in  a  pond  of 
water  which  ornamented  the  east  corner  of 
the  gardeii  ground.  As  my  own  family 
was  numerous,  and  my  stipend  limited,  I 
behoved  to  endeavor  to  place  Phebe  in 
some  way  of  doing  for  herself — still  hoping, 
however,  that  time,  ere  long,  would  with- 
draw the  veil,  and  discover  the  sunny  side 
of  Phebe  Fortune's  history.  Seldom  did 
a  carriage  pass  the  manse  by  the  kind's 
highway,  that  my  wife  did  not  conjecture 
that  it  might  perhaps  stop  at  the  bottom 
of  the  avenue,  and  emit  a  fine  lady,  with 
fine  manners  and  a  genteel  tongue,  to 
claim  our  now  highly  interestino-  ward. 
But  the  perverse  carriages  persevered  in 
rolling  rapidly  along,  till,  at  last,  one  fine 
sunny  afternoon,  one  did  actually  stop, 
and  out  stepped  the  lady,  middle-aored, 
splendidly  attired,  and  advanced  towards 
our  habitation.  My  wife's  heart  was  at 
her  mouth — she  ran  through  the  house  in 
a  few  seconds,  from  bottom  to  ton,  had. 
Phebe  put  into  her  best  attire,  and  all  di- 
ligence served  upon  the  dusting  and  clean- 
ing of  carpets  and  chairs.  The  lady 
appeared  ;  but,  to  my  wife's  great  disap- 
pointment, proved  to  be  no  other  than  an 
old  pupil  of  ray  own,  who,  in  passing,  had 
heard  of  my  residence,  and  wished  kindly 
to  renew  an  acc^uaintanee,  interrupted  by, 
perhaps,  not  less  than  thirty  years.  Still 
my  wife  would  not  give  up  the  notion  that 

Phebe  resembled  Lady  D exceedingly, 

and  that  Lady  D seemed  to  eye  her 

with  more  complacency  than  any  of  the 
rest  of  the  children.  In  the  course  of 
conversation,  I  had  oeca^on  to  acknow- 
ledge that  the  beautiful  being  whom  Lady 

D admired  above  all  the  rest  of  ray 

fine  family,  was  a  foundling.     This  led  to 


546 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


a  detail  of  the  whole  matter  ;  and  Lady 

D _,  having  conversed  for  a  littls  while 

with  Phebe,  took  such  a  liking  to  the  girl, 
that  she  proposed  having  her  continually 
about  her  person,  as  a  kind  of  superior 
waiting-maid,  half  menial  and  half  compa- 
nion, and   to  remove  her  from  under  our 
roof  on  the  instant.     Altho-ugh  this  was  an 
offer  too  good  and  too  opportune  to  be  ne- 
gatived, yet  we  could  not  think  of  parting 
■with    our    darling    Phebe    oa   so    short  a 
warning  ;  and,  after  some  remonstrances 
OQ  both  sides,  it  was  agreed  that  the  car- 
riao-e  should  be  sent  for  Phebe  and  me  on 
41  future  day,  which  was  named,  and  that 
J  should  spend   a  few  days  with  my  old 
pupil,  in  her  recently  acquired  and  lately 
inhabited  maosion-house  of  Rosehall,  little 
more  than  thirty  miles  distant.     The  in- 
terval which  took  pk<3e  betwixt  this  pro- 
posal and  its  accomplishment,  was  spent 
IB  needlework,  and  other   little  feminine 
preparations  ;  and,  as  the  day  approached, 
we  all  felt  as  if  we  could  have  wished  that 
we  had  rejected  the  proposal  with  disdain. 
Phebe  was  often  seen  in  tears — but  she 
"was  all  resignation,  and  rejoiced  that  I  was 
to  accompany  her,  and  see  her  fairly  en- 
tered.    At  last,  the  dreadful  carriage,  with 
its  four  horses,  came  into  view,  at  the  foot 
of  our  avenue  (which,  though  possessed  of 
a   sufficiently    imposing   appellation,    was 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  very  bad  and 
nearly  impassable  cart-road),  and  we  all 
beffau    our    march   to    meet  the   vehicle. 
Promises  of  future  visits  were  spoken  of, 
and  made,  and  solemnly  sworn  to — a  home, 
house,  our  manse  was  declared  to  Phebe 
at  all  times ;  but,  particularly,  should  she 
find  herself  unhappy  in  her  new  position  ; 
and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  got  the 
now    truly  lovely,    and    all    but   woman, 
Phebe,  torn  from  the  grasp  and  cling  of 
my  daughters,  and  handed  into  the  splen- 
did and  richly  lined  chariot. 

In  the  family  of  Lady  D ,  Phebe 's 

duties  were  at  once  easy  and  agreeable. 
She  waited  upon  her  mistress's  bell  in  the 
morning,  and  was  soon  taught  how  to  assist 


at  the  toilet.  During  the  day,  she  either 
read  aloud,  whilst  her  Ladyship  reposed 
after  her  forenoon's  walk  or  drive,  or 
looked  after  the  health  and  comfort  of  two 
favorite  lap-dogs.  At  night,  again,  she 
renewed  her  closet  assistance,  reading 
aloud  some  paragraph  which  she  had 
marked  in  a  newspaper,  and  detailing  such 
little  domestic  incidents  as  came  within 
the  range  of  her  somewhat  limited  sphere 

of  observation.     Lord  D was   much 

engaged  in  public  business  (being  lord- 
lieutenant  of  the  county),  and  in  carrying 
on  some  agricultural  speculations  by  which 
he  was  much  engrossed.  There  were  two 
young  Honorables  of  the  fair  sex,  and  an 
only  son — then  attending  his  studies  at 
Oxford — children  of  the  family.  Phebe 
Fortune  was  now  fifteen,  and  seemed  to 
increase  in  loveliness,  and  the  most  kindly, 
intelligent  expression  of  countenance,  daily. 
Her  eyes  were  heaven's  own  blue — 

"The  little  halcyon's  ar.ure  plume 
Was  never  half  so  blue," 

And  then,  when  she  spoke  or  smiled,  her 
countenance  was  altogether  overpowering  ; 
as  well  might  you  have  attempted  to  look 
stedfastly  upon  the  sun  in  his  midday  ra- 
diance Of  her  far  more  truly  and  forcibly 
mio-ht  it  have  been  said  or  sunj,  than  of 
the  "  Lassie  wi'  the  Lint-white  Locks" — 

*<  She  talked,  she  smiled,  my  heart  she  wiled, 
She  charmed  my  soul.  I  wat  na  hoo  ; 

But  aye  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound 
Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonny  blue." 

Phebe,  by  my  own  arrangement  with  Lady 

D ,  was  not  exposed  to  any  intimacy 

with  the  servants,  male  or  female.  She 
had  her  own  apartment  and  table  ;  and  all 
the  menial  duties  were  performed  to  her 
as  regularly  as  to  any  branch  of  the  family. 
It  was  soon  after  my  return  from  a  three 
weeks'  visit  at  Rosehall,  that  1  received 
the  following  letter  from  Phebe.  I  got  it 
at  the  post-office,  unknown  to  any  of  my 
family  ;  and  I  kept  it,  as  was  my  custom 
when  1  had  anything  agreeable  to  commu- 
nicate, till  after  dinner.  The  board  hav- 
!  ing  been  cleared,  and  a  tumbler  of  warm 
toddy  made,  my  wife's  single  glass  having 


PHEBE  FORTUNE. 


347 


been  filled  out,  and  my  daughters  having 
turned  them  all  ear,  1  proceeded  to  read 
the  following  maiden  epistle  of  Phebe 
Fortune  : — 

"  Dear,  dear  Papa,  and  ever  dear  Mam- 
ma, and  all  my  own  Sisters  dear, — I  am 
happy  here  ;  Lady   D is  so   kind  to 


me ;    and   Lord  D- 


looks 


very 


too,  though  he  has  not  spoken  to  me  yet 
— but  then  you  see  he  is  always  engaged  ; 
and  the  honorable  young  ladies — but  I  do 
not  think  they  are  quite  so  kind  ;  and  they 
are  so  pretty  too,  and  so  happy  looking  ! 
Oh,  I  wish  they  would  like  me  !  If  they 
would  only  speak  to  me  now  and  then  as 
they  pass  me  on  the  stair  ;  but  they  only 
stop  and  laugh  to  one  another,  and  then 
they  toss  their  heads  ;  and  I  can  hear  them 
say  something  about  '  upsetting,'  and 
^  mamma's  whim,  and  papa's  absurdity.' 
Pm  sure — Pm  sure,  my  dear  parents — (for 
alas  !  I  have  none  other,  though  I  dream 
sometimes  that  I  have,  and  I  feel  so  happy 
and  delighted  that  I  always  awake  crying) 
— but  what  was  I  going  to  say  ? — you 
know  I  never  wrote  any  letters  before,  and 
you  will  excuse  this  I  know — 1  could  not, 
I  am  sure,  speak  of  whim  or  absurdity  in 
regard  to  you,  my  dear  benefactors.     But 

I  will  try  never  to  mind  it.     Lady  D 

is  so  very  kind.  I  sometimes  go  out  with 
the  little  dogs,  Poodle  and  Clara  ;  they 
are  such  deaf  pets,  I  could  take  them,  and 
do  often  take  them  to  my  bosom.  And 
then,  the  other  day,  when  I  was  sitting 
playing  with  Clara  and  Poodle,  beneath 
the  elm  tree,  the  gardener's  son  passed 
me,  and — no  he  did  not  pass,  that  is  to 
say  not  all  at  once — but  he  stopped,  and 
asked  me  to  take  a  flower,  which  he  had 
pulled  for  me,  which  I  did,  and  then  he 
offered  to  show  me  through  the  hot-hous- 
es, but  I  did  not  go.  My  dear  mamma, 
do  you  think  I  should  have  gone  ?  And 
then  he  left  me  ;  but  yesterday  a  little 
boy  gave  me  the  following  letter.  And  all 
that  the  letter  contained  is  this — 

'•  If  you  love  me  as  I  love  thee, 
W^iat  a  lovia^  couple  we  saall  be  !" 


kind 


Love  him  ! — oh,  no — no — no — I  will  nev- 
er, never  walk  that  way  again — I  will 
never,  never  speak  to  him  more.  1  love 
you,  my  own  dear  papa,  and  mamma,  and 

my  sisters,  and  Lady  D ,  and  the  two 

little  dear  doggies  ;  but  1  never  could  love 
Donald  M'Naughton  ;  not  but  that  he  is 
good-looking,  too,  and  young,  and  respect- 
ed in  the  family  ;  but  he  never  can  be  a 
father  or  a  mother  to  mo  you  know,  as 
you  have  been.  Oh !  do  write  me  soon, 
soon — and  tell  me  all  about  the  garden, 
and  the  ash-tree,  and  the  arbor,  and  the 
flowers,  and  old  Neptune  your  favorite, 
and  everything. 

I  remain,  most  affectionately  yours, 
Phebe  Fortune. 
•'  P.S. — But  Fortune  is  not  my  name. 
Oh,  that  I  had  a  name  worth  writing  ! — 
such  a  name  as  Lindsay,  Crawford, 
Hamilton,  Douglas.  Oh  !  how  beautifully 
Phebe  Douglas  would  look  on  paper,  and 
sound  in  one's  ears  !'' 

Such  was  the  state  of  Phebe'smind  and 
feelings  at  that  interesting  period  of  life 
when  the  female  is  in  the  transition  from 
the  mere  girl  to  the  real  woman  ;  and  it 
was  about  this  very  period,  when  all  the 
feelings  are  peculiarly  alive  to  each  fine 
impulse,  that  it  fell  to  Phebe's  lot  to  be 
severely  tried.  Day  after  day,  and  week 
after  week,  Lady  D missed  some  val- 
uable article  of  dress,  some  Flanders  lace, 
some  costly  trinket,  a  ring  it  might  be,  or 

a  bracelet.     At  last  Lady  D thought 

it  proper  to  inform  her  lord  of  the  fact, 
who,  upon  obtaining  a  search  warrant  un- 
known to  any  one  save  his  lady,  had  the 
trunks  of  the  whole  household  establish- 
ment strictly  searched.  Poor  Phebe's 
little  chest,  "  wi'  her  a'  in't,"  discovered, 
to  the  amazement  of  all,  the  whole  lot  of 
the  missing  articles.  Lady  D look- 
ed as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  struck  with 
lightning  ;  whilst  poor  Phebe  regarded  the 
whole  as  a  jest,  a  method  adopted  by  her 
Lady  or  his  Lordship,  to  try  her  charac- 
ter and  firmness.     She  absolutely  laughed 


kr: 


348 


TALES   OP  THE    BORDERS. 


at  the  denouement,  and  seemed  altogether 
unconcerned  about  the  matter.  This,  to 
his  Lordship  in  particular,  appeared  to  be 
a  confirmation  of  guilt ;  and  he  immedi- 
ately ordered  her  person  to  be  secured, 
evidence  of  her  guilt  to  be  made  out,  and 
a  criminal  trial  to  be  instituted.  When 
the  full  truth  dawned  upon  poor  Phebe, 
she  sat  as  one  would  do  who  is  vainly  en- 
deavorino-  to  recollect  somethino;  which 
nas  escaped  her  memory.  Her  color 
left  her ;  she  was  pale  as  Parian  mar- 
ble ;  her  eyes  became  dim,  and  her  ears 
rang  ;  she  fainted  ;  and  it  was  not  till 
after  great  and  repeated  exertion  that  she 
was  recovered,  through  the  usual  painful 
steps,  to  a  perception  of  the  outward 
world.  She  looked  wildly  around  her. 
Lady  D was  standing  with  her  hand- 
kerchief at  her  eyes  —  she  had  wept 
aloud. 

"  O  Phebe,"  said  her  Ladyship,  "  are 
you  guilty  of  this  ?" 

Phebe    repeated    the    word    "  guilty" 

twice,  looked   wildly   on    Lady   D 's 

eyes,  and  then,  in  an  unsettled  and  alarmed 
manner,  all  round  the  room. 

"  Guilty  !"  she  repeated—^'  Guilty  of 
what?  Who  is  guilty  ?  It  is  not  he.  I 
am  sure  he  could  not  be  guilty.  Oh,  no 
— no  —no — he  is  my  father,  my  friend,  my 
protector,  my  minny,  my  dear,  dear  minny 
—  he  could  not  do  it!  he  never  did  it! 
You  are  all  wrong  ! — and  my  poor,  poor, 
head,  is  odd — odd — odd  !"  Thus  saying, 
she  clasped  her  forehead  in  a  frenzied 
manner,  and  nature  again  came  to  her  re- 
lief in  a  second  pause  of  insensibility,  from 
which  she  only  recovered  to  indicate  that 
her  remaining  faculties  had  seemingly  left 
her.  Time,  however,  gradually  awakened 
her  to  a  perception  of  the  sad  reality  ;  and 
it  was  from  a  chamber  in  the  castle,  to 
which  she  was  confined,  that  she  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  her  original  and  kind 
protector  : — 

"  Oh,  my  ever  dear  Friend, — Your 
Phebe    is    accused    of — 1    cannot    write 


it,  I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  the  hor- 
rid word — of  stealing.  Oh,  that  you  bad 
let  me  lie  where  the  wickedness  of  an  un- 
known parent  exposed  my  helpnessness  to 
the  random  tread  of  the  passenger  !  Oh, 
come  and  see  me  ;  I  grow  positively  con- 
fused ;  your  Phebe  is  imprisoned  in  her 
own  chamber  ;  but  my  poor  head  is  swim- 
ing  again — there — there — I  see  everybody 
whirling  about  on  the  chimney-tops — there 
they  go — there  they  go  !  I  can  only  see 
to  write  Phebe." 

There  was  no  date  to  this  sad^  scrawl  ; 
but  it  needed  none  ;  for  in  twenty-four 
hours  after  it  had  arrived  at  the  manse,  I 
had  set  out  on  my  way  to  Rosehall.  The 
meetins:  betwixt  the  foster-father  and  the 
child  was,  of  course,  exceedingly  affecting. 
Investigations  into  the  whole  matter  were 
renewed ;  but  no  other  way  could  be 
thought  of  for  accounting  for  the  presence 
of  the  missing  property  in  Phebe"s  locked 
trunk,  than  the  supposition  which  implied 
her  guilt. 

''  I  could  stake  my  life,  my  salvation," 
said  I,   "  on  Phebe's  innocence."      But 

Lord  D doubted  ;  his  Lady  could  not 

have  believed  it  possible  ;  but  still  there 
were,  she  said,  similar  cases  on  record — 
one,  quite  in  point,  had  just  occurred  in 
her  neighborhood,  where  the  guilty  party 
had,  up  to  the  dishonest  act,  borne  a  very 
high  character.  The  circuit  trial  came 
on  in  about  ten  days,  and  Phebe,  accom- 
panied by  the  minister,  and  the  best  legal 
advice,  was  seated  at  the  bar  on  her  trial. 
Witnesses  were  examined,  who  swore  that 
they  saw  the  trunk  opened,  and  Lady 
D 's  property  discovered  ;  others,  par- 
ticularly the  lady's  maid,  swore  that  she 
all  along  suspected  Phebe,  from  seeing  her 
always  shutting,  and  often  locking  her 
door  inside.  She  once  looked  through 
the  key-hole,  and  saw  Phebe  busied  with 
her  trunk  ;  she  saw  something  in  her  hand 
that  sparkled.  Phebe  had  no  exculpatory 
evidence  but  her  simple  averment  that  she 
knew  not  how  the  articles   came  there — 


PHEBE  FORTUNE. 


349 


she  never  brought  them.  The  king's  ad- 
vocate havino;  restricted  the  sentence,  and 
the  jury  having  brought  in  unanimously  a 
verdict  of  guilty,  the  judge  was  on  the 
point  of  pronouncing  a  sentence  of  banish- 
ment, when  the  poor  pannel  fainted.  It 
was  a  most  affecting  scene  to  hear  the  sen- 
tence of  banishment  pronounced  over  a 
piece  of  insensate  clay.  All  wept — even 
the  judge  ;  and  Phebe  was  carried  out  of 
the  court,  apparently  quite  dead. 

Next  morninsr  I  was  found  sittino;  with 
a  cheerful  countenance  by  Phebe's  couch, 
in  the  prison-house.  I  had  good  news,  I 
said,  to  impart  to  her  : — 

"  The  girl  who  has  been  the  principal 
witness  against  you,  has  been  suddenly 
seized,  during  the  night,  with  an  excruci- 
ating and  evidently  fatal  disease ;  in  the 
agonies  of  death  she  has  confessed  to  me, 

and  in  the  presence   of  Lady  D too, 

that  she  had  sworn  to  a  lie  ;  that  she  her- 
self, with  her  own  hand,  and  by  means  of 
a  false  key,  placed  the  articles — which  she 
had  originally  stolen  with  the  view  of  re- 
taining them — in  your  chest.  This  she 
had  done  from  jealousy,  having  observed 
that  her  lover,  the  gardener's  son,  had  fix- 
ed his  affections  upon  you." 

All  this  was  solemnly  attested  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses,  and  all  this  was 
conveyed  in  a  suitable  manner  to  the 
judge  ;  in  consequence  of  which,  and 
through  the  usual  preliminary  steps,  Phebe 
was  set  free,  and  again  admitted  into  the 
full  confidence  and  the  friendship  of  the 
family. 

It  so  happened,  that  a  young  nobleman 
had  witnessed  the  whole  trial  from  the 
bench,  and  had  taken  an  exceeding  inter- 
est  in  Phebe,  whose  beautiful  and  modest 
demeanor  and  countenance  not  even  des- 
pair could  entirely  disfigure.  Having 
made  some  inquiries  respecting  her  histo- 
ry, he  was  led  to  make  more,  and  disco- 
vered considerable  emotion  when  I  unfold- 
ed the  whole  truth  to  him.  Still  he  said 
nothing,  but  took  his  departure,  with  many 
thanks  for  the  information  given.     In  a 


few  days  this  same  young  nobleman,  of  re- 
markably fine  features  and  pleasing  ex- 
pression, returned  to  the  Manse  of  C •, 

having  an  elderly  gentleman  in  the  car- 
riage along  with  him.  He  requested  a 
private  interview  with  me  ;  and,  in  the 
presence  of  his  friend,  I  travelled  over 
again  the  whole  particulars  of  the  found- 
ling's story,  comparing  dates,  and  investi- 
gating seeming  inconsistencies.  At  last, 
he  declared,  at  once,  and  in  tears  of 
amazement  and  joy — "  Phebe  Fortune  is 
my  own — my  only  sister  .'"  I  looked  in- 
credulous, and  almost  hinted  at  insanity  ; 
but  the  young  nobleman  still  persevered 
in  his  averment.  His  father,  a  nobleman 
of  hio-h  rank,  far  south  of  the  Tweed,  in 
order  to  gratify  a  passion  which  had  driven 
him  almost  mad,  had  consented  to  pretend 
to  marry  privately  (his  own  father  being 
still  alive,  and  set  upon  his  son's  marrying 

his  cousin  the   Honorable  Miss  D )  a 

most  beautiful  girl,  the  daughter  of  a 
Chester  yeoman  of  high  respectability. 
The  lady  was  removed  from  her  native 
home,  and  lodged  in  a  remote  quarter  oi 
the  town  of  Liverpool.  A  report  was  fa- 
bricated, and  spread  abroad  by  means  of 
the  newspapers,  that  a  lady,  who  was  mi- 
nutely described,  had  jumped  one  evening 
into  a  boat,  and,  being  rowed,  at  her  re- 
quest, to  some  distance,  had  plunged  into 
the  sea,  and  perished.  Phebe's  parents 
investigated  the  matter,  as  far  as  the  boat- 
man's evidence  was  concerned,  and  were 
satisfied,  from  his  description  of  her  per- 
son, that  their  dear  Phebe,  who,  for  some 
time  past,  had  appeared  troubled  and  even 
dispirited,  had  adopted  suicide  as  a  refuge 
from    all   her   earthly  cares.      Phebe   and 

the  Honorable  Mr.  L met  frequently 

in  secret,  and  a  daughter  was  the  fruit  of 
their  interviews.  This  daughter  the 
young  nobleman  proposed  to  put  out  to 
nurse  ;  but  in  reality,  to  put  beyond  the 
reach  of  being  ever  recognised  as  his.  A 
confidential  person  was  obtained,  herself  a 
Scotchwoman,  to  carry  the  child  into 
Fife,  and  there  to   expose  it,   under  the 


350 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


circumstances  and  with  the  provision  al-  \ 
ready  mentioned.      This  person  chanced  | 
to  be  a  parishioner  of  mine,  and  the  con-  i 
sequences    were     as     ah-cady     described,  i 
Havino-   executed  her  task,  she  married  a 
soldier,  with  whom  she  soon   after  sailed  i 
for  our  West  India  settlements.     Phebe's  ! 
second  birth  proved  to  be  a  male  ;  and  I 
the  boy  was  about  to  be  removed  in  a  si- 
milar manner  from  the  mother,  when  she 
absconded  from  her  now  tyrannical  hus- 
band and  her  concealed  home,  refusing  to 
be  again  separated  from  her  own  offspring. 
Her  parents,    who  had    regarded  her    as 
dead,  were  sufficiently  surprised,  but  by 
no  means  gratilied,  when  Phebe  appeared 
again  with  the  child  in  her  arms.      In  the 

meantime,    Lord    L died,    and     the 

Honorable  youth  became  Baron  L of 

Houston-hope.     Poor  Phebe's   averment 
respecting  her  previous  marriage  was  re- 
garded, even  by  her  parents,  as  somewhat 
suspicious  ;    and  not  being  able  to  com- 
mand the  testimony  of   the  person    who 
had  married  them,  she  was  compelled  to 
remain  silent.     The  effort,  however,  soon 
cost  her  her  life  ;  and  the  boy,  by  his  ac- 
knowledged father's  interest,  was  placed 
in  the  arm}^,  and  sent  out   to  the    West 
Indies.     There  he  accidentally  met  with 
the  woman  his  mother  had  often  mentioned 
to  him,  who  had  carried  off  his  sister.   She 
confessed  the  whole  truth  to  him  ;   and, 
after  a  year  or  two,  they  both  returned  in 
the    same    ship    to    England.     By  this 
time,  the  noble  husband,    being  free    to 
dispose  of  his  hand  in   matrimony,   pro- 
posed, not  for  his  cousin,  as  his  father  had 
contemplated,  but  for  the  daughter  of  an 
exceedingly  wealthy  Liverpool  merchant. 
I   This  person  happened  to  be  a  near  relative 
I   of  him  who  had  called  what  was  deemed 
only    a  pretended  priest  to  perform    the 
marriage  ceremony  ;  and,  seeing  the  dan- 
ger which  his  relative  would  run,  should  he 
give  away  his  daughter,  in  hopes  of  her 
offspring  hoiring  the  title    and   property, 
when  a  logithnatc  heir  probably  existed, 
he   divulged  the  secret  to  his  relations. 


This  naturally  led  to  a  denouement  ;  and 

Lord  L being  thus  frustrated  in  his 

object,  and  being  at  the  same  time  a  per- 
son governed  more  by  passion  thanrea-son, 
shot  the  person  who  had  deceived  him 
through  the  arm  ;  and  then,  thinking  that 
he  had  committed  murder,  he  blew  out  his 
own  biains. 

The  brother  of  Phebe,  after  a  long  and 
complicated  legal  investigation,  was  de- 
clared and  served  heir  to  the  title  and  vast 
property.  Taking' the  clergyman  who  had 
married  his  mother  alons:  with  him,  he 
had  gone  into  Scotland,  partly  to  visit  his 
uncle.  Lord  D ,  and  partly,  by  the  as- 
sistance of  the  priest  and  Scotchwoman, 
to  discover  what  had  become  of  his  sister. 
Her  likeness  to  himself  and  his  mother 
had  struck  him  forcibly  in  court,  and  the 
investigation  and  discovery  followed. 

To  describe  the  interview  betwixt  the 
brother  and  sister  is  far  beyond  my 
power.  Every  heart  will  appreciate  it 
more  than  ink  and  paper  can  possibly 
express.  It  was  a  pure — a  long — a  ter- 
rible embrace  ;  but  it  spoke  volumes, 
heart  met  heart,  and  lips  were  glued  to 
lips,  till  breathing  became  inconvenient. 
All  parties  rejoiced.  Phebe,  on  her  way 
south  along  with  her  brother,  spent  a 
whole  day  at  the  Manse.  I  was  absolut-e- 
ly  insane  with  joy ;  and  my  wife  told  me 
privately  — "  My  dear,  our  fortune  is 
made  ;  we'll  get  all  our  boys  out  to  India 
now."  My  daughters,  too,  kissed  and 
fondled  their  sister,  "  and  all  went  merry 
as  a  marriage  bell." 

"  How  sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain  I" 

The  contrast  of  Phebe's  fortune  greatly 
enhanced  the  enjoyment  ;  and,  in  the 
space  of  a  few  short  months,  Phebe  For- 
tune was  married  to  her  own  cousin,  the 

son  of  Lord  and   Lady  D ,  her  kind 

protectors.  The  old  couple  are  still 
alive  ;  but  their  children,  with  a  numer- 
ous offspring,  live  upon  one  of  their  es- 
tates in  Ayrshire,  and  exhibit  to  all  around 
them  the  blessings  which  a  humane  and 
generous     aristocracy     may     disseminate 


THE  POACHER'S  PROGRESS. 


351 


amidst  neighbors   and  dependents.     The 
brother  of   Phebe,  Lord  L — 


-,  still  re- 
mains a  bachelor  ;  but  has  proved  to  his 
mother's  relatives,  as  well  as  to  the  par- 
ties who  befriended  her  by  deceiving  his 
dishonorable  parent,  that  he  feels  the  ob- 
ligation, and  rewards  it,  by  making  them 
one  way  or  another  entirely  independent. 


I  go  my  weekly  rounds  amongst  those 
now  happy  families,  and  have  experienced 
the  truth  of  my  wife's  prophecy  ;  for  both 
my  boys  are  advantageously  disposed  of, 
attd,  on  the  marriarge  of  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, Phebe  Fortune  made  her  a  present 
of  one  thousand  pounds. 


-^.O"*- 


THE  POACHEE'S  PROGRESS. 


The  poacher  is  a  common  character  ;  and, 
although  there  is  no  guilt  in  his  occupa- 
tion itself,  yet  he  who  is  in  the  everyday 
practice  of  breaking  the  laws  of  man,  from 
the  very  habits  and  fears  attendant  upon 
such  practice,  nnconsciously  becomes  ready 
to  break  the  laws  of  his  JNIaker.  The  sin 
is  as  small  on  the  part  of  a  poor  man  kill- 
ing a  bird  or  a  leveret  for  gain,  as  on  the 
part  of  a  rich  man  killing  it  for  amuse- 
ment. Yet  I  have  seldom  known  a  con- 
firmed poacher  who  did  not  eventually 
become  a  person  of  reckless  and  desperate 
character.  His  living  in  the  constant  fear 
of  detection — the  jeopardy  of  his  calling — 
the  secrecy  of  his  actions — insensibly 
blunt  and  destroy  his  better  feelings  and 
principles  ;  and  1  have  often  thought  that 
our  game-laws  are  laws  made  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  rich,  at  the  expense  of  the 
morals  of  the  poor.  But,  to  drop  this,  I  shall 
briefly  sketch  the  progress  of  a  poacher. 

Adam  Black  was  the  son  of  a  farmer  of 
the  old  school,  who  rented  some  hundred  j 
acres  near  a  part  of  the  debatable  grounds  i 
between  Roxburgh  and  Northumberland,  j 
Adam  received  a  respectable   education  ;  j 
but  he  was  of  idle  habits  from  his  boyhood 
upwards.     It  is  but  seldom  that  we  hear 
much  good  of  a  person  who  is  given  to 
idleness ;  and   we    have    a   proverb   that 
says,  ^'  If  the   devil  find  a  man  idle,  he 


generally  sets  him  to  work."  There  is 
much  truth  in  the  adage.  Yet,  it  may 
almost  be  said,  that,  instead  of  being 
tempted,  an  idle  man  actually  holds  out  a 
temptation  to  the  tempter — he  invites  him 
to  his  destruction.  I  have  said,  however, 
that  Adam  Black  was  idle  from  his  youth. 
When  he  became  a  lad,  no  portion  of  his 
thoughts  was  given  to  the  business  of  the 
farm.  Give  Adam  his  dog  and  his  gun, 
and  that  was  all  he  desired,  all  he  cared 
for.  He  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  admoni- 
tions of  his  father,  and  the  counsels  of  his 
mother  were  laughed  at.  His  gun  by  day, 
and  his  gins  or  his  snares  by  night,  were 
the  sole  occupants  of  his  thoughts.  But 
as  yet  he  was  not  vicious  ;  and  his  only 
faults  were,  that  he  was  given  to  idleness 
and  poaching.  He,  perhaps,  had  a  re- 
deeming quality  in  the  warmness  of  his 
heart,  if  it  was  not  more  than  counter- 
balanced by  the  excess  of  his  passions  ; 
for  he  was  headstrong,  vehement,  revenge- 
ful. 

At  the  age  of  three-and-twenty,  and 
while  he  yet  lived  with  his  father,  Adam 
married.  His  parents  ofiPared  no  opposi- 
tion to  his  wishes,  for  the  object  of  his 
choice  was  a  maiden  of  sweet  and  gentle 
disposition,  and  of  blameless  character  ; 
and,  though  poor,  they  trusted  that  her 
influence  would  arouse  their  son  to  habits 


352 


TALES  OP  THE   BORDERS. 


of  industiy  and  exertion.  Some  said  that 
she  had  made  a  good  match,  because,  be- 
ing the  daughter  of  a  simple  shepherd,  she 
had  married  the  only  son  of  a  farmer  ;  but 
there  were  others  who  observed  more 
closely,  and  who  saw  deeper,  that  shook 
their  heads,  and  said,  "  she  was  too  good 
for  his  wife."  But  it  is  frequently  difficult 
to  account  for  a  woman's  affections  ;  the 
cause  that  produced  them  is  often  as  mys- 
terious, as  their  depth  is  intense.  A  thou- 
sand bards  have  sung  of  Woman's  Love  ; 
and,  although 

"  nae  poet  in  a  sense, 
But  just  a  rhymer  like,  by  chance." 

I  shall  interrupt  my  story  for  a  minute's 
space,  to  sing  of  it  also. 

Say  not  it  is  the  flickering  flame 
That  all  have  felt — that  all  must  feel — 

Which  comes,  and  goeth  as  it  came — 
That  fleeteth.  changeth.  as  the  wheel 

Of  caprice  or  young  fancy  turns  ; 
Nay,  'tis  the  strong,  the  deep  emotion 
Of  the  full  heart  whose  fixed  devotioK 

Through  adverse  fate  and  coldness  burns, 
That  marks  a  woman's  love. 

Oh,  'tis  a  glad,  a  holy  glow — 
An  angel's  dream — a  seraph's  bliss — 

A  theft  from  heavenly  joy  to  know — 
To  feel,  to  own,  to  know  but  this  : 

That  there  is  one — a  lovely  one — 
The  life,  the  partner  of  our  being— 
Who,  all  our  faults  and  follies  seeing, 

Can  love,  and  love  but  us  alone. 

With  all  a  woman's  love. 

Within  her  bosom  is  a  fire 

That  burneth  with  a  light  divine, 
V/hich,  when  opposing  ills  conspire 

To  cloud  the  soul  will  burst — will  shine 
Within,  around — and  joyous  throw 

A  ray  of  hope  o'er  him  she  loveth, 

Till  heaven  the  kindred  flame  approveth, 
And  half  the  pain  of  fate— of  wo, 

Is  lost  in  woman's  love. 

Such  a  woman  became  the  wife  of  Adam 
Black  ;  but  although  he  was  proud  of  her 
love,  though  he  was  conscious  of  it  and 
jealous  of  it,  he  had  not  principle  enough 
within  him  to  appreciate  it.  She,  there- 
fore, produced  no  abiding  change  upon  his 
habits  ;  and  although,  in  a  measure,  he 
was  broken  from  them  for  a  time,  within 
three  months  he  returned  to  them  as  the 
swine  doth  to  its  wallowino-  in  the  mire. 
For  some  weeks  she  occupied  his  thoughts, 


and  her  words  had  influence  ;  but  he  re- 
turned again  to  his  dog  and  to  his  gun — 
her  counsel  became  irksome — he  reec-ived 
it  peevishly,  and  he  thought  as  little  of 
her  as  of  his  duties  on  the  farm. 

Within  the  first  year  after  his  marriage 
his  mother  died  ;  and  in  the  third  year,  a 
paralytic  stroke  fell  upon  his  father,  as 
though  Death  had  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  saying,  "  Come."  The  old  man 
felt  that  his  days  were  numbered — that  the 
last  warning  had  been  given  ;  and  he  called 
his  son  to  his  bedside,  and  said — 

''  Adam  !  1  am  about  to  leave  you  ;  and, 
O  man,  will  ye  listen  to  a  faither's  dying 
advice  .^" 

"  Yes,  faither  !"  cried  Adam — for  J 
have  said  that  he  was  warm-hearted — and 
he  wept  as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  then,  my  son,"  continued  the  old 
man,  "  hearken  to  my  last  words — the  last 
words  o'  yer  faither,  Adam,  i  dinna  say 
that  ye  are  vicious,  but,  oh  !  ye  has  been 
thoughtless — ye  are  far  from  what  I  would 
wish  to  see  ye.  It  isna  meikle  that  I  hae 
to  leave  ye  ;  but  if  ye  dinna  take  care  o't, 
it  will  waste  frae  amang  yer  hands  like 
snaw  aff  a  dyke.  Ye  are  now  also  a  faither, 
and  a  young  family  are  rising  around  ye  ; 
and,  oh,  for  their  sakes,  and  for  the  sake 
o'  the  mother  that  bore  them,  see  that  ye 
set  them  the  example  o'  a  Christian,  that 
they  may  not  rise  up  as  witnesses  against 
you  at  the  great  day.  Do  ye  hear  me, 
Adam  ?  O  my  son,  say  that  ye  will  follow 
your  faither's  dying  injunction,  and  1  will 
die  in  peace." 

Adam  wrung  his  father's  hand,  and  hid 
his  face  upon  the  bed  to  conceal  his  ago- 
ny. "  It's  enough,"  said  the  dying  man 
— "  thank  God,  the  voice  of  conscience  is 
not  dumb  in  the  breast  of  my  bairn  ! " 

On  the  death  of  his  father,  Adam  be- 
came the  occupier  of  the  farm  ;  but  he 
neglected  it,  and  I  need  not  say  that  in  re- 
turn, fortune  neglected  him.  His  fields 
and  his  crops  became  a  jest  among  his 
neighbors,  and  the  former  they  called 
"  Idle    Adam's   pleasure-grounds."     But 


THE  POACHER'S  PROGRESS. 


353 


the  lease  expired,  and,  because  he  had 
been  a  slothful  tenant,  the  landlord  refused 
to  renew  it. 

The  money  which  his  father  had  left 
him,  was  reduced  to  about  a  hundred 
pounds,  when  he  was  compelled  to  leave 
the  farm,  and  he  removed  with  his  family 
to  a  small  cottage  which  stood  on  the  road- 
side, in  a  lonely  part  of  the  country,  and 
about  ten  miles  from  the  farm  on  which  he 
had  been  brought  up.  Here  Adam  took 
up  his  abode,  as  though  the  hundred  pounds 
would  provide  for  his  family  for  ever. 

He  did  nothing,  save  to  prowl  about  be- 
hind the  hedges  with  his  gun  over  his  arm, 
or,  in  the  dead  of  night,  to  rob  the  pre- 
serves of  the  gentlemen  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. His  poor  wife  strove  anxiously, 
and  with  tears,  to  reclaim  him — to  arouse 
him  to  honest  exertion.  She  reminded  him 
of  the  destitution  that  was  creeping  around 
them,  and  every  day  narrowing  its  circle. 
She  drew  her  infant  children  round  his 
knees,  and  implored  him  to  provide  for 
them.  But  his  answer  was,  "  We  shall 
do  well  enough — I  will  be  my  own  mas- 
ter." 

''■  A}^,"  replied  she,  "  and  the  slave  of 
the  law  !" 

"  Hang  the  law  !"  returned  he  ;  "  what 
care  1  for  the  law  !" 

For  a  time  their  cottage  had  an  appear- 
ance of  cleanliness  and  neatness,  but  gradu- 
ally it  began  to  exhibit  the  marks  of 
poverty  and  wretchedness,  as  her  spirit 
broke,  and  she  found  her  love  lost,  and 
her  counsel  of  no  avail.  Old  garments 
supplied  the  place  of  glass  in  one-half  of 
the  window — the  well-scoured  and  sanded 
threshold  was  no  longer  visible,  but  stag- 
nant water  lay  in  little  pools  before  the 
door,  and  around  them  ragged  and  squalid 
children  quarrelled  with  each  other. 

They  were  sent  to  no  school — it  was  but 
little  instruction  that  their  mother  could 
give  them  ;  and  the  little  she  endeavored 
to  give,  the  example  of  their  father  de- 
stroyed. The  only  education  they  re- 
ceived was  such  as  would  enable  them  to 

VOL.  ir.  GO 


become  poachers  like  himself;  and  before 
the  eldest  was  seven  years  of  age,  he  was 
sent  to  the  neighboring  towns  to  sell  the 
game  which  his  father  had  destroyed. 

People  wondered  how  Adam  Black 
lived,  for  he  wrought  none  ;  and  although 
they  knew  him  to  be  a  poacher,  they  could 
not  see  how  by  such  means  he  provided 
food  for  himself  and  family.  And  although 
his  children  were  in  rags,  and  his  wife 
never  seen,  his  appearance  approached 
what  might  be  termed  respectable.  He 
wore  a  large  velvet  coat,  made  after  the 
fashion  of  a  sportsman's,  and,  in  general, 
his  vest  and  trousers  were  of  the  same 
material.  Every  day  his  voice  was  heard 
in  the  ale-house  of  a  nei2;hborino-  villao-e, 
and  by  his  side,  orl  such  occasions,  crouch- 
ed a  dog  of  the  pointer  breed — a  living 
emblem  of  hunger  and  leanness. 

But  famine  often  pressed  hard  upon  the 
family  ;  and  when  he  would  have  wrought 
for  them,  no  one  would  employ  him  ;  and 
once,  when  want  gnawed  at  his  heart,  and 
remorse  stung  his  soul,  he  would  have  lift- 
ed up  his  hand  against  his  own  life,  had 
not  the  daughter  of  a  Mr.  Nisbet,  who 
was  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  at  the 
very  moment,  like  an  angel  of  mercy,  visit- 
ed the  cottage,  and  having  heard  of  the 
destitution  of  its  inmates,  come  to  relieve 
them. 

Such  was  the  life  of  the  poacher  for 
several  years,  and  as  yet  he  had  been  guil- 
ty of  no  actual  crime.  He  had  carried  on 
his  trade  without  detection,  defying  the 
law,  and  laughing  the  landed  proprietors 
around  him,  and  their  gamekeepers,  to 
scorn.  At  length  he  was  caught  in  the 
preserve  of  a  gentleman  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, with  three  pheasants  in  the  bao- 
which  he  carried  by  his  side.  He  resisted 
the  attempt  to  seize  him — he  levelled  his 
fowling-piece,  and  fired  upon  his  assailants ; 
but  they  were  not  injured,  and  it  was  be- 
lieved that  he  did  not  fire  with  the  wish 
of  wounding  them.  He,  however,  was 
made  prisoner,  tried,  and  sentenced  to 
transportation  for  seven  years.     No  one 


354 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


made  application  for  a  mitigation  of  the 
punishment,  and  it  was  carried  into  effect. 
On  his   departure,   his   neglected   wife 
roused  herself  from  the  lethargy  of  despair 
which  his   habits   had  brought  upon  her 
spirit.     She  refused  parish  relief,  and  the 
farmers  around  admired  her  conduct  and 
pitied  her  distress.     She  became  washer- 
woman and  laundress  to  all  the  respecta- 
ble families    around  her  ;  and   when  she 
had  toiled  as  such  in  their  houses,  yet  even 
at  midnight  the  lamp  was   seen   flickering 
in  her  cottage,  and  the  stranger  who  passed 
it  heard  the  busy  sound  of  her  spinning- 
wheel.     She  taught  her  little   daughters 
to  knit,  and  she  sent  them  to  gather  wool 
amono-gt  the  whins  and  hedges      Her  sons 
were  employed  on  the  suiTOunding  farms, 
and  each,  in  their  turn,  she  sent  for  a  quar- 
ter  of  a  year  to  the  parish  school.     The 
stagnant  water  was  no  longer  seen  at  the 
door,  but  again  there  appeared  the  clean 
and  sanded  threshold — the  old  garments 
were  removed  from  the  windows,  and  glass 
supplied  their  place.     She  obtained  the 
respect  of  all  who  knew  her,  and  the  pity 
they  at  first  felt  for  her  gave  place  to  es- 
teem.    When  the  name   of  Janet  Black 
was  mentioned,  it  was  ever  said  that  "  she 
deserved  a  better  fate."     Yet  she  often 
mourned  to  Snd  that  her  influence  was  in- 
adequate wholly  to   eradicate   the  habits 
which  their  father's  example  had  instilled 
into  his  children. 

But  seven  years  passed,  and  Adam 
Black  returned  from  being  a  convict  in 
the  hulks  to  his  family.  When  he  enter- 
ed the  cottage,  Janet  sprang  up  and  re- 
ceived him  with  open  arms.  She  had  wept 
over  his  punishment,  but  she  had  trusted 
that  it  would  effect  a  reformation  of  his 
propensities.  When  she  had  called  her 
children  around  him,  and  desired  him  to 
look  now  upon  one,  and  now  upon  another, 
to  observe  how  they  had  grown,  and  to 
tell  him  how  they  had  wrought  for  her, 
and  how  one  had  become  a  scholar,  and 
all  could  read,  she  again  flung  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  said — 


"  And  now,  dear  Adam,  we  shall  a'  be 
happy — for,  after  a',  yours  wasna  a  crime 
that  we  need  hang  our  heads  about — it 
was  only  what  hundreds  do  daily — though 
it  maybe  wasna  richt.  But  ye  winna  be 
looked  down  upon  on  account  o't — for  it 
wasna  like  stealing — and  I'm  sure  I'll  be 
able  to  get  ye  wark,  for  a'  the  gentry 
round  hae  been  kind  to  us.' 

"  Work  !— ha  !"  muttered  Adam  sul- 
lenly ;  and  he  coldly  acknwledged  the 
tenderness  of  his  wife. 

She  saw,  she  felt,  that  he  eared  not  for 
her,  and  his  indifference  went  to  her  heart. 
Yet  she  fondly  trusted,  by  her  affection, 
to  win  back  his,  and  to  lead  bim  also  to 
habits  of  industry.  But  her  hope  was 
vain.  To  be  doomed  to  wear  the  felon's 
chain,  and  to  mingle  with  convicts  for 
years,  may  be  a  punishment,  and  it  may 
make  men  worse  than  they  were  before 
the  law  condemned  them  ;  but  that  it  can 
reform  them  is  all  but  impossible.  It  had 
Wrought  no  reformation  on  Adam  Black, 
but  it  had  rendered  him  more  callous  and 
more  desperate  ;  it  had  caused  him  to  as- 
sociate with  wretches  who  made  him  ac- 
quainted with  crimes  of  which  he  had 
never  dreamed,  and  their  habits  gi'adually 
became  his  habits,  and  their  thoughts  his 
thouorhts.  He  had  been  sent  amono;st 
felons  for  killing  a  pheasant,  and  he  re- 
turned from  amongst  them  capable  of 
murderincr  a  fellow-beins:. 

Poor  Janet  shuddered  at  the  words  which 
she  heard  him  utter — for,  with  strange 
and  wicked  oaths,  he  vowed  vengeance  on 
the  individual  who  had  prosecuted  him  ; 
and  she  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  kissed  his  forehead,  yea,  wept  before 
him,  and  prayed  that  he  would  be  calm, 
and  tenderly,  earnestly  urged  upon  him 
the  duty  of  forgiveness  to  enemies ;  but  at 
her  entreaties,  and  the  sight  of  her  tender- 
ness, he  raged  the  more  furiously. 

"  Away  with  your  foolery,  woman  !"he 
exclaimed,  pushing  her  rudely  from  him  j 
*'  talk  not  of  forgiveness  to  me  !  Have  I 
not  worn  the  chains  with  which  they  de- 


THE  POACHER'S  PROGRESS. 


555 


graded  me — worn  thera  till  the  iron  enter- 
ed my  flesh — yet  you  talk  of  forgiveness  ' 
Do  not  torment  me — I  shall  be  revenged  !" 
And  he  uttered  words  which  we  cannot 
write. 

He  inquired  for  his  gun  ;  and  when  in- 
formed that  it  had  been  sold  to  clothe  his 
children  during  his  absence,  ho  grated  his 
teeth  together,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with 
indi^rnation — but  he  said  little.  He  had 
brought  home  a  few  pounds  with  him  ;  and, 
on  the  day  after  his  return,  he  visited  the 
ale-house  which  had  before  been  his  habit- 
ual place  of  rendezvous.  There  also  he 
purchased  a  fowling-piece  from  an  ac- 
quaintance. He  seized  it  eagerly  in  his 
hands  ;  and,  though  he  had  manifested  no 
joy  at  the  sight  of  his  wife  and  children, 
when  he  ao;ain  handled  his  favorite  instru- 
ment,  he  leaped  upon  the  floor,  he  examin- 
ed it  in  every  part,  he  almost  pressed  it  to 
his  lips. 

That  very  night  he  returned  home  laden 
with  game. 

"  O  Adam  !  Adam,  man  !"  cried  Janet, 
as  he  flung  the  birds  upon  the  table, 
"  have  we  no  had  enough  o'  this  wark, 
think  ye,  yet  ?  Has  a'  that  ye  hae  suffer- 
ed, and  that  we  hae  sufi"ered,  no  been  a 
lesson  to  ye  ?  O  Adam  !  will  ye  really 
persevere  in  this  dangerous  course  until  ye 
are  torn  frae  your  wife  an'  bairns  again  ? 
O  bairns  !"  added  she,  addressing  her 
children,  ''for  dearsake,  tak  thae  birds 
out  o'  my  sight — burn  them  ! — bury  them 
in  the  yard  ! — dinna  let  them  remain  be- 
neath this  roof !  O  Adam  !  for  my  sake 
— for  the  sake  o'  your  family — gie  owre 
this,  an'  I'll  work  for  ye,  dear — we'll  a' 
work  for  ye,  till  the  bluid  run  owre  our 
finger-ends,  if  ye'll  only  be  prevailed  upon 
to  desist  frae  such  a  practice." 

"  VVheest,  old  fool !"  said  he,  pushing 
her  roughly  aside  ;  ''get  the  birds  dress- 
ed— it  is  long  since  I  tasted  the  food  I  am 
fondest  of." 

"  No,  Adam  — no  !"  returned  she,  firm- 
ly ;  "  rather  wad  I  cut  my  hands  aff  than 
touch  a  feather  o'  them." 


"  Idiot  !"  retorted  he,  stamping  his 
foot  and  scowling  upon  her  ;  and,  order- 
ing one  of  his  daughters  to  prepare  two  of 
the  birds  for  supper,  the  poor  girl  looked 
first  anxiously  at  her  mother,  and  then 
tremblingly  at  her  father,  and  obeyed  him. 
Janet  sat  sorrowful  and  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  and  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 
He  to  whom  she  had  given  her  young  af- 
fections, and  from  whom,  unworthy  as  he 
was,  her  heart  had  never  swerved,  had 
looked  upon  her  with  coldness,  he  had 
spoken  to  her  with  anger  and  contempt — 
and  these  are  hard  things  for  a  wife  to 
bear.  She  had  endured  sorrow,  she  had 
suffered  shame,  for  his  sake,  yet  she  felt 
his  present  treatment  worse  than  all.  Yet 
affection,  and  a  desire  for  her  husband's 
reformation  and  safety,  prevailed  over 
every  other  feeling,  and  she  rose,  her 
countenance  expressive  of  anxious  and  im- 
ploring tenderness,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his,  and  said  earnestly — 
"  Dear  Adam  !" 

"Dear  devil!"  rejoined  the  monster, 
dashing  away  her  hand,  "  has  the  woman 
parted  with  the  little  sense  she  ever  had  ! 
See  that  the  girl  cook  those  bii'ds  right, 
and  let  me  have  none  of  your  preaching." 
She  sat  down  in  silence,  and  endea- 
vored, as  she  best  could,  to  conceal  the 
agony  of  a  blighted  heart. 

He  returned  to  his  old  courses — drink- 
ing by  day,  and  poaching  by  night ;  and 
wasting  not  only  the  money  which  the 
game  he  destroyed  produced,  but  the 
earnings  also  of  his  wife  and  family. 

About  twelve  months  after  his  return 
from  banishment,  the  two  oldest  of  his 
children  fell  sick  of  a  fever  and  died  ; 
those  that  were  left  were  unable  to  provide 
for  themselves ;  and  his  heart-broken 
wife  became  feeble  of  body  and  almost 
imbecile  of  mind.  Again  the  cottage 
bore  the  impress  of  wretchedness.  About 
this  time,  also,  sheep  were  frequently 
stolen  from  the  flocks  of  the  gentleman 
who  had  been  accessary  to  his  punishment. 
Adam  was  suspected,  and  his  cottage  was 


356 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


searched  ;  but  there  was  nothing  found  in 
it  that  could  criminate  him,  though  the 
conviction  was  strong  on  every  mind  that 
he  was  the  depredator.  At  length  want 
drove  him  from  the  cottage,  and  he  re- 
moved no  one  knew  where,  taking  his  wife 
and  children  with  him. 

It  has  been  mentioned  that,  at  a  time 
when  Adam  Black's  family  were  in  want, 
and  when  famine  and  remorse  were  goad- 
ing him  to  destruction,  their  wants  were 
relieved  by  the  daughter  of  a  Mr.  Nisbet, 
who  was  the  clergyman  of  the  parish. 
Now,  it  was  about  three  years  after  the 
poacher  had  left  the  scene  of  his  depreda- 
tions, that  Mr.  Nisbet  proceeded  to  Edin- 
burgh upon  business,  intending  to  return 
in  a  few  days.  But,  day  after  day,  his 
daughter  looked  for  him  in  vain.  He 
came  not,  and  no  tidings  were  heard  con- 
cerning him.  A  messenger  was  dispatch- 
ed to  Edinburgh  to  inquire  respecting 
him  ;  and  it  was  ascertained  that  he  had 
left  that  city  in  a  coach  which  passed 
within  three  miles  of  his  manse,  and  there 
it  was  found  that  he  had  left  it  to  proceed 
home  on  foot ;  but,  beyond  this,  no  trace 
of  him  could  be  found,  though  rewards 
were  offered  and  diligent  search  made 
over  the  country.  Many  were  the  sur- 
mises regarding  his  fate,  but  his  disap- 
pearance remained  involved  in  mystery. 
Some,  remembering  the  character  of  the 
poacher,  and  that  suspicion  would  have 
attached  to  him,  said — •"  Well,  that  is  one 
thino;  idle  Adam  is  innocent  of." 

At  the  period  of  her  father's  disappear- 
ance, Mary  Nisbet  was  not  beyond  the 
age  when  reason,  though  not  immature,  is 
least  powerful,  the  world  most  alluring, 
and  sorrow  wildest.  She  had  been  sud- 
denly deprived  of  her  only  protector,  her 
only  relative.  But,  educated  as  she  had 
been — the  sole  child  of  a  country  clergy- 
man, springing  up  like  a  solitary  but  love- 
ly flower  in  the  wilderness,  concentrating 
in  its  own  bright  hues  the  colors  of  every 
ray  that  the  sun  scattered  over  the  barren 
desert — she  endeavored,  by  the   precepts 


her  father  had  tauo;ht  her,  to  subdue  the 
intensity  of  her  feelings  ;  and,  a  few 
months  after  his  disappearance,  partly  to 
beguile  her  grief,  and  partly  from  the  hope 
of  hearing  something  that  might  throw 
light  upon  his  fate,  she  accepted  an  invi- 
tation to  visit  a  friend  in  Leith. 

To  cheer  her  melancholy,  her  friends 
took  her  to  visit  every  object  of  interest 
in  and  around  the  Modern  Athens  ;  though 
at  that  period  it  had  not  the  same  claims 
to  the  appellation  that  it  has  now.  One 
object  only  remained  unvisited,  an  object 
which  few  of  her  sex  would  be  desirous  of 
beholding,  Mary  had  never  seen  the  in- 
terior of  a  prison  ;  and,  to  the  surprise  of 
her  friends,  she  expressed  a  determination 
to  visit  the  city  jail.  She  allowed  it  was 
a  strange  wish,  but  she  could  not  drive  it 
from  her  thoughts.  On  the  following  day, 
they  accompanied  her  to  the  gloomy  abode 
of  iniquity  and  punishment,  where  crime, 
like  a  tiger,  crouches  readj^  to  spring  upon 
its  victims  as  they  enter,  and  complete 
within  the  walls  of  a  prison  the  work  of 
depravity  it  had  already  begun. 

She  shuddered  as  she  beheld  the  keep- 
ers, with  suspicion  written  on  their  eye- 
balls, slowly  turn  lock  after  lock,  survey- 
ing the  visitors  with  jealous  scrutiny  as 
they  entered,  and  suddenly  closing  upon 
them  one  massy  door  after  another,  till 
they  were  enveloped  in  the  innermost 
places  of  guilt.  And  there,  the  profane 
impenitence  of  fallen  wretches,  from  the 
grey-haired  criminal  to  the  felon  of  ten 
years  old,  made  humanity  tremble  and 
Christianity  bleed.  There,  ihe  elder  cor- 
rupted the  younger,  laughed  the  lingering 
fragments  of  conscience  to  scorn,  and 
developed  the  broad  ways  of  vice.  Some 
few  mourned  over  their  first  crime,  and 
trembled  to  think  of  the  miserable  futu- 
rity that  awaited  them,  when  the  days  of 
their  punishment  would  be  past,  and  they 
should  be  ao;ain  cast  unon  the  world,  the 
shunned  of  society.* 

*  It  is  a  desideratum  amongst  the  benevolent  in- 
stitutions of  our  coan  try,  that,  for  the  class  of  un- 


THE  POACHER'S  PROGRESS. 


357 


They  were  showa  into  the  cell  of  a 
miserable  being  lying  under  sentence  of 
death  for  murder.  He  was  seated  on  a 
low  stool  in  the  darkest  corner  of  his 
dungeon,  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees, 
and  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  His 
body  rocked  backward  and  forward  con- 
vulsively, his  fetters  clanked  with  the 
melancholy  motion,  and  his  deep  groans 
at  times  burst  forth,  in  the  bitterness  of 
remorse,  into  an  agonizing  howl.  He  ap- 
peared alike  insensible  of  their  approach 
or  their  presence.  They  were  about  to 
depart,  when  he  started  up  in  a  paroxysm 
of  despair,  and  dashed  his  clenched  hands 
against  his  forehead.  His  eyes,  which 
were  red  with  agony,  fell  upon  Mary. 
He  sprang  back — he  seized  his  chains  and 
attempted  to  tear  them  from  their  fasten- 
ings ;  and,  still  riveting  his  eyes  upon  her 
features,  he  uttered  a  wild  scream,  and, 
as  they  were  turning  away  in  horror,  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Stay,  Mary  Nisbet  — stay  !"  Her 
heart  throbbed  fast  and  painfully,  as  she 
heard  her  name  thus  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly pronounced  in  such  a  place,  and 
by  such  a  being,  and  she  clung  closer  to 
the  arm  of  her  friend  :  for  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  presence  of  a  murderer  from 


fortunaie  beings  above  referred  to,  there  is  no  place 
of  refuge.  When  the  period  of  their  punishment 
hasexpired,  ihey  are  again  driven  upon  the  world, 
without  character,  without  friends — the  outcasts 
of  society — despised,  shunned,  and  nnpitied — per- 
secuted by  the  virtuous,  and  welcomed  only  by 
the  vicious — willing  to  repent,  but  to  them  the 
path  of  repentance  is  barricaded — with  no  hope, 
and  no  means  of  subsistence  but  to  return  to  their 
former  crimes  !  There  is  surely  enough  of  pity 
and  of  Christian  charity  in  the  bosoms  of  the  Bri- 
tish puhlic  to  attempt  the  rescue  of  such.  It  is  a 
tearful  thing  to  behold  thousands  of  our  fellow- 
beings,  who  would  willingly  return  to  the  arms  of 
honesty,  driven  again  by  necessity  back  upon  guilt. 
It  should  be  enough  to  sa}'-  unto  philanthropy, 
"  Look  upon  these,"  thatthe  work  of  their  redemp- 
tit)n  might  be  begun.  The  amelioration  of  their 
condition,  however,  would  require  a  remedy 
separate  from  an  amendment  of  our  prison  disci- 
pline, or  an  enactment  of  the  legislature. 


which  the  stoutest  heart  recoils,  not  with 
fear,  but  horror. 

"Hear  me!"  he  cried — "turn  not 
away.  Look  upon  me — know  me  !  Art 
thou  come  to  heap  an  orphan's  curse  upon 
the  doomed  of  Heaven  and  of  man.? 
Hear  me  !  my  words  are  already  steeped 
in  the  fury  of  despair — they  burn  my  own 
throat !  Look  on  me — look  on  your  father' s 
murderer .'"  As  he  said  this,  he  again 
howled  wildly,  and  struck  his  head  against 
the  wall. 

"  Miserable  wretch  ! — my  father  P  ex- 
claimed Mary.  And,  forgetful  of  her  re- 
cent horror,  she  sprang  forward  and 
grasped  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Miserable  indeed  ! — lost — ruined  for 
ever  !"  screamed  the  wretched  criminal. 
Mary  trembled,  wept,  and  fell  back  upon 
the  shoulder  of  her  friend. 

"  Ye  have  come  to  look  on  me  as  a 
wild  beast,''  continued  the  murderer,  ve- 
hemently ;  "  ye  have  thrust  your  hand 
into  its  den,  and  it  has  not  been  with- 
drawn unwounded.  But  look  on  me  atrain, 
and  remember  the  features  of  a  monster. 
Twelve  years  ago,  Mary  '' 

Here  the  wretched  man  burst  into  tears, 
and  wrung  his  hands  upon  his  bosom. 
"  Thank  Heaven  !"  said  her  friend,  "  tears 
are  the  forerunners  of  repentance." 

"  Remorse  !  remorse  !"  ejaculated  the 
hopeless  critninai — "  repentance  is  drown- 
ed in  the  blood  of  my  victims."  He 
paused  a  few  moments,  and  again  proceed- 
ed— "  Twelve  years  ago  I  sat  beneath 
your  father's  ministry.  I  resided  in  his 
parish.  0  death  !  I  was  then  guiltless  ! — 
yes,  yes — I  was  guiltless  then  !  But  what 
am  1  now  ? — a  murderer  ! — the  murderer 
of  the  very  man  who  made  me  tremble  at 
sin.  Look  on  me,  Mary  — remember  me 
now  !  In  the  midst  of  the  hard  winter, 
when  labor  was  frozen  up,  and  when  I 
would  have  wrought  if  any  man  would  have 
employed  me,  and  when  bread  was  buried 
in  the  granaries  of  the  rich,  you  saved  me 
from  self-destruction — you  saved  my  wife 
from  death,  my  children  from  starvation  !" 


358 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"Adam  Black!"  exclaimed  Mary — 
"  wretched  man  !  can  it  be  possible  ?" 

"  It  is  possible,"'  continued  he  ;  "it  is 
true.  You  saved  me  from  destroying 
myself,  and  I  have  become  the  destroyer 
of  others.  You  snatched  my  wife  from 
death,  and  I  have  trampled  on  her  bosom 
— 1  have  hurled  her  to  a  strange  grave, 
with  a  broken  heart.  You  saved  my 
children  from  starvation,  and  I  have  blast- 
ed them  by  my  example,  and  they  have 
become  a  pestilence  to  society — they  have 
broken  the  law  and  endured  its  punish- 
ment. O  woman  !  I  have  run  the  race  of 
the  wicked — I  have  worn  all  the  honors 
of  sin  !  I  started  as  a  poacher  and  a  drunk- 
ard, and  I  have  ended  as  a  murderer. 
Want,  and  the  fear  of  detection  of  crimes 
that  I  had  committed,  drove  me  from 
your  father's  parish.  I  came  to  this  city 
— without  a  character,  without  principles, 
without  friends,  and  with  no  aim  but  to 
live,  though  how  I  knew  not.  1  became  a 
prowling  fiend  upon  the  streets,  a  house- 
breaker and  a  robber,  and  an  associate  of 
those  with  whom  1  had  become  acquainted 
when  we  were  convicts  together.  Some 
months  ago,  I  saw  your  father  in  this  city. 
My  chief  confederate  in  guilt  learned  that 
he  had  drawn  a  considerable  sum  of  money, 
with  which  he  was  to  return  home  on  the 
following  day.  We  resolved  that  the 
money  should  be  ours,  and  agreed  to  rob 
him  by  the  way.  The  better  to  avoid 
detection,  we  concerted  that  the  robbery 
should  take  place  in  his  own  parish.  We 
set  out  on  the  day  before  he  was  to  leave, 
and  arrived  at  the  footpaths  leadiag  across 
the  moor  to  the  manse,  after  nightfall. 
My  companion  took  his  station  upon  one 
path,  and  I  upon  another,  at  about  four 
hundred  yards  distant  from  each  other, 
lest  we  should  miss  our  prey.  Within  an 
hour,  your  father  approached  by  the  path 
at  which  I  lay  in  wait  for  him.  I  sprang 
before  him.  1  demanded  his  money.  He 
refused  it.  He  grappled  with  me — he  was 
too  powerful  for  me — he  knew  me — he 
mentioned  my  name.     Till  then  I  had  not 


thought  of  murder  ;  but  I  drew  my  knife 
— I  plunged  it  in  his  bosom,  and  he  fell 
dead  at  my  feet.  The  booty  we  expected 
I  did  not  find.  My  companion  came  up, 
and,  with  our  hands  we  dug  a  grave  for 
my  victim  in  the  morass.  My  fellow  in 
guilt  accused  me  of  having  secreted  your 
father's  money  before  he  came  to  me. 
With  deep  oaths,  I  swore  that  I  had  found 
none ;  but  he  believed  me  not.  After- 
wards, he  saw  notices  of  the  rewards  that 
were  offered  for  the  apprehension  of  the 
murderer,  or  to  those  who  could  give  in- 
formation respecting  your  father's  fate. 
We  were  drinking  together,  when  he 
threatened  to  give  me  up  to  justice  and 
receive  the  reward.  Stung  to  insanity 
vand  despair  by  his  threats,  I  sprang  to  my 
feet,  and  buried  in  his  body  the  same  knife 
I  had  plunged  in  your  father's  bosom. 
He  expired  before  me  ;  1  was  seized  be- 
fore I  withdrew  my  hand  ;  and  now  I  am 
doomed  to  death — death  here  and  here- 
after. I  would  have  carried  this  confes- 
sion to  the  grave — if  there  be  a  grave  for 
me.  Your  father's  fate  should  have  re- 
mained a  mystery  till  suspicion  darkened 
the  soul  of  the  innocent ;  but  your  appear- 
ance here  dragged  it  to  my  lips — an  in- 
^^sible  power  compelled  me  to  make  it — 
and,  now  you  have  heard  it.  Invoke  the 
vengeance  of  Heaven  upon  me,  and  leave 
me." 

Mary  wept  aloud  for  a  few  minutes, 
and,  again  addressing  the  criminal,  said 
— "  Unhappy  man  !  waste  not  your  num- 
bered hours  in  wickedness  and  despair. 
Insult  not  the  yet  offered  mercy  of  your 
Creator  :  for  even  for  you,  guilty  as  you 
are — and  a  more  guilty  man  than  you, 
Adam  Black,  breathes  not  upon  the  earth 
— yet  even  for  you  there  is  hope." 

"  Away,  woman  !"  cried  ho  impatient- 
ly ;  "  am  I  a  child,  or  am  I  an  ignorant 
man,  that  ye  preach  to  me  !  Did  I  not 
forsake  my  Maker  in  my  youth,  and  dis- 
honor Him  with  my  strength,  and  will  he 
accept  my  premature  grey  hairs  ?  Shall 
He  take  me  to  heaven  merely  because  I 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  AGED  SPINSTER. 


359 


fear  hell  ?  Away,  woman  !  ye  have  heard 
all  I  have  to  tell  thee  !  1  have  lived  a 
sinner,  but  I  will  not  die  the  hangman's 
fool,  believing  that  the  steps  of  the 
gallows,  like  Jacob's  ladder,  lead  to 
heaven  !" 

'•  Adam  Black  !"  said  Mary,  solemnly, 
and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
"  dost  thou  believe  the  Scriptures  r" 

"  Yes  I''  exclaimed  he,  "'  1  believe  as 
devils  believe — I  believe  and  tremble  ; 
and  already  I  feel  the  futurity  that  awaits 
me,  in  the  absence  of  hope — in  the  gnaw- 
ing of  the  worm  that  dieth  not — in  the 
burning  of  despair  !" 

""  Wretched  being  !"    said  she,    "  add 


not  wilful  despair  to  the  catalogue  of  your 
crimes." 

"  Woman,  woman  !"  he  cried,  furiously 
— "  why  are  ye  come  to  torment  me  before 
my  time  !  My  conscience  cried  to  me  for 
years — '  Turn  ye,  turn  ye,  why  will  ye 
die  ?'  but  I  laughed  at  its  voice,  I  drowned 
it  in  the  yell  of  human  fiends,  and  now  it 
has  turned  upon  my  bosom,  where  it  clino-s 
and  stings  as  a  scorpion  !  Away,  woman ! 
away  !  Torture  me  not — leave  me  ! — leave 
me  !" 

She  was  supported  from  the  prison  in 
the  arms  of  her  friend  ;  and,  on  the  fol- 
lowing day,  Adam  Black,  her  father's  mur- 
derer, expiated  his  crimes  upon  a  scafibld. 


LEAVES    FROM    THE    DIARY    OF    AN    AGED 

SPINSTER. 


The  poet  of  The  Elegy  par  excellence^ 
hath  written  two  lines  which  run  thus — 

"  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  tlie  desert  air.-' 

Now,  I  never  can  think  of  these  lines  but 
they  remind  me  of  the  tender,  delicate, 
living,  breathing,  and  neglected  flowers 
that  bud,  blossom,  shed  their  leaves,  and 
die,  in  cold  unsunned  obscurity — flowers 
that  were  formed  to  shed  their  fragrance 
around  a  man's  heart,  and  to  charm  his 
eye— but  which,  though  wandering  melan- 
choly and  alone  in  the  wilderness  where 
they  grow,  he  passed  by  with  neglect, 
makino-  a  companion  of  his  loneliness. 
But,  to  drop  all  metaphor — where  will  you 
find  a  flower  more  interesting  than  a 
spinster  of  threescore  and  ten,  of  sixty,  of 
fifty,  or  of  forty  ?  They  have,  indeed, 
^'  wasted  their  sweetness    on   the   desert 


air."  Some  call  them  "  old  maids  ;"  but 
it  is  a  malicious  appellation,  unless  it  can 
be  proved  that  they  have  refused  to  be 
wives.  I  would  always  take  the  part  of  a 
spinster  :  they  are  a  peculiar  people,  far 
more  "  sinned  against  than  sinning." 
Every  blockhead  thinks  himself  at  liberty 
to  crack  a  joke  upon  them  ;  and  when  he 
says  something  that  he  conceives  to  be 
wondrous  smart  about  Miss  Such-an-one, 
a,nd  her  cat,  or  poodle  dog,  he  conceives 
himself  a  marvellous  clever  fellow ;  yea, 
even  those  of  her  own  sex  who  are  below 
what  is  called  a  "  certain  age"  (what  that 
age  is,  I  cannot  tell),  think  themselves 
privileged  to  giggle  at  the  expense  of  their 
elder  sister.  Now,  though  there  may  be  a 
degree  of  peevishness  (and  it  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at)  amongst  the  sisterhood,  yet 
with  them  you  will  find  the  most  sensitive 


360 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS- 


teuderness  of  heart,  a  delicacj  that  quiver>3, 
like  the  aspen  leaf,  at  a  breath,  and  a  kind- 
liness of  soul  that  a  mother  might  envy — 
or  rather,  for  envy,  shall  I  not  write  i7ni- 
tate  ?  But,  ah  !  if  their  history  were  told, 
what  a  chronicle  it  would  exhibit  of 
blighted  affections,  withered  hearts,  secret 
tears,  and  midnight  sighs  ! 

The  first  spinster  of  whom  I  have  a  par- 
ticular remembrance,  as  belonging  to  her 
caste,  was  Diana  Darling.  It  is  now  six- 
and-twenty  years  since  Diana  paid  the 
debt  of  nature,  up  to  which  period,  and 
for  a  few  years  before,  she  rented  a  room 
in  Chirnside.  It  was  only  a  year  or  two 
before  her  death  that  I  became  acquainted 
with  her  ;  and  I  was  then  very  young. 
But  1  never  shall  forget  her  kindness  to- 
wards me.  She  treated  me  as  though  I 
had  been  her  own  child,  or  rather  her 
grandchild,  for  she  was  then  very  little 
under  seventy  years  of  age.  She  had 
always  an  air  of  gentility  about  her  ;  peo- 
ple called  her  "  a  bett^rish  sort  o'  body." 
And,  although  Miss  and  Mistress  are  be- 
coming  general  appellations  now,  twenty 
or  thirty  years  ago,  upon  the  Borders, 
those  titles  were  only  applied  to  particular 
persons  or  on  particular  occasions  ;  and 
whether  their  more  frequent  use  now  is  to 
be  attributed  to  the  schoolmaster  being 
abroad  or  the  dancing-master  being  abroad, 
I  cannot  tell,  but  Diana  Darling,  although 
acknowledged  to  be  a  "  betterish  sort  o' 
body,"  never  was  spoken  of  by  any  other 
term  but  "  auld  Diana,"  or  "auld  Die." 
Well  do  I  remember  her  flowing  chintz 
gown,  with  short  sleeves,  her  snow-white 
apron,  her  whiter  cap,  and  old  kid  gloves 
rcachino;  to  her  elbows  :  and  as  well  do  I 
remember  how  she  took  one  of  the  com- 
mon blue  cakes  which  washerwomen  use, 
and  tying  it  up  in  a  piece  of  woollen  cloth, 
dipped  it  in  water,  and  daubed  it  round 
and  round  the  walls  of  her  room,  to  give 
them  the  appearance  of  being  papered.  I 
have  often  heard  of  and  seen  stenciling 
since  ;  but,  rude  as  the  attempt  was,  I  am 
almost  persuaded  that  Diana  was  the  first 


who  put  it  in  practice.  To  keep  up  gen^ 
tility  putteth  people  to  strange  shifts,  and 
often  to  ridiculous  ones — and  to  both  of 
these  extremities  she  was  driven.  But  I 
have  hinted  that  she  was  a  kind-hearted 
creature  ;  and,  above  all,  do  I  remember 
her  for  the  fine  old  ballads  which  she  sang 
to  me.  But  there  was  one  that  was  an 
especial  favorite  with  her,  and  a  verse  of 
which,  if  I  remember  correctly,  ran  thus — 

••  Fie,  Lizzy  Lindsay  ! 

Sae  lang  in  the  mornins  ye  lie, 
Mair  fit  ye  was  helping  yer  minny 
To  milk  a'  the  ewes  and  the  kye." 

Diana,  however,  was  a  woman  of  some 
education  ;  and  to  a  relative  she  left  a 
sort  of  history  of  her  life,  from  which  the 
following  is  an  extract : — 

"  My  faither  died  before  I  was  eighteen 
(so  began  Diana's  narrative),  and  he  left 
five  of  us — that  is,  my  mother,  two  sisters, 
a  brother,  and  myself — five  hundred 
pounds  a-piece.  My  sisters  were  both 
younger  than  me  ;  but,  within  six  years 
after  our  father's  death,  they  both  got 
married  ;  and  my  brother,  who  was  only 
a  year  older  than  myself,  left  the  house 
also,  and  took  a  wife,  so  that  there  was 
nobody  but  me  and  my  mother  left. 
Everybody  thought  there  was  something 
very  singular  in  this  ;  for  it  was  not  natu- 
ral that  the  youngest  should  be  taken  and 
the  auldest  left  ;  and,  besides,  it  was  ac- 
knowledged that  I  was  the  best-faured* 
and  the  best-tempered  in  the  family ;  an^ 
there  could  be  no  dispute  but  that  m}--  sil- 
ler was  as  good  as  theirs. 

I  must  confess,  however,  that  when  I 
was  but  a  lassie  o'  sixteen,  I  had  drawn  up* 
wi'  one  James  Laidlaw — but  I  should 
score  out  the  word  one,  and  just  say  that 
I  had  drawn  up  wi'  James  Laidlaw.  He" 
was  a  year,  or  maybe  three,  aulder  than 
me,  and  I  kefiijcd  hiln  when  he  was  just  a 
laddie  at  Mr.  \Vb — 's  school  in  Duuse  ; 
but  1  took  no  notice  o'  him  then  in  parti- 
cular, and,  indeed,  I  never  did,  until  one 
day  that  I  was  an  errand  down  by  Kim- 

*  Best  looking,  or  most  beautiful 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  AGED  SPINSTER. 


3G1 


merghame,  and  I  met  James  just  coming 
out  fras  the  gardens.  It  was  the  summer 
season,  and  he  had  a  posie  in  his  hand, 
and  a  very  bonny  posie  it  was.  '  Here's 
a  fine  day,  Diana, ""  says  he.  '  Yes,  it  is,' 
says  I. 

So  we  said  nae  mair  for  some  time  ;  but 
he  keepit  walking  by  my  side,  and  at  last 
he  said — '  What  do  ye  think  o'  this  posie  ?' 
*  It  is  very  bonny,  James,'  said  I.  '  I 
think  sae,'  quoth  he  ;  '  and  if  ye  will  ac- 
cept it,  there  should  naebody  be  mair  wel- 
come to  it.'  '  On,  I  thank  ye,'  said  I,  and 
I  blushed  in  a  way — '  why  should  ye  gie 
me  it .?'  '  Never  mind,'  says  he,  '  tak  it  for 
auld  acquaintance  sake — we  were  at  the 
school  together.' 

So  1  took  the  flowers,  and  James  keepit 
by  ray  side,  and  cracked  to  me  a'  the  way 
to  my  mother's  door,  and  I  cracked  to 
him — and  I  really  wondered  that  the  road 
between  Kimmerghame  and  Dunse  had 
turned  sae  short.    It  wasna  half  the  lenc'-th 

O 

that  it  used  to  be,  or  what  I  thought  it 
ought  to  be. 

But  I  often  saw  James  Laidlaw  after 
this  ;  and  somehow  or  other  I  aye  met  him 
just  as  I  was  coming  out  o'  the  kirk  ;  and 
weel  do  I  recollect  that,  one  Sabbath  in 
partic!ular,  he  said  to  me — '  Diana,  will  ye 
no  come  out  and  tak  a  walk  after  ye  get 
your  dinner  P  '  I  dinna  ken,  James,' 
says  1  ;  '  I  doubt  I  daurna,  for  our  folk  are 
very  particular,  and  baith  my  faither  and 
my  mother  are  terribly  against  onything 
like  gau'n  about  stravaigin  on  the  Sundays.' 
'  Oh,  they  need  never  ken  where  ye 're 
gaun,'  says  he.  '  Weel,  I "11  try,'  says  I, 
for  by  this  time  I  had  a  sort  o'  liking  for 
James.  ^  Then,'  said  he,  '  Fll  bo  at  the 
Penny  Stane  at  four  o'clock.'  '  Very 
weel,'  quoth  I. 

And,  although  baith  my  faither  and 
mother  said  to  me,  as  I  was  gaun  out — 
'  Where  are  ye  gaun,  lassie  P — '  Oh,  no 
very  far,'  said  I;  and,  at  four  o'clock,  I 
met  James  at  the  Penny  Stane.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  grip  that  he  gied  my 
hand  when  he  took  it  in  his,  and  said — 


'  Ye  hae  been  as  good  as  your  word, 
Diana.' 

We  wandered  awa  doun  by  Wedderburn 
dyke,  till  we  came  to  the  Blackadder,  and 
then  we  sauntered  dow^n  by  the  river  side, 
till  we  were  opposite  Kelloe — and,  oh,  it 
was  a  pleasant  afternoon.  Everything 
round  about  us,  aboon  us,  and  among  our 
feet,  seemed  to  ken  it  was  Sunday — every- 
thing but  James  and  me.  The  laverock 
was  sin2;in<x  in  the  blue  lift — the  black- 
birds  were  whistling  in  the  hedges — the 
mavis  chauntcd  its  loud  sang  frae  the 
bushes  on  the  braes — the  lennerts*  were 
singing  and  chirm ing  among  the  whins — 
and  the  shelfa  t  absolutely  seemed  to  fol- 
low yf>  wi'  its  three  notes  over  again,  in 
order  that  ye  might  learn  them. 

It  was  the  happiest  afternoon  I  ever 
spent.  James  grat,  and  I  grat.  I  got  a 
scolding  frae  my  faither  and  my  mother 
when  1  o-aed  hame,  and  thev  demanded  to 
ken  where  I  had  been  ;  but  the  words  that 
James  had  spoken  to  me  bore  up  against 
their  reproaches. 

Weel,  it  was  very  shortly  (1  daresay 
not  six  months  after  my  faither's  death), 
that  James  culled  at  my  mother's,  and  as 
he  said,  to  bid  usfai'eweel!  He  took  my 
mother's  hand — I  mind  1  saw  him  raise  it 
to  his  lips,  while  the  tears  were  on  his 
checks  ;  and  he  was  also  greatly  put  about 
to  part  wi'  my  sisters  ;  but  to  me  he 
said — 

'  Ye'll  see  me  down  a  bit,  Diana.' 

He  was  to  take  the  coach  for  Liverpool 
or,  at  least,  a  coach  to  take  him  on  the 
road  to  that  town,  the  nest  day  ;  and  from 
there  he  was  to  proceed  to  the  West  In- 
dies, to  meet  an  uncle  who  was  to  make 
him  his  heir. 

I  went  out  wi'  him,  and  we  wandered 
away  down  by  our  auld  v/alks  ;  but,  oh, 
he  said  little,  and  he  sighed  often,  and  his 
heart  was  sad.  But  mine  was  as  sad  as 
his,  and  I  could  say  as  little  as  him.  I 
winna,  I  canna  write  a'  the  words  and  the 


*  Linnets, 


t  Chaffinch. 


3G2 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Yows  that  passed.  He  took  the  chain  frae 
his  watch,  and  it  was  o'  the  best  gold,  and 
he  also  took  a  pair  o'  Bibles  frae  his  pocket 
and  he  put  the  watch  chain  and  the  Bibles 
into  my  hand,  and — '  Diana,'  said  he, 
'  take  these,  dear — keep  them  for  the  sake 
o'  your  poor  James,  and,  as  often  as  ye 
see  them,  think  on  him.'  I  took  them, 
and  wi'  the  tears  running  down  my  cheeks 
— '  O  James,'  cried  I,  '  this  is  hard  I — 
hard!' 

Twice,  ay  thrice,  we  bade  each  other 
'/areiyee/,'  and  thrice,  after  he  had  parted 
frae  me,  he  cam  running  back  again,  and, 
throwing  his  arms  around  my  neck, 
cried — 

'  Diana  !  I  canna  leave  ye  ! — promise 
me  that  ye  will  never  marry  onybody 
else  !' 

And  thrice  I  promised  him  that  I 
wouldna. 

But  ho  gaed  awa,  and  my  only  consola- 
tion was  lookino;  at  the  Bibles,  on  one  o' 
the  white  leaves  o'  the  first  volume  o' 
which  I  found  written,  by  his  own  hand, 
'  James  Laidlaw  and  Diana  Darling  vow- 
ed ihat,  if  they  were  spared^  they  would  he- 
come  man  and  wife  ;  and  that  neither  time^ 
distance^  nor  circumstances^  should  absolve 
their  plighted  troth.  Dated^  May  25//t, 
17—.' 

These  were  cheering  words  to  me  ;  and 
I  lived  on  them  for  years,  even  after  my 
younger  sisters  were  married,  and  I  had 
ceased  to  hear  from  him.  And,  durino- 
that  time,  for  his  sake,  I  had  declined  of- 
fers which  my  friends  said  I  was  waur  than 
foolish  to  reject.  At  least  half-a-dozen 
good  matches  I  let  slip  through  my  hands, 
and  a'  for  the  love  o'  James  Laidlaw  who 
was  far  awa,  and  the  vows  he  had  plighted 
to  me  by  the  side  o'  the  Blackadder. 
And,  although  he  hadna  written  to  me  for 
some  years,  I  couldna  think  that  ony  man 
could  be  so  wicked  as  to  write  words  o' 
falsehood  and  bind  them  up  in  the  volume 
o'  everlastino;  truth. 

But,  about  ten  years  after  he  had  gane 
awa,   James  Laidlaw  came   back   to   our 


neighborhood  ;  but  he  wasna  the  same  lad 
he  left — for  he  was  now  a  dark-complex- 
ioned man,  and  he  had  wi'  him  a  mulatto 
woman  and  three  bairns  that  called  him 
faither  !     He  was  no  longer  my  James  ! 

My  mother  was  by  this  time  dead,  and 
I  expected  nacthing  but  that  the  knowledo-e 
o'  his  faithlessness  would  kill  me  too — for 
I  had  clung  to  hope  till  the  last  straw  was 
broken. 

1  met  him  once  during  his  stay  in  the 
country,  and,  strange  to  tell,  it  was  within 
a  hundred  yards  o'  the  very  spot  where  I 
first  foregathered  wi'  him,  when  he  oficred 
me  the  posie. 

'  Ha  !  Die  !'  said  he,  '  my  old  girl,  are 
you  still  alive  ^  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  Is 
the  old  woman,  your  mother,  living  yet  P 
I  was  ready  to  faint,  my  heart  throbbed  as 
though  it  would  have  burst.  A'  the  trials 
I  had  ever  had  were  naething  to  this  ;  and 
he  continued — '  Why,  if  I  remember  right, 
there  was  once  somethins;  like  an  old 
flame  between  you  and  me.'  '  O  James  ! 
James  !'  said  I,  '  do  ye  remember  the 
words  ye  wrote  in  the  Bible,  and  the  vows 
that  ye  made  me  by  the  side  of  the  Black- 
adder  P  *  Ha  !  ha  !'  said  he,  and  he  laugh- 
ed, '  you  are  there,  are  you  }  I  do  mind 
something  of  it.  But  Die,  I  did  not  think 
that  a  girl  like  you  would  have  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  remember  what  a  boy  said  to 
her.' 

I  would  have  spoken  to  him  again  ;  but 
I  remembered  he  was  the  husband  of  an- 
other woman — though  she  was  a  mulatto, 
an'  I  hurried  away  as  fast  as  my  fainting 
heart  would  permit.  I  had  but  one  con- 
solation, and  that  was,  that,  though  he  had 
married  another,  naebody  could  compare 
her  face  wi'  mine. 

But  it  was  lang  before  I  got  the  better 
o'  this  sair  slight — ay,  I  may  say  it  was 
ten  years  and  mair  ;  and  I  had  to  try  to 
pingle  and  find  a  living  upon  the  interest 
o'  my  five  hundred  pounds,  wi'  ony  other 
thing  that  I  could  turn  my  hand  to  in  a 
genteel  sort  o'  way. 

I  was  now  getting  on  the  wrang  side  o 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  AN  AGED  SPINSTER. 


363^ 


eight-and-thirty  ;  and  that  is  an  age  when 
it  isna  prudent  in  a  spinster  to  be  throw- 
ing the  poutj  side  o'  her  lip  to  any  desent 
lad  that  hands  out  his  hand,  and  says — 
'  Jenny,  will  ye  tak  me  ?'  Often  and  of- 
ten, baith  by  day  and  by  night,  did  I  think 
o'  the  good  bargains  I  had  lost,  for  the 
sake  o'  my  fause  James  Laidlaw  ;  and  of- 
ten, when  I  saw  some  o'  them  that  had 
come  praying  to  me,  pass  me  on  a  Sunday 
wi'  their  wives  wi'  their  hands  half  round 
their  waist,  on  the  horse  behint  them  — 
'  O  James  !  fause  James  !'  I  have  said, 
'  but  for  trusting  to  you,  and  it  would  hae 
been  me  that  would  this  day  been  riding 

behint  Mr. .' 

But  I  had  still  five  hundred  pounds,  and 
sic  fend  as  I  could  make,  to  help  what 
they  brought  to  me.  And,  about  this 
time,  there  was  one  that  had  the  character 
of  being  a  very  respectable  sort  o'  a  lad,  one 
Walter  Sanderson  ;  he  was  a  farmer,  very 
near  about  my  own  age,  and  altogether  a 
most  prepossessing  and  intelligent  young 
man.  I  first  met  wi'  him  at  my  youngest 
sister's  goodman's  kirn,*  and,  1  must  say, 
a  better  or  a  more  gracefu'  dancer  I  never 
saw  upon  a  floor.  He  had  neither  the 
jumping  o'  a  mountebank,  nor  the  sliding 
o'  a  play-actor,  but  there  was  an  ease  in 
his  carriage  which  I  never  saw  equalled. 
I  was  particularly  struck  wi'  him,  and  es- 
pecially his  dancing ;  and  it  so  happened 
that  he  was  no  less  struck  wi'  me.  I 
thought  he  looked  even  better  than  James 
Laidlaw  used  to  do — but  at  times  I  had 
doubts  about  it.  However,  he  had  stopped 
all  the  night  at  my  brother-in-law's  as 
weel  as  mysel ;  and  when  I  got  up  to  gang 
hame  the  next  day,  he  said  he  would  bear 
me  company.  I  thanked  him,  and  said  1  was 
much  obliged  to  him,  never  thinking  that 
he  would  attempt  such  a  thing.  But,  just  as 
the  powny  was  brought  out  for  me  to  ride 
on  (and  the  callant  was  to  come  up  to 
Dunse  for  it  at  night),  Mr.  Walter  San- 
derson mounted  his  horse,  and  says  he — 


*  Harvest-home. 


'  Now,  wi'  your  permission,  Miss  Dar- 
ling, I  will  see  you  hame.' 

It  would  hae  been  very  rude  o'  me  tc 
hae  said — '  No  I  thank  you.  Sir,'  and  es- 
pecially at  my  time  o'  life,  wi'  twa  younger 
sisters  married  that  had  families  ;  so  I 
blushed,  as  it  were,  and  giein  my  powny  a 
twitch,  he  sprang  on  to  hiS'  saddle,  and 
came  trotting  along;  by  my  side.  He  wa& 
very  agreeable  company  ;  and,  when  he' 
said,  '  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  pay  you  a 
visit.  Miss  Darling,  I  didna  think  o'  what 
I  had  said,  until  afSer  that  I  had  answered; 
him,  '  I  shall  be  rery  happy  to  see  ye, 
sir.'  And  when.  I  thought  o'  it,  my  very 
cheek  bones  burn=ed  wi'  shame. 

But,  howsoever,  Mr.  Sanderson  was  not 
long  in  calling  agaiu — and  often  he  did 
call,  and  my  sisters  and  their  guidmen 
began  to  jeer  me  about  him.  Weel,  he 
called  and  called,  for  I  daresay  as  good  as 
three  quarters  of  a-year ;  and  he  was  sae 
backward  and  modest  a'  the  time  that  I 
thought  him  a  very  remarkable  man  ;  in- 
deed, I  began  to  think  him  every  way 
superior  to  James  Laidlaw. 

But  at  last  he  made  proposals — I  con- 
sented— the  wedding  day  was  set,  and  we 
had  been  cried  in  the  kirk.  It  was  the 
fair  day,  just  two  days  before  we  were  to- 
be  married,  and  he  came  into  the  house, 
and,  after  he  had  been  seated  awhile,  and 
cracked  in  his  usual  kind  way — 

'  Oh,'  says  he,  '  what  a  bargain  I  hae 
missed  the  day  !  There  are  four  lots  o' 
cattle  in  the  market,  and  I  mio-ht  hae 
cleared  four  hundred  pounds,  cent,  per 
cent.,  by  them.' 

'  Losh  me  !  Walter,  then,'  says  I,  '  why 
didna  ye  do  it  ?  How  did  ye  let  sic  a 
bargain  slip  through  jour  fingers  P 

'  Woman,'  said  he,  '  I  dinna  ken  ;  but 
a  man  that  is  to  be  married  within  eio-ht- 
and-forty  hours  is  excusable.  I  came  to 
the  fair  without  any  thought  o'  either 
buying  or  selling — but  just  to  see  you, 
Diana — and  I  kenned  there  wasna  meikle 
siller  necessary  for  that.' 

'  Losh,  Walter,  man,'  said  I,  ^  but  that 


364 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


is  a  pity — and  ye  say  ye  could  make  cent, 
per  cent,  by  the  beasts  ?' 

'  'Deed  could  I,'  (juotb  lie — '  I  am  sure 
o'  that.' 

'  Then,  Walter,'  says  I,  '  what  is  mine 
the  day  is  to  be  yours  the  morn,  1  may 
say  ;  and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  lose  sic  a 
bargain.' 

Therefore  I  put  into  his  hands  an  order 
an  a  branch  bank  that  had  been  establish- 
ed in  Dunse,  for  every  farthing  that  I  was 
worth  in  the  world,  and  Walter  kissed  me, 
and  went  out  to  get  the  money  frae  the 
Bank,  and  buy  the  cattle. 

But  he  hadna  been  out  an  hour,  when 
ane  o'  my  brothers-in-lav/  called,  and  I 
thought  he  looked  unco  dowie.  So  I  be- 
gan to  tell  him  of  the  excellent  bargain 
that  Walter  had  made,  and  what  I  had 
done.  But  the  man  started  frae  his  seat 
as  if  he  were  crazed,  and  without  asldng 
me  ony  questions,  ho  only  cried — '  Gra- 
cious !  Diana  !  hae  ye  been  sic  an  idiot  ?' 
and,  rushing  out  o'  the  house,  ran  to  the 
bank. 

He  left  me  in  a  state  that  I  canna  de- 
scribe ;  I  neither  kenned  what  to  do  nor 
what  to  think.  But  within  half-an-hour 
he  returned,  and  he  cried  out  as  he  en- 
tered— •■  Diana,  ye  are  ruined  }  He  has 
taken  in  you  and  everybody  else.  The 
villain  broke  yesterday.  He  is  off  !  Ye 
may  bid  fareweel  to  your  siller  !'  '  Wha 
is  off.'"  cried  I ;  and  1  was  in  sic  a  state  I 
was  hardly  able  to  speak.  '  Walter  San- 
derson !'  answered  my  brother-in-law, 

1  believe  I  went  into  hysterics ;  for  the 
first  thing  I  mind  o'  after  his  saying  so, 
was  a  dozen  people  standing  round  about 
me — some  slapping  at  the  palms  o'  my 
hands,  and  others  laving  water  on  my 
breast  and  temples,  until  they  had  me  as 
wet  as  if  they  had  douked  me  in  Pollock's 
Well. 

I  canna  tell  how  I  stood  up  against  this 
clap  o'  misery.  It  was  near  getting  the 
better  o'  me.  For  a  time  I  really  hated 
the  very  name  and  the  sight  o'  man,  and 
I  said,  as  the  song  says,  that 


'  Men  are  a'  deceivers.' 

But  this  was  not  the  worst  o'  it — 1  had 
lost  my  all,  and  I  was  now  forced  into  the 
acquaintanceship  of  poverty  and  depen- 
dence. I  first  went  to  live  under  the  roof 
o'  my  youngest  sister,  who  had  always 
been  my  favorite  ;  but,  before  six  months 
went  round,  I  found  that  she  began  to 
treat  me  just  as  though  I  had  been  a  ser- 
vant ;  ordering  me  to  do  this  and  do  the 
other  ;  and  sometimes  my  dinner  was  sent 
ben  to  me  into  the  kitchen  ;  and  the  ser- 
vant lassies,  seeing  how  their  mistress 
treated  me,  considered  that  they  should 
be  justified  in  doing  the  same  — and 
they  did  the  same.  Many  a  weary  time 
have  I  lain  down  upon  my  bed  and  wished 
never  to  rise  again,  for  my  spirit  was 
weary  o'  this  world.  But  1  put  up  wi' 
insult  after  insult,  until  flesh  and  blood 
could  endure  it  no  longer.  Then  did  I  go 
to  my  other  sister,  and  she  hardly  opened 
her  mouth  to  me  as  I  entered  her  house. 
I  saw  that  I  might  gang  where  I  liked — I 
wasna  welcome  there.  Before  1  had  been 
a  week  under  her  roof,  I  found  that  the 
herd's  dog  led  a  lady's  life  to  mine.  I 
was  forced  to  leave  her  too. 

And,  as  a  sort  o'  last  alternative,  just 
to  keep  me  in  existence,  I  began  a  bit 
shop  in  a  neighboring  town,  and  took  in 
sewins:    and  washincr ;  and,    after    1    had 

C  CD    7  7 

tried  them  awhile  and  found  that  they 
would  hardly  do,  I  commenced  a  bit 
school  at  the  advice  of  the  minister's  wife, 
and  learned  bairns  their  letters  and  the 
catechism,  and  knittimi;  and  sewin*'.  I 
also  taught  them  (for  they  were  a'  girls) 
how  to  work  their  samplers,  and  to  write, 
and  to  cast  accounts.  But  what  vexed 
and  humbled  me  more  than  all  1  had  suf- 
fered, was,  that  one  night,  just  after  I  liad 
let  my  scholars  away,  an  auld  hedger  and 
ditcher  body,  almost  sixty  years  o'  age, 
came  into  the  house,  and  '  How's  a'  wi'ye 
the  nicht .-'  says  he,  though  I  had  never 
spoken  to  the  man  before.  But  he  took 
off  his  bonnet,  and,  pulling  in  a  chair, 
drew  a  seat  to   the  fire.      I  was  thunder- 


ELLEN  ARUNDEL. 


36S 


struek  !  But  I  was  yet  mair  astonished 
and  ashamed,  when  the  auld  body,  sleeking 
down  his  hair  and  his  chin,  had  the  assur- 
ance to  make  love  to  me  ! 

'  There  is  the  door,  sir !'  cried  I.  And 
when  he  didna  seem  willino;  to  understand 
me,  I  gripped  him  by  the  shout.hcrs  and 
showed  him  what  I  meant. 

Yet  quite  composedly  he  turned  round 
to  me  and  said,  '  I  dinna  see  what  is  the 
uso  o'  the  like  o'  this — it  is  true  I 
am  aulder  than  you,  but  you  are  at  a ' 
time  o'  life  now  that  ye  canna  expect  ony 
young  man  to  look  at  ye.  Therefore,  ye 
had  better  think  twice  before  ye  turn  me 
to  the  door.  Ye  will  find  it  just  as  easy  a 
life  being  the  wife  o'  a  hedger  as  keeping 
a  school — rather  mair  sac  I  apprehend, 
and  mair  profitable  two.'  I  had  nae  pa- 
tience wi'  the  man.  I  thought  my  sisters 
had  insulted  me;  but  this  oJGfer  o'  the 
hed2:er's  wounded  me  mair  than  a'  that 
they  had  done. 

'  O  James  Laidlaw  !'  cried  I,  when  I 
was  left  to  mysel,  '  what  hae  ye  brought 
rae  to  !  My  sisters  dinna  look  after  me. 
My  parting  wi'  them  has  gien  them  an 
excuse  to  forget  that  I  exist.     Mj  brother 


is  far  frae  me,  and  he  is  ruled  by  a  wife  ; 
and  I  hae  been  robbed  by  another  o'  the 
little  that  I  had.  I  am  like  a  withered 
tree  in  a  wilderness,  standing  by  its  lane 
— I  will  fa'  and  naebody  will  miss  me.  I 
am  sick,  and  there  are  none  to  baud  my 
head.  My  throat  is  parched,  and  my  lips 
dry,  and  there  are  none  to  bring  me  a 
cup  o'  water.  There  is  nae  living  thing 
that  I  can  ca'  mine.  And  some  day  I  shall 
be  found  a  stifi^oned  corpse  in  my  bed, 
with  no  one  near  me  to  close  my  eyes  in 
death  or  perform  the  last  oiSce  of  huma- 
nity !  For  I  am  alone — I  am  by  myself 
— I  am  forgotten  in  the  world ;  and  my 
latter  years,  if  I  have  a  long  life,  will  be  a 
burden  to  strangers.'  " 

But  Diana  Darling  did  not  so  die.  Her 
gentleness,  her  kindness,  caused  her  to  be 
beloved  by  many  who  knew  not  her  his- 
tory ;  and,  when  the  last  stern  messenger 
came  to  call  her  hence,  many  watched' 
with  tears  around  her  bed  of  death,  and 
many  more  in  sorrow  followed  her  to  the 
grave.  So  ran  the  few  leaves  in  the  diary 
of  a  spinster— and  the  reader  will  forgive 
our  interpolations. 


ELLEN    AEUNDEL 


Ellen  Arundel  was  the  only  daughter 
of  an  officer  in  the  British  service,  who, 
with  his  sword  for  his  patrimony,  had  en- 
tered earl}''  into  the  profession  of  arms  as 
the  nieans  of  maintcnx^nce  ;  and  he  had, 
accordingly,  pursued  it  with  that  enthusi- 
astic spirit  of  honor,  which  is  dictated  by 
the  considerations  of  family  pride,  the 
hope  of  fame,  the  dread  of  disgrace,  and 
the  most  ardent  love  of  glory. 

The  utmost  height,  however,  to  which 
he  had  risen,  when  he  committed  the  folly 


of  matrimony,  by  uniting  his  destiny  to 
that  of  the  portionless  diaughter  of  a  ven- 
erable, respectable,  unbeneficed  clergy- 
man, was  that  of  lieutenaat  in  a  foot  regi- 
ment. By  dint  of  earreful  management, 
on  the  part  of  his  wife,  they  contrived  to- 
live  happily  together  ;  Dor  did  the  increase 
of  their  family — for  Ellen  made  her  ap- 
pearance within  the  first  year  after  their 
marriage — add  to  their  difiiculties. 

In  the  care  and  superintendence  of  their 
darling  daughter,  did  their  yea,rs  roll  on 


366 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


in  linmble  content.  If  they  beared  a  sigh, 
it  was  for  their  Ellen's  future  welfare  ; 
if  they  breathed  a  wish,  it  was  to  see  her 
placed  in  a  situation  which  might  guard 
her  against  the  attacks  of  poverty,  and 
the  designs  of  iniquity.  From  the  form- 
'er,  they  were  aware,  iDcanty  and  accom- 
plishments would  prove  no  shield  ;  and 
they  trembled  when  they  reflected  that 
"they  might  prove  t'he  most  powerful  in- 
citement to  the  latter.  The  sweets  of  life 
are  not  to  be  enjoyed  without  its  accom- 
panying embitterments.  The  regiment 
in  which  Mr.  Arundel  served,  received 
orders  to  embark  for  America,  in  trans- 
ports already  prepared  for  the  reception 
of  the  British  forces.  On  the  communi- 
cation of  this  intelligence,  so  subversive 
of  their  little  plans  of  economy  and  feli- 
city, Mrs.  Arundel  earnestly  entreated 
that  she  and  Ellen  might  be  the  companions 
of  his  voyage.  For  a  while  Mr.  Arundel 
would  not  consent  to  this,  from  a  fear  of 
incurring  expense  wliich  theyi^ere  unable 
to  support ;  but  all  the  difficulties  wbich 
the  narrowness  of  their  finances  suggested, 
were  obviated  by  a  tliousand  little  arrange- 
in  ents,  the  ingenious  devices  of  love  ;  and 
the  command  of  a  company,  which  -was 
'Conferred  upon  him  before  the  embark- 
ation, relieved  them  from  their  anxiety. 

Few    events   happened,    either    during 
their  voyage  or  on  their  amval  at  Boston, 
except  that  the  assiduities  of  a  young  offi- 
cer of  anotlier  regiment,  who  accompanied 
them   in   the  transport,  seemed   to  liave 
made  some  impression  on  the    heart   of 
Ellen  Arundel.      She  listened  to  his  tales 
■of  love,  with  the  full  sanction  of  her  par- 
ents, and  sighed  out  the  confession  that 
Tiis  passion  was  returned.      Mr.  Meredith 
was  formed  on  the  model  wliicli  Captain 
Arundel  had,  in  idea,   fixed   an   for  the 
husband  of  his  Ellen.     To  the   qualifica- 
tions of  a  soldier,  lie  added  tliose  which 
roost  liighly   adorn  private  life  :  nor  was 
his  income  limited,  for  he  was  the  only 
son  of  a  gentleman  of  fortune.     But  both 
Captain  Arundel  and  Mr.  Meredith  were 


too  regardful  of  decency  and  propriety 
to  hasten  an  event  of  so  much  import- 
ance, till  the  father  of  the  young  gentle- 
man had  been  made  acquainted  with  the 
attachment ;  and  letters  from  Captain 
Arundel  and  the  lover  were,  accordingly, 
prepared,  for  the  pnrpose  of  being  des- 
patched to  Europe  by  the  first  ship  that 
should  sail. 

But,  alas  !  these  precautions  were  soon 
rendered  unnecessary,  by  events  which 
dissolved  the  bonds  of  affection.  On  that 
day  when  the  attack  of  Bunker's  Hill  oc- 
casioned a  carnage  which  thinned  the 
British  ranks.  Captain  Arundel  and  Mr. 
Meredith  stood  foremost  in  the  bloody 
contest.  Accident  had  placed  them  in 
the  same  brigade  :  they  fought  and  fell  to- 
gether. The  body  of  the  young  officer 
was  carried  off  by  the  Americans  ;  and 
the  mortally  wounded  eaptain  conveyed  to 
the  habitation  of  his  wretched  wife  and 
daughter,  where,  shoitly  afterwards,  he 
expired. 

The  keen  and  piercing  angsish  felt  by 
Ellen  and  her  mother,  i^  consequence  of 
this  sorrowftil  event,  had  chaaged  to  silent 
and  corroding  melancholy,  when  they  em- 
barked for  their  native  land,  after  having 
received  every  attention  which  the  gover- 
nor and  garrison  could  offer  as  a  tribute  to 
the  memorj^  of  the  deceased.  On  their 
arrival  in  Britain,  a  pension  was  granted 
to  Mre.  Arundel,  which,  in  the  event  of 
her  death,  was  to  be  continued  to  her 
daTighter ;  and  with  this  they  retired  to  a 
small  village  northward  ef  the  Scottish 
metropolis,  where  a  maiden  sister  of  Cap- 
tain Arundel,  who  was  remtirkably  fond  of 
Ellen,  resided. 

But,  as  no  retirement  will  •conceal  the 
'charms  of  beauty,  nor  any  circle,  however 
confined,  prevent  the  fame  of  accomplish- 
ments from  spreading  beyond  its  limit, 
Mr.  Newton,  a  widower  (f;f  independent 
fortune,  not  much  past  t'he  prime  of  life, 
liavinor  been  told  of  Ellen,  resolved  to 
visit  the  Arundels.  An  opportunity  soon 
presented  itself.     The    house    which  the 


ELLEN  ARUNDEL. 


367 


ladies  inhabited  was  advertised  for  sale  ; 
and  under  pretence  of  an  intention  to  pur- 
chase, he  wrote  Mrs.  Arundel,  dcsirinoj 
to  know  when  it  would  be  convenient  for 
him  to  call.  To  wnich  Mrs.  Arundel, 
returned  a  polite  answer,  naming  an  early 
day. 

Mr  Newton  went ;  and,  after  he  had 
Tiewed  the  house  and  gardens  with  the  air 
of  an  intending  purchaser,  Mrs.  Arundel, 
desirous  of  cultivating  the  acquaintance 
of  so  distinguished  a  neighbor,  asked  hira 
to  stay  to  tea  ;  which  being  unhesitatingly 
accepted,  he  was  introduced  to  the  fair,, 
the  amiable,  the  still  mournln"-  Ellen. 
Prepared  by  the  universal  voice  to  admire, 
love  was  the  immediate  consequence  of  a 
visit,  which  he  requested  leave  to  repeat, 
in  terms  with  which  civility  could  not  re- 
fuse to  compl}'^ ;  and  a  few  weeks  confirm- 
ed Mr.  Newton  the  ardent  and  the  profess- 
ed lover  of  Ellen.  But  her  heart  was  still 
engaged  ;  nor  could  she  abandon  even  a 
hopeless  passion.  The  character,  the  for- 
tune, the  unobjectionable  person  of  Mr. 
Newton,  were  urged  to  her,  by  her  only 
friends,  with  such  energy,  but  mildness, 
of  persuasion,  that,  enforced  by  the  de- 
clarations of  her  admirer,  she  was  prevail- 
ed upon  to  promise  him  her  hand,  though 
not  her  heart ;  and  a  day  was  named  for 
the  celebration  of  their  nuptials. 

The  necessary  preparations  now  engag- 
ed the  attention  of  Mr.  Newton  and  the 
two  matron  ladies  ;  whilst  Ellen  passively 
yielded  to  the  assiduities  of  her  friends, 
and  suffered  the  adornments  of  her  per- 
son, and  the  intended  provisions  of  settle- 
ment, to  be  adjusted,  without  once  inter- 
ferins". 

A  few  mornings  before  the  appointed 
day,  as  Ellen  was  seated  at  breakfast  with 
her  mother  and  aunt,  a  note  was  put  into 
her  hands.  She  saw  at  a  glance  that  it 
was  from  Mr.  Newton ;  and  she  immedi- 
ately handed  it  across  the  table  to  Mrs. 
Arundel,  who  read  : — 

"  Mabaji, — That  your  heart  is  not  at 


all  interested  in  the  intended  event,  you 
have,  with  candor,  frequently  acknow- 
ledged to  me.  You  will  not,  therefore,  even 
wish  to  receive  an  apology  for  my  releas- 
ing you  from  an  unsuitable  engagement. 

"  My  long  lost  son-— my  son,  whom  I 
had  for  years  resigned  to  heaven,  is  restor- 
ed to  me  ;  and  Providence,  which  has  be- 
stowed on  me  this  consummate  happiness, 
will  not  permit  me  to  add  to  it  a  wish  which 
concerns  myself.  He  is  young,  he  is 
amiable,  and  more  worthy  of  your  regard 
than  I  am.  It  is  my  sincere  wish  that  he 
should  become  your  husband.  I  shall, 
therefore,  take  an  early  opportunity  of  in- 
troducing him  to  you. 

"  My  real  name  is  not  what  you  have 
hitherto  considered  it  to  be.  I  chano-ed  it 
when,  on  the  supposed  death  of  my  son,  I 
retired  from  my  usual  place  of  residence 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  kingdom,  to  avoid 
the  importunities  of  some  worthless  rela- 
tives ;  but,  until  I  have  the  honor  of  dis- 
closing to  you  in  person  my  real  name,  I 
beg  to  subscribe  myself.  Madam, 
"  Yours  very  truly. 

"  J.  B.  Newton. 

"  To  Miss  Ellen  ArundeV 

When  this  most  extraordinary  epistle 
was  read,  Ellen  turned  deadly  pale,  and 
would  certainly  have  fallen  to  the  ground, 
had  not  a  young  man  entered  through  the 
window,  v/hich  opened  out  on  the  lawn, 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Newton. 

*'  Ellen,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  "  behold 
my  son !" 

The  sorrowing  girl  cast  her  eyes  upon 
the  form  of  him  who  held  her. 

"  Meredith  !"  she  cried,  and  threw  her- 
self, weeping,  upon  his  shoulder.  Her 
tears  were  tears  of  joy.  Little  more  re- 
mains to  tell.  Ellen  Arundel  gave  her 
hand  to  the  son  on  the  very  day  which 
had  been  appointed  for  her  nuptials  with 
the  father. 


3CS 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


FAUCONBEitG; 


OR,    THE    EMIGRE. 


Amongst  those  whom  the  revolution  in 
France  drove  from  their  native  country, 
was  a  young  man,  of  noble  family,  of  the 
name  of  Fauconberg.  Learning  that  his 
name  was  in  the  list  of  the  proscribed, 
registered  in  one  of  those  fatal  rolls  from 
which  Robespierre  supplied  the  guillotine 
with  its  victims,  he  hurried  to  Bordeaux, 
fluno-  himself  on  board  the  first  vessel  he 
found  there  about  to  sail  for  a  foreign  port, 
without  inquiring  or  caring  whither  she 
was  bound ;  it  being  enough  for  him  that 
he  was  borne  far  away  from  a  country 
stained  with  blood  and  with  crime,  and  in 
which  he  dared  no  longer  remain  but  at 
the  imminent  hazard  of  his  life. 

The  vessel  on  board  which  young  Fau- 
conberg embarked,  happened  to  be  an 
English  one  ;  and  it  is  probable,  notwith- 
standing his  indifference  as  to  his  destina- 
tion, that  it  was  the  sound  of  that  language 
which  induced  him  to  make  choice  of  her  ; 
since,  if  he  had  any  preference  at  all  in 
the  matter  of  country,  it  was  in  favor  of 
England. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  however,  in  less  than 
a  week  after,  the  expatriated  Frenchman 
found  himself  in  Liverpool ;  and,  finally, 
led  from  one  place  to  another,  by  various 
inducements,  located  in  a  small  country 
villao;e  in  the  south  of  Scotland.  Unlike 
most  of  the  other  French  emigres  of  this 
period,  Fauconberg  was  not  dependent  on 
his  own  exertions  for  a  mamtenance  :  he 
had  brought  as  much  money  with  him  as 
he  calculated  would,  with  economy,  main- 
tain him  for  three  years  ;  and  he  hoped 
that,  long  ere  that  time  expired,  some 
such  favorable  change  would  take  place  in 
the  affairs  of  France  as  would  enable  him 
to  return  to  that  countrv. 


It  was  in  these  cn-cumstances,  then,  and 
with  these  hopes,  that  Fauconberg  sat 
himself  quietly  down  in  the  village  of 
Cairnton  to  await  the  course  of  events. 
The  beauty  of  the  situation  had  attracted 
his  attention  ;  and  an  idea  that  he  might 
live  there  more  cheaply,  or,  at  least,  less 
exposed  to  temptations  to  extravagance, 
than  in  any  of  the  larger  towns,  deter- 
mined his  choice. 

For  two  years,  the  French  emigre  con- 
tinued an  inmate  of  the  schoolmaster's  of 
Cairnton,  with  whom  he  took  up  his  abode 
on  first  cominff  to  the  village. 

During  this  time,  his  conduct  had  been 
sufiiciently  honorable  as  regarded  pecu- 
niary matters.  He  paid  every  one  regu- 
larly and  punctually  ;  and  was  a  general 
favorite  on  account  of  his  mild  and  gentle- 
manly manners.  His  moral  character, 
however,  was  not  so  unblemished ;  as  the 
birth  of  a  son  to  him,  by  a  young  woman 
of  the  village,  but  too  strongly  bore 
evidence. 

Fauconberg,  however,  did  not  add  to 
his  offence  that  heartless  meanness  which 
so  often  characterizes  the  seducer.  He 
provided  liberall}-  for  the  wants  and  ne- 
cessities of  the  unfortunate  mother  of  his 
child,  and  at  once  agreed  to  settle  an  an- 
nual sum  on  her  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  infant.  Soon  after  this  event  took 
place,  Fauconberg  suddenly  left  Cairnton, 
without  giving  any  one  previous  intimation 
or  mentioning  to  any  one  whitber  he  was 
going.  Nor,  as  he  left  no  debt  behind 
him,  was  this  ever  ascertained,  or,  indeed, 
ever  inquired  into. 

Years  passed  away,  but  the  French 
emigre  never  returned  ;  and,  but  for  one 
circumstance,  he  would,  in  all  probability, 


FAUCONBERG;  OR,  THE  EMIGRE. 


369 


have  been  entirely  forgotten.  This  cir- 
cumstance, however,  was  rather  a  remark- 
able one,  and  was  creditable,  at  any  rate, 
to  his  character  as  a  gentleman.  Regu- 
larly, every  half-year,  there  came,  by  post, 
to  Lucy  Gardner — the  mother  of  Faucon- 
berg's  child — a  remittance  of  the  half  of 
the  yearly  amount  which  he  had  settled  on 
her  before  leaving  Cairnton.  Nay,  more 
honorable  still,  this  sum  was,  after  a  time, 
increased  every  year,  as  if  to  provide  for 
the  increasing  wants  of  the  infant;  and 
intiiiiation  was  given,  when  this  advance 
in  the  allowance  was  first  made,  that  such 
advance  would  go  on  progressively  until 
the  boy  was  grown  up,  and  enabled  to  do 
for  himself.  To  this  communication  was 
added  a  request,  that  he  might  be  well 
educated. 

This  was  the  only  occasion,  however, 
on  which  any  writing  accompanied  these 
remittances.  On  all  others,  they  were 
merely  enclosed  in  a  blank  sheet.  For 
some  time,  this  money  came  from  Eng- 
land— sometimes  from  one  place,  and 
som';tinies  another,  as  the  post-marks  in- 
timated ;  but,  at  the  end  of  four  or  five 
years,  it  came  to  be  remitted  by  a  banking 
house  in  London,  by  which  the  business 
was  ever  afterwards  transacted. 

In  the  meantime,  young  Fauconberg 
grew  apace,  and  bore,  as  all  those  who  re- 
collected the  French  emigre  said,  a  sin- 
gularly strong  resemblance  to  his  father, 
v/ho  was  a  very  handsome  man. 

The  boy's  abilities,  too,  were  of  a  supe- 
rior order  ;  and,  in  his  education,  he  made 
a  progress  which  gave  much  satisfaction 
to  his  teachers,  and  induced  more  than 
one  of  them  to  augur  favorably  of  his 
future  success  in  the  world.  His  dispo- 
sitions, also,  were  amiable  ;  and,  in  his 
manners  and  deportment,  there  was  a  re- 
finement and  grace  that  marked  him  out 
very  distinctly  from  his  associates.  This 
was  partly  the  result  of  a  naturally  elevated 
mind,  and  partly  of  an  ever  present  con- 
sciousness that  gentle,  nay,  even  noble, 
blood  flowed  in  his  veins  ;  for  he  had  been 

VOL.  II.  61 


early  made  aware  that  his  father  was  a 
man  of  rank,  and,  in  manner  and  accom- 
plishments, a  gentleman. 

Young  Fauconberg  had  now  attained 
the  age  of  seventeen  ;  and,  up  to  this  pe- 
riod, his  life  had  been  unmarked  by  any 
extraordinary  circumstance.  Continuing 
to  live  with  his  mother,  who  had,  in  some 
measure,  atoned  for  past  errors  by  the 
maintenance  of  an  irreproachable  charac- 
ter, and  by  the  care  she  took  both  of  the 
morals  and  of  the,  education  of  her  son,  he 
had  met  with  but  little  yet  to  disturb  the 
even  tenor  of  his  youthful  existence. 

An  unhappy  change,  however,  was  at 
hand.  Tempted  by  the  annuity  of  which 
Lucy  Gardner  was  in  receipt  for  the  sup- 
port and  education  of  her  son^,  a  person  of 
the  name  of  Morrison  made  her  proposals 
of  marriage. 

This  Morrison  had  once  been  in  a  re- 
spectable way  as  a  shopkeeper  in  the  -sdl- 
lage,  and  still  followed  that  calling  ;  but 
dissipation  was  fast  hurrying  him  to  utter 
ruin.  He  thought  to  save  himself  from 
the  gulf  of  wretchedness — on  the  brink  of 
which  he  stood — by  grasping  at  the  annui- 
ty of  Lucy  Gardner. 

The  foolish  woman  listened  to  his  pro- 
posals ;   and  they  were  married. 

From  this  day,  young  Fauconberg's  life 
became  one  of  misery  and  wretchedness  ; 
rendered  so  by  Morrison's  intemperate 
habits  and  brutal  conduct,  of  which  both 
mother  and  son  soon  felt  the  unhappy 
eflPects, 

The  affection  of  the  young  man  for  his 
parent — the  only  one  he  had  ever  known 
— induced  him,  for  a  long  time,  to  put  up 
with  the  harsh  treatment  of  his  father-in- 
law,  and  to  bear  uncomplainingly  with  the 
opprobrious  epithets  which  he  was  con- 
stantly heaping  on  him.  But  there  was 
one  that  tried  his  temper  severely,  and  it 
was  that  with  which  he  was  oftenest  taunt- 
ed— his  illegitimacy. 

For  upwards  of  a  year,  young  Faucon- 
berg endured  this  miserable  life  ;  but  a 
time  came  when  he  could  endure  it  no 


370 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


longer.  Driven,  one  day,  to  the  door,  by 
IMorrison,  in  one  of  liis  brutal  pbrenzies, 
the  young  man  vowed  that  that  door  he 
would  never  enter  again.  This  vow  he 
kept.  On  that  day  he  set  out  for  Edin- 
burgh ;  where  he  arrived,  fatigued  and 
exhausted,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening. 
His  subsequent  course  he  had  already  de- 
termined on  ;  and  as  he  had  not  a  penny 
in  his  pocket,  and  knew  no  one  in  Edin- 
burgh, it  was  necessary  that  he  should  take 
that  course  instantly.  He  did  so.  He 
proceeded  straight  to  the  castle  ;  and,  en- 
countering a  sergeant  in  the  gateway — 

"  Are  you  enlisting  just  now,  sir  .^"  he 
said. 

"Oh,  yes  !  always  enlisting  when  likely 
young  fellows  such  as  you  offer  them- 
selves.    Do  you  intend  tm-ning  soldier  .?" 

"  I  do,"  said  young  Fauconberg,  blush- 
ing. 

"  Couldn't  do  better,  my  lad,"  replied 
the  sergeant.  "  Come  along  with  me,  and 
I'll  put  you  all  to  rights  in  a  trice  !"  And 
BO  far  as  food  and  lodging  went,  he  was  as 
good  as  his  word,  but  not  before  he  had 
secured  his  man  by  tendering  him  the 
significant  shilling. 

Young  Fauconberg  was  now  then  a 
soldier,  and  was  soon  subjected  to  all  its 
vicissitudes.  In  a  short  time  after,  his 
regiment  was  ordered  to  England,  next  to 
Ireland,  and  afterwards  to  a  foreign 
station. 

In  this  interval,  however — an  interval 
of  two  or  three  years — he  had  been  pro- 
moted to  the  rank  of  sergeant.  A  promo- 
tion, for  which  he  was  indebted  to  his 
steadiness,  his  superior  education,  and, 
perhaps,  in  some  measure  also,  to  his 
superior  manners,  which  had  early  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  his  officers. 

During  this  time,  Fauconberg  wrote  re- 
gularly, and  at  short  intervals,  to  his 
mother,  informing  her  of  every  circum- 
stance that  occurred  to  him  in  which  he 
thought  that  she  could  be  interested. 

Her  letters  in  reply  to  him  afforded  but 
little  comfort.    They  but  too  plainly  told, 


although  not  in  express  terms,  of  the  mi- 
serable life  she  was  leadino-  with  her 
worthless  and  dissipated  husband :  they 
spoke,  too,  of  declining  health ;  and  in 
one — the  last  her  son  received  from  her — 
she  said  she  would  never  see  him  more, 
and  bade  him  farewell  for  ever.  In  a  week 
after,  he  received  intelligence  of  her  death. 

Up  to  this  period,  his  mother's  allow- 
ance for  that  maintenance  and  education 
which  he  was  no  longer  receiving,  had 
been  regularly  paid,  with  this  difference, 
that  it  was  remitted  yearly  instead  of  half 
yearly,  as  before. 

On  the  appearance  of  the  next  remit- 
tance— that  is,  the  one  succeeding  Mrs. 
Morrison "'s  death,  and  which  was  nearly  a 
twelvemonth  after  that  event — the  school- 
master, to  whom,  as  we  should,  perhaps, 
have  said  before,  these  remittances  always 
came,  in  the  first  instance,  returned  it  to 
the  bankers,  informing  them  of  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Morrison,  and  saying — what  was 
true — that  he  knew  not  where  her  son 
was,  having  heard  nothing  of  him  for  a 
long  while. 

The  consequence  of  this  communication 
was,  that  no  further  remittances  came. 

Again  years  passed  away ;  and,  in  this 
time,  Fauconberg  had  been  tossed  about 
the  world,  from  east  to  west,  and  from 
north  to  south,  without  having  any  corre- 
spondence with,  or  hearing  anything  from 
his  native  village. 

The  Peninsular  War  was  now  raging 
violently  ;  but  the  regiment  to  which 
Fauconberg  belonged,  had  not  yet  parta- 
ken of  either  its  glories  or  its  dangers. 

Its  time,  however,  was  coming ;  and 
although  it  had  not  been  permitted  to 
share  in  the  honors  attending  the  opening 
of  that  illustrious  series  of  campaigns  which 
ended  in  the  overthrow  of  Napoleon,  it 
was  allowed  to  participate  in  those  attend- 
ing their  close. 

In  the  latter  end  of  1  SI 2,  Fauconberg '» 
regiment  was  ordered  to  Spain,  where  it 
arrived  just  in  time  to  partake  of  the  perils 
and  triumphs  of  the  field  of  Vittoria. 


FAUCONBERG;  OR,  THE  EMIGRE. 


371 


They  afterwards  formed  part  of  that 
army  with  which  Wellington  crossed  the 
Nive  to  attack  Soult,  who  was  in  great 
force  on  the  opposite  side. 

During  the  advance  of  the  British  troops 
towards  the  enemy,  and  when  within  an 
hour  or  two's  march  of  the  latter,  there 
was  descried,  a  good  way  to  the  right  of 
the  British  line  of  march,  and  consequently 
on  the  left  of  the  French  army,  a  strong 
natural  position  which  appeared  to  be 
occupied  by  the  enemy,  but  in  what  man- 
ner could  not  be  ascertained.  It  being 
desirable  to  know  this,  as  also  something 
of  the  nature  of  the  ground,  the  colonel  of 
Fauconberg's  regiment,  which  happened 
to  be  the  one  nearest  the  position  in  ques- 
tion, was  directed  to  find,  if  he  could,  a 
cool,  brave,  and  intelligent  man,  who  would 
undertake  to  reconnoitre  the  position,  and 
bring  back  as  correct  an  account  as  possi- 
ble of  the  enemy's  arrangements  for  de- 
fence, and  of  the  localities  of  the  place. 

On  this   order  beinc;  communicated  to 

Colonel  S ,  he  immediately  bethought 

him  of  Fauconberg  as  the  man  in  his  re- 
giment best  qualified  for  such  an  enter- 
prise. In  this  opinion,  he  instantly  sent 
for  him.     On  his  appearing — 

"  Fauconberg,"  he  said,  "  have  you  a 
mind  to  obtain  a  commission  ?" 

"  A  great  mind,  sir,"  replied  the  for- 
mer, smiling,  *'  if  I  only  knew  how." 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  the  colonel ; 
"  but,  mind  you,  it's  either  a  commission 
or  a  coffin,  or  at  least  a  grave." 

"  In  time  of  war,  sir,  these  are  always 
the  alternatives  of  a  soldier,"  said  Fau- 
conberg ;  "  and  I'm  willing  it  should  be 
so  in  the  present  case,  whatever  that  case 
may  be." 

"  Then  it  is  this,"  said  the  colonel ;  and 
he  proceeded  to  inform  the  young  non- 
commissioned officer  of  the  nature  of  the 
duty  he  was  required  to  perform. 

Fauconberg  at  once  undertook  the  dan- 
gerous commission. 

"See,  however,  young  man,"  said  the 
colonel,  on  his  expressing  his  willingness 


'  to  do  so,  "  that  you  perfectly  understand 
the  risks  you  run.  If  taken  by  the  enemy, 
certain  death  awaits  you." 

"  1  know  it,  sir,"  replied  Fauconberg  ; 
"  and  am  content  to  run  that  and  all  other 
hazards." 

"  I  need  not  add,"  said  the  colonel, 
"  that,  in  the  event  of  your  safe  return 
with  the  desired  intelligence,  your  promo- 
tion is  certain,  and  will  be  immediate." 

"  I  understand  so,  sir,"  replied  Faucon- 
berg. 

"  Then  that's  settled,  P  auconberg," 
said  the  colonel.  "  Now,  go,  and  take 
your  measures." 

Fauconberg  withdrew,  but  awaited  the 
fall  of  evening  before  setting  out  on  his 
perilous  adventure.  Evening  came  ;  and 
when  it  did,  it  found  the  intrepid  young 
soldier  on  his  way  to  the  enemy's  position, 
wrapped  up  in  a  great-coat,  to  conceal  his 
uniform  ;  and  having  concealed  beneath, 
a  sword  and  brace  of  pistols.  He  was  on 
foot,  having  declined  the  offer  of  a  horse, 
which,  he  said,  would  only  encumber  him, 
as  he  should,  in  all  likelihood,  be  obliged 
to  go  into  places  where  a  horse  could  not 
carry  him. 

Having  cleared  the  outposts  of  the  Brit- 
ish army,  Fauconberg  soon  found  himself 
within  a  short  distance  of  the  position, 
without  having  been  challenged  by  any  of 
the  enemy's  sentinels,  whom  he  had  avoid- 
ed by  taking  circuitous  routes  through 
fields,  and  by  stealing  along  the  numerous 
hedges  and  dykes  by  which  the  country 
was  thickly  interspersed. 

By  these  cautious  proceedings,  Faucon- 
berg contrived  to  get  so  near  the  position, 
that,  by  the  aid  of  a  bright  moonlight,  he 
soon  made  himself  master  of  its  general 
local  outlines  on  the  side  next  the  British, 
and  of  the  dispositions  made  for  its  defence. 

Havinfr  made  his  observations,  Faucon- 
berg  was  about  to  retrace  his  steps  to- 
wards the  British  lines,  when,  to  his  great 
alarm,  he  saw  a  strong  picquet  of  the  ene- 
my within  twenty  paces  of  him,  and  ap- 
proaching him  as  directly  as  if  they  were 


372 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


aware  of  his  being  there.  This,  however, 
they  were  not ;  and  they  would  have  pass- 
ed him  by,  but  for  an  unlucky  accident 
that  discovered  not  only  his  presence, 
but  his  whereabouts.  As  he  hastily  threw 
himself  at  full  lcn2;th  into  a  hollow,  on 
perceiving  the  picquet  approaching,  one 
of  his  pistols  went  off.  The  ball  did  him 
no  injury ;  but  the  report  brought  half-a- 
dozen  of  the  enemy  upon  him,  who  in- 
stantly made  him  prisoner,  and  would 
have  run  him  through  with  their  bayonets, 
but  for  a  sergeant  of  the  party,  who  sug- 
gested that  they  would  have  more  credit 
by  carrying  him  before  the  general. 

The  proposition  was  acceded  to ;  and 
poor  Fauconberg  was  forthwith  marched 
into  the  French  lines,  and  carried  before 
a  general  of  division. 

The  general  was  a  tall,  handsome  man  ; 
still  handsome,  though  well  advanced  in 
years,  but  of  a  grave  and  somewhat  stern 
aspect. 

On  the  case  of  the  prisoner  being  stated 
to  him — the  situation  he  was  found  in, 
his  being  alone,  &c.,  &c.,  and  which  left 
no  doubt  of  his  having  been  employed  in 
making  observations  on  the  position — 

"  So,  young  man,"  said  the  general, 
who  spoke  English  with  great  fluency, 
although  with  a  good  deal  of  the  foreio-n 
accent — "  You  have  been  playing  the  part 
of  spy.  Do  you  know  the  consequences, 
now  that  you  are  in  our  power .?" 

"  Perfectly,  sir ;  it  is  death,"  replied 
Fauconberg,  with  a  composure  of  manner 
that  excited  the  admiration  of  the  general, 
although  he  carefully  concealed  the  feel- 
ing. "  I  am  prepared  for  it.  I  knew  all 
my  risks ;  and  that  this  was  amongst  the 
number." 

"  It  is  well,  young  man,"  said  the  gene- 
ral. Then,  turning  to  a  subaltern  who 
stood  beside  him—"  You  will  take  charge 
of  the  prisoner,  sir,  and  see  that  he  is  shot 
to-morrow  morning  before  nine  o'clock." 

The  officer  bowed  acquiescence ;  and 
Fauconbcrg's  guards  were  about  to  hurry 
him  out  of  the  tent  in  which  this  scene 


took  place,  when  the  general,  as  if  struck 
with  a  sudden  thought,  called  back  the 
prisoner  and  his  guards,  and,  pulling  a 
small  memorandum-book  from  his  pocket, 
opened  it,  and  began  writing  in  it,  mutter- 
ing as  he  did  so — this,  however,  being  in 
French  : — "  English  soldier — spy^shot 
at  Tarragone,  12th  November,  1803." 

Then,  pausing  and  looking  up  to  Fau- 
conberg— 

"  Your  name,  young  man  r" 

^'  Fauconberg." 

"  What,  Fauconberg .?"  repeated  the 
general,  with  a  look  of  surprise  that  his 
grave  and  stern  features  rarely  assumed. 

"  Your  country  V* 

"  Scotland." 

"  The  particular  locality  ?" 

"  Cairnton." 

"  Your  mother's  name  .'" 

"Gardner." 

The  general  started  from  his  seat,  in  a 
state  of  evident  excitement,  and,  waving 
his  hand  impatiently, 

"  Away  with  your  prisoner,"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  away  with  him ;  and  see  that 
he  meet  his  fate  in  the  morning." 

The  guards  now  hurried  Fauconberg 
out  of  the  general's  tent,  and  conducted 
him  towards  an  old  chateau  at  a  short 
distance,  which  was  temporarily  occupied 
by  the  French,  and  some  of  whose  apart- 
ments had  been  converted  into  prison 
rooms  for  offenders  of  various  descriptions. 

Into  one  of  these  Fauconberg  was  now 
thrust  ;  the  door  locked  upon  him  ;  and 
a  couple  of  sentinels  placed  at  the  door. 

What  the  feelings  of  the  unfortunate 
young  man  were,  now  that  he  was  left 
alone  to  reflect  on  the  dreadful  situation 
in  which  he  was  placed — shut  up  in  a  cold, 
dark  apartment,  in  which  there  was  not 
even  a  seat  to  sit  upon,  with  a  certainty 
that  the  morning's  light  would  conduct 
him  to  a  violent  and  untimely  death — we 
say,  what  his  feelings  were  on  that  occa- 
sion, we  need  not  describe,  they  will  rea- 
dily be  conceived. 

Fortunately  for  Fauconberg,  however, 


FAUCONBERG-,  OR,  THE  EMIGRE. 


373 


he  possessed  a  strength  of  mind  which  en- 
abled him  to  contemplate  death,  if  not 
without  that  awe  which  it  naturally  in- 
spires, at  least  with  a  decent  and  manly 
composure. 

Fauconberg  had  seated  himself  on  the 
floor  of  his  dismal  prison  room,  and  the 
midnight  hour  had  passed,  when  he  was 
suddenly  startled  by  hearing  the  sentinel 
outside  challenge  some  one  who  was  ap- 
proaching. The  challenge  seemed  satis- 
factorily answered ;  for,  in  the  next  in- 
stant, his  door  was  opened,  and  two  hus- 
sars, one  of  them  bearing  a  lantoren,  en- 
tered, and  intimated  to  him,  by  signs,  that 
he  must  accompany  them. 

Althoucrh  bavins;  no  doubt  that  it  was 
to  execution  he  was  about  to  be  led,  Fau- 
conberg arose  with  alacrity,  and,  with 
steady  step  and  composed  demeanor,  left 
the  apartment  with  the  soldiers  ;  one  of 
whom  walked  before  him  to  lead  the  way —  ; 
the  other  behind,  to  prevent  any  attempt  '■ 
at  escape  ;  and  both  having  drawn  swords 
in  their  hands.  \ 

In  this  way  the  party  proceeded  until  \ 
they  reached  an  outer  courtyard  of  the  i 
chateau,  where  were  three  horses  saddled  ; 
and  bridled,  fastened  to  rings  in  the  wall,  i 
champing  their  bits,  and  pawing  the  ■ 
ground  impatiently. 

On  coming  up  to  the  horses^  the  bus-  ! 
sars,  pointing  to  one  of  the   former,  gave 
Fauconberg  to  understand   that  they  de- 
sired him  to  mount. 

Although  not  a  little  surprised  at  the 
proceeding,  h.e  did  so  ;  when  the  soldiers, 
mounting  each  one  of  the  other  two  horses, 
and  taking  their  places,  one  on  the  left 
and  the  other  on  the  right  of  their  pri- 
soner, urged  his  steed  onwards,  until  all- 
three  had  attained  nearly  the  top  of  their 
speed. 

At  this  rate  they  continued  for  nearly 
two  hours  ;  encountering  in  their  progress 
many  outposts  of  the  French  army,  by 
all  of  whom  they  were  challenged,  but  al- 
lowed readily  to  pass,  on  the  reply  of 
Fauconberg's  escort. 


The  horsemen  now  slackened  their 
speed,  although  they  still  continued  to  ad- 
vance at  so  rapid  a  rate,  that,  when  morn- 
ing dawned,  they  had  left  the  outermost 
picquets  of  the  French  army  far  behind. 

Still  journeying  onwards,  the  party  came 
to  a  small  inn  or  wine-houso  by  the  way- 
side. Here  the  hussars  dismounted,  and 
made  a  sisin  to  Fauconbcror  to  do  so  like- 
wise.  He  complied ;  when  the  soldiers, 
fastening  their  horses  to  certain  iron  sta- 
ples in  the  wall,  placed  there  on  purpose, 
entered  the  house,  taking  Fauconberg 
along  with  them,  and  ordered  some  re- 
freshment. Some  bacon,  fried  with  eggs, 
quickly  smoked  on  the  table,  flanked  by  a 
bottle  of  wine. 

The  soldiers  drew  in  chairs,  placed  one 
for  their  prisoner,  and,  pointing  to  it,  led 
him  to  understand  that  he  was  to  be  a 
partaker  of  their  good  cheer. 

Fauconberg  thought  all  this  a  very  ex- 
traordinary way  of  being  conducted  to 
execution,  although  of  the  latter  he  saw 
but  little  symptoms — a  cireumstanoe, 
however,  at  which,  it  will  readily  be  believ- 
ed, he  did  not  feel  greatly  disappointed. 

In  the  meantime,  complying  with  the 
invitation  so  kindly  given  him  by  his 
guards,  Fauconberg  took  his  place  at  ta- 
ble ;  but,  considering  the  singular  circum- 
stances in  which  he  was  placed — the  un- 
certainty of  his  future  fate — it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  he  could  do  but  little  justice 
to  the  good  thincjs  before  him.  He  could 
cat  none. 

The  deficiencies  of  Fauconberg,  in  this 
particular,  however,  we:e  amply  compen- 
sated by  his  guards,  Avho  having,  appa- 
rently, more  appetite  than  care,  ate  su- 
perbly, and  drank  in  proportion. 

Having  completed  their  meal,  in  both 
the  eating  and  drinking  departments,  and 
settled  the  cost  thereof,  the  hussars,  with 
their  prisoner,  again  mounted  and  pursued 
their  journey,  though  now  much  more  lei- 
surely than  during  any  of  the  preceding 
inc  part  of  the  way. 

We  have  not  hitherto    interrupted  the 


374 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


course  of  our  narrative,  nor  will  we  do  so 
in  time  to  come,  to  express  or  describe 
the  feeling's  of  Faucoubcro;  on  this  extra- 
ordinary  occasion :  wo  think  it  best  to 
leave  all  that  kind  of  thing  to  the  imagi- 
nation of  the  reader,  and  to  hold  on  our- 
selves the  steady  even  tenor  of  our  way. 

Without  stopping,  then,  to  say  what  he 
thought  or  felt,  we  will  carry  him  forward 
on  his  mysterious  journey. 

For  two  days  and  two  nights  this  jour- 
noy  continued,  with  little  intermission  ;  an 
hour  or  two's  rest  only  being  taken  at  long 
intervals,  and  this  more  on  account  of  the 
horses  than  the  men. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  all  this  .''  what 
the  ultimate  destination  ?  what  the  fate 
intended  for  him  ?  were  questions  which 
Fauconberg  frequently  asked  himself,  but 
to  which,  of  course,  he  could  not  even 
conjecture  a  reply. 

During  all  this  time,  no  conversation 
of  any  kind  had  passed  between  him  and 
hi>s  guards,  fox  the  very  good  reason  that 
neither  understood  the  languao-e  of  the 
other.  But  Fauconberg,  from  what  he 
observed,  had  reason  to  believe  that  they 
were  enjoined  to  hold  no  correspondence 
with  him,  and  to  give  him  no  information 
whatever  as  to  where  he  was  being;  taken, 
or  what  it  was  intended  his  ultimate  de^ 
tiny  should  be. 

Early  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day, 
Fauconberg  and  his  escort  entered  France ; 
and,  towards  the  evening,  arrived  at  a 
small  garrison  town  about  forty  miles  from 
the  frontiers. 

On  gaining  the  former  place,  the  hus- 
sars, with  their  prisoner,  rode  directly  up 
to  a  large  quadrangular  castellated  build- 
ing, situated  on  the  summit  of  the  gentle 
acclivity  on  which  the  town  was  built,  and 
which  it  overlooked,  and,  it  may  be  added, 
commanded :  for  the  walls  of  the  building 
were  pierced  with  embrasures,  in  which 
the  grim  mouths  of  cannon  displayed 
themselves. 

The  structure  had  the  appearance  of  a 
prison ;  and  such  it  really  was,  as  was  but 


too  plainly  indicated  by  the  heavily  grated 
windows,  which  were  interspersed,  though 
very  thinly,  and  at  wide  intervals,  over 
the  expansive  walls. 

On  reachinsj  this  dismal-lookino-  build- 
ing,  the  outer  gate  of  which  was  guarded 
by  two  sentinels,  the  hussars  dismounted, 
and,  leading  their  horses  and  their  prisoner 
in  at  the  former,  demanded,  of  a  sergeant 
on  duty  whom  they  now  encountered,  to 
be  conducted  to  the  presence  of  the  go- 
vernor or  commandant.  The  sergeant 
asked  what  was  the  nature  of  their  busi- 
ness. This  they  declined  telling  him, 
farther  than  that  it  was  to  deliver  a  pri- 
soner into  his  hands. 

"  An  English  prisoner  .'"  said  the  ser- 
geant. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  not  deliver  him  to  me  .^" 
he  said,  with  great  impatience  of  manner. 
^'  I  have  charge  of  the  prisoners  here  ;  and 
will  take  good  care  of  him,  1  warrant  you. 
I  have  170  English  prisoners  here  under 
my  charge,  and  never  one  effected  his 
escape  from  me  yet." 

The  spokesman  of  the  hussars  content- 
ed himself  with  merely  replying,  that  his 
orders  were  to  deliver  the  prisoner  into 
the  governor's  hand,  and  none  other,  and 
that  these  orders  he  would  obey. 

"  Umph,"  ejaculated  the  sergeant,  with 
an  air  of  offended  dignity. 

Then,  calling  to  a  couple  of  soldiers, 
who  were  at  a  little  distance,  to  come  and 
take  charge  of  the  liorses,  he,  without 
further  remark,  conducted  the  hussars  and 
their  prisoner  towards  a  square  tower 
which  formed  one  of  the  wings  of  the 
buildins;,  and  which,  from  its  havino;  larirer 
windows  than  the  latter,  and  these  un- 
stanchioned,  seemed  to  be  the  residence 
of  the  governor.     It  was  so. 

Havina:  ascended  several  flig-hts  of  stairs, 

the  sergeant  led  his  followers  into  a  large 

apartment,  used  as  an  office  or  place  of 

business.       It   was    occupied   by   several 

I  clerks,  all  busily  engaged  in  wi'iting. 

!       Making   no   communication   to   any  of 


FAUCONBERG;  OR,  THE   EMIGRE. 


375 


tliese,  the  sersieaiit  advanced  towards  a 
door  at  the  further  end  of  the  apartment, 
at  which  he  tapped  gently. 

A  voice  within  called  on  him  to  enter. 
He  did  so — the  hussars,  with  doffed  caps, 
and  their  prisoner,  following.  They  were 
now  in  the  presence  of  the  governor — a 
tall,  elderly,  military-looking  man,  highly 
powdered,  and  exhibiting  other  external 
evidence  of  his  being;  of  the  old  school. 
He  was  seated  at  a  desk  writing  when  they 
entered,  but  rose  when  the  party  came  in. 
"  A  prisoner,"  he  said,  glancing  from 
Fauconberg  to  the  sergeant ;  and  then, 
without  waiting  for  an  answer — "  Why 
bring  him  here — why  bring  him  to  me?" 
he  added,  impatiently.  "  Take  him  away, 
and  put  him  amongst  the  others." 

At  this  moment,  one  of  the  hussars 
took  a  letter  from  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
and  respectfully,  but  without  saying  a 
word,  put  it  into  the  hands  of  the  gover- 
nor. 

"  What's  this.?"  said  the  latter,  open- 
ing it  as  he  spoke. 

Having  read  the  letter,  he  eyed  Fau- 
conberg with  a  look  of  curiosity  for  seve- 
ral seconds,  but  without  speaking.  At 
length,  nodding  to  the  sergeant — 

"You  may  retire,"  he  said.  "Take 
these  men  with  you,  and  leave  the  prison- 
er with  me." 

The  sergeant  and  the  two  hussars  with- 
drew from  the  apartment. 

When  they  had  done  so,  the  command- 
ant, still  without  saying  a  word  to  Fau- 
conberg, rung  a  small  silver  bell  ;  when  a 
person  of  an  equivocal  appearance — some- 
thing between  a  valet  and  a  turnkey — en- 
tered the  apartment,  and,  bowing  obsequi- 
ously, waited  the  communication  of  the 
purpose  for  which  he  had  been  summoned. 
The  governor  spoke  two  or  three  words 
to  him,  rapidly,  and  in  a  low  tone  ;  then, 
pointing  to  the  door,  and  looking  at  Fau- 
conberg, intimated  to  him  that  he  should 
follow  the   former,   who   was    now  about 


quitting  the  apartment. 


Fauconberg  did  so  ;  and  was  conducted, 


by  that  person,  up  another  flight  of  stairs, 
which  led  to  the  governor's  house.  This 
they  now  entered  ;  when  the  latter,  having 
previously  provided  himself  with  a  key, 
opened  a  door,  which  seemed  to  have  been 
always  kept  locked,  and,  bowing  slightly 
to  Fauconberg,  gave  hini  to  understand 
that  he  desired  him  to  walk  in. 

On  Fauconberg  doing  so,  his  compa- 
nion, who  continued  to  hold  the  door  by 
the  key,  drew  it  to,  locked  it,  and  left  him 
to  his  private  meditations. 

On  being  left  alone,  Fauconberg,  whose, 
mind  was  now  relieved  from  the  present 
terrors  of  death,  although  not  from  alarm- 
ing doubts  of  the  final  issue  of  his  strange 
adventure,  began  to  examine  his  new 
quarters.  The  result  of  the  examination 
was  to  discover  to  him  that  he  had  the 
command  of  two  apartments — a  small  one, 
and  a  larger,  the  former  leading  off  from 
the  latter. 

In  the  small  apartment  was  a  neat  and 
clean  bed,  furnished  with  dimity  curtains 
of  spotless  white,  a  sofa,  and  several 
chairs,  covered  with  the  same  material, 
forming  altogether  a  comfortable,  nay, 
rather  elegant,  dormitory. 

The  larger  apartment,  a  sitting-room, 
was  also   handsomely  furnished  ;  contain- 
ing besides  articles  of  mere  utility,  a  small 
library,    musical   instruments    of  various 
kinds,  and  an  abundant  supply  of  writing 
materials,  which  were  deposited,  ready  for 
use,  on  a  small  table,  covered  with  green 
cloth,  that  stood  in  a  recess  of  one  of  the 
windows,  and  beside  which  was  placed  a 
leathern-covered  easy  chair.     Fauconberg 
could  not,  at  first,  conceive  for  whose  use 
these  apartments  were  appropriated  ;  for, 
from  their  isolated  situation,  they  did  not 
seem  to  form  any  part  of  the  governor's 
domestic    accommodations  ;     but,    noting 
that  the  windows,  though  much  larger  than 
those  in  other  parts  of  the  prison,  were, 
like    them,    strongly    secured   with   iron 
stanchions,  and  that  the  door  was  of  un- 
usual   strength,   he    concluded   that    the 
chambers  were  intended  as  a  place  of  con- 


376 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


finement  for  State  prisoners,  or  prisoners 
of  rank.  But  how  he,  who  was  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other,  should  he  so  honor- 
ably accommodated,  was,  like  all  the  other 
circumstances  of  his  extraordinary  case, 
a  point  on  which  he  could  not  advance 
even  a  plausible  conjecture. 

Having  completed  his  survey  of  his 
apartments,  Fauconberg  having  previously 
provided  himself  with  a  book,  threw  him- 
self down  on  a  sofa,  and  endeavored  to 
beguile  his  anxious  wandering  thoughts  by 
reading.  The  work  he-  had  taken  up  was 
a  French  one — "  The  Adventures  of  Tele- 
machus."  Being  a  good  French  scholar, 
he  read  it  with  ease  ;  and  although  not 
unacquainted  with  its  English  translations, 
was  delighted  with  its  perusal  in  the 
original. 

He  had  been  thus  employed  for  about 
an  hour  and  a  half,  when  the  same  person 
who  had  first  conducted  him  to  his  present 
quarters,  entered,  bearing  a  clean  white 
towel  or  napkin  in  one  baud  ;  in  the  other, 
a  plate,  knife,  fork,  and  spoon. 

Having  spread  the  first  on  a  small  round 
table,  and  laid  the  latter,  he  withdrew 
without  saying  a  word.  Shortly  after, 
he  returned,  retired,  and  again  returned, 
bearing  each  time  some  contribution  or 
other  to  the  table,  till  the  latter  boasted 
a  roast  fowl,  a  small  loaf  of  bread,  a  plate 
of  pastries,  and,  though  last  not  least,  a 
bottle  of  wine. 

These  good  things  all  laid  down  in  neat 
and  proper  order,  Fauconberg'^s  purveyor, 
and,  it  would  appear,  jailor  also,  made  a 
motion  to  him  to  take  his  place  at  table. 

Nothing  loath — for  he  was  now  begin- 
ning to  discover,  and  it  was  for  the  first 
time  since  the  night  of  his  capture,  that 
he  had  still  such  a  thing  about  him  as  an 
appetite — Fauconberg  drew  in  and  com- 
menced operations  ;  the  which  operations, 
to  his  no  gi-cat  displeasure,  he  was  left  to 
perform  unwitnessed,  as  his  attendant 
withdrew,  locking  the  door  carefully  after 
him,  so  soon  as  he  had  seen  his  prisoner 
seated  and  fairly  at  work. 


In  about  half  an  hour  the  former  again 
returned — Fauconberg,  in  the  meantime, 
having  made  an  excellent  supper  of  it — 
and,  with  the  same  silence  and  celerity, 
cleared  the  table  and  bore  away  its  furni- 
ture, with  which  he  had  brought  it  in. 

Our  hero,  shortly  afterwards,  retired  to 
rest,  appropriating  for  this  purpose  the 
little  white  dimity-curtained  bed,  which, 
though  not  formally  assigned  him,  he  took 
for  granted  was  meant  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  inhabitant  of  the  apartments. 

On  the  following  morning,  a  comfortable 
breakfast  of  coffee,  &c.,  was  brought  hira 
by  his  attendant  of  the  preceding  day  j 
dinner  and  supper  followed  j  and,  thus 
mysteriously  quartered  and  provided  for, 
day  after  day  passed  away,  week  followed 
week,  and  Fauconberg  still  continued  a' 
prisoner,  though  a  well  treated  one,  in  the 
fortress  of  Rougeville,  which  was  the  name 
of- the  place  of  his  captivity. 

In  this  way,  three  months  passed  away ; 
and,  during  all  this  time,  Fauconberg  con- 
tinued in  the  same  state  of  ignorance  of 
the  fate  intended  him,  and  of  those  who 
controlled  it,  as  on  the  first  day  of  his 
confinement. 

No  communication  had  been  made  to 
him  by  any  one.  He  had  never  again  seen 
the  commandant  of  the  fortress  ;  and  hi* 
immediate  attendant  would  make  no  sa- 
tisfactory answer  to  any  of  those  anxious 
inquiries  which  the  singularity  of  his  situ- 
ation was  constantly  promptiuo-. 

He  was,  therefore,  obliged  to  be  con- 
tent with  his  position,  and  to  augur  the 
best  from  the  hospitable  treatment  he  was 
meeting  with. 

Three  months  is  not  a  very  long  period  y 
but,  short  as  it  is,  it  often  brings  very  re- 
markable changes  ;  yet  seldom,  perhaps, 
has  such  brief  space  had  so  many  impor- 
tant events  crowded  within  its  limits,  a» 
that  which  embraced  Fauconberg's  cap- 
tivity in  the  fortress  of  Rougeville. 

Within  that  short  three  mouths,  the 
overthrow  of  Buonaparte  had  been  com- 
pleted,   and   the   Allied  Sovereigns   liad 


FAUCONBERG;  OR,  THE  EMIGRE. 


377 


enteroo 


>rl 


as  masters,  the  capital  of 
France. 

Soon  after,  as  is  well-known,  Napoleon 
abdicated  the  throne,  wbicli  was  re- 
asccnded  by  the  aucieut  dynasty  of  the 
Bourbons. 

It  was  after  the  first  and  second  of  these 
rcuiarkablc  events  had  occurred,  that  as 
Fauconbcrg  was  one  forenoon  looking  out 
of  one  of  the  windows  of  his  prison  rooms, 
gazing  listlessly  on  the  extensive  and  beau- 
tiful landscape  which  his  elevated  situation 
com.nanded — for  his  apartments  were  on 
the  uppermost  floor  of  the  tower — he  saw 
a  carriage  approaching  the  fortress  at  a 
rapid  rate. 

"  More  State  prisoners,"  said  Faucon- 
berg  to  himself,  iroDically.  "  But  no,  that 
can  hardly  be — at  least,  they  can  scarcely 
be  prisoners  of  Buonaparte's  making  ;  for 
his  day  is  now  past.  They  may,  however, 
be  prisoners  under  the  new  order  of 
things." 

While  Fauconbero;  was  thus  communing; 

O  CD 

with  himself  as  to  the  probable  freight  of 
the-  approaching  vehicle,  and  its  purpose 
in  seeking  the  fortress,  it  entered  the  gate, 
and  drove  into  a  courtyard  immediately 
beneath  the  window  at  which  he  was 
standing.  Looking  on  with  much  curi- 
osity to  see  who  should  come  forth  of  the 
machine,  he  saw  one  person  only,  a  gen- 
tleman, step  out,  and  enter  the  door  vrhich 
led  to  the  residence  of  the  o-overnor. 

Wondering  who  the  visitor  could  be, 
yet  not  feeling  deeply  interested  in  the 
matter,  Fauconberji:  withdrew  from  the 
window,  and  resumed  the  readino  of  the 
book  with  which  he  had  been  enjiaf/ed  a 
shoit  while  before. 

He  had  not  been  thus  emplo^'cd  many 
minutes,  when  he  heard  voices  without, 
and  the  noise  of  the  key,  as  it  was  being 
introduced  into  the  lock  of  the  door  of  his 
apartment.  The  circum:-:.tanee  startled 
him  a  little,  as  he  had  never  been  intruded 
on  before  by  any  stranger,  excepting  at 
meal  times. 

Leaping  from  his  seat,  he  awaited  in 


some  anxiety — for  the  sentence  of  death 
passed  on  him  on  the  night  he  was  taken, 
had  not  even  yet  been  quite  forgotten — • 
the  appearance  of  his  visitors.  They  en- 
tered. First  came  his  ordinary  attendant ; 
next,  a  tall,  military-looking  man,  closelj' 
buttoned  up  in  a  blue  surtout;  and,  lastly, 
the  commandant  of  the  fortress,  whom  he 
now  saw  for  the  second  time  only. 

Of  the  three,  the  person  in  the  blue 
surtout  most  attracted  the  attention  of 
Faucouberg ;  an  attention  which  was  ac- 
companied by  no  small  degree  of  alarm  ; 
for,  in  this  person.,  he  recognized  the  ge- 
neral before  whom  he  had  been  brought  on 
the  night  when  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and 
by  whom  he  had  been  so  peremptorily  and 
summarily  dismissed  to  execution. 

Little  wonder  was  it  then  that  Faucon- 
bcrg's  countenance  grew  pale  at  the  sight 
of  this  formidable  personage  ;  and  not 
much  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  either,  that 
he  should  suppose  he  had  come  to  have 
his  long- delayed  sentence  put  into  ex- 
ecution. 

Such,  in  truth,  were  the  feelings,  and 
such  the  ideas,  v.'hich  the  appearance  of 
this  appalling  visitor  suggested  to  Faucon- 
bcrg. 

In  the  meantime,  the  turnkey,  having  in- 
troduced the  gentlemeu — the  general  and 
commandant — into  Fauconberg"s  apart- 
ments, withdrew,  after  a  polite  obeisance 
to  his  superiors. 

On  his  rctiiing,  the  general  approached 
Faucouberg,  who  was  waiting  the  result 
of  this  alarming  interview  in  a  state  of 
great  perturbation,  and  thus  opened  the 
purpose  of  his  visit  : — 

"  Young  man,  dio  you  recollect  me  .'" 

"  But  too  well,  sir,"  replied    Faucon-    I 
berg.  I 

The    2;eneral    and    commandant    both 
smiled  :  a  circumstance  from  which  Fau-    i 
conberg  drew  a  favorable  augury,  as  re-    : 
garded  the  object  of  his  vLaitors.  j 

"  Yes,  young  man,"  continued  the   ge- 
neral,  "  you   have  had    some    reason   to    i 
recollect    me.       The    circumstances    in    i 


378 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


which  we  last  met  were  not  of  the  most 
pleasant  kind  ;  but  they  might  have  ended 
still  more  unpleasantly  for  you." 

Fauconberg's  face  crimsoned. 

"  Your  life  was  justly  forfeited,  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  war,''  resumed  the 
general ;  "  and,  but  for  a  singular  provi- 
dence, the  forfeit  would  most  certainly 
have  been  exacted. 

"  When  brought  before  me,  young  man, 
on  the  night  you  were  taken,"  continued 
the  latter,  after  a  pause,  "you  gave  as 
yours  the  name  of  Fauconberg.  Do  you 
still  adhere  to  that  assertion  ?  Is  your 
name  indeed  Fauconberg ;  or  did  you 
merely  assume  it  for  the  time  .?" 

"  My  name,  sir,  is  really  and  truly 
Fauconberg ;  at  least  it  was  my  father's 
name,"  replied  he,  reddening,  as  he  ren- 
dered this  qualification. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  putting  your 
answer  in  that  peculiar  shape?"  said  the 
general.  "  Were  your  parents  not  mar- 
ried .^" 

The  blood  again  mounted  to  Faucon- 
berg's  brow,  as  he  replied,  hesitatingly — 

"  No,  sir,  they  were  not.  My  mother, 
whose  name,  as  1  told  you  on  a  former 
occasion,  was  Gardner,  was  a  woman  of 
humble  birth.  My  father  was,  as  I  have 
been  told,  a  man  of  noble  descent." 

"  Of  what  country  P^  inquired  the  ge- 
neral. 

"  A  Frenchman,"  replied  Fauconberg. 

The  general  and  the  commandant  ex- 
chano-ed  significant  looks. 

"  x\  Frenchman,"  repeated  the  former. 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  Frenchman  ;  an  emigre, 
as  1  understand,"  continued  Fauconberg  ; 
"  driven  from  his  country  by  the  Revolu- 
tion." 

Again  the  general  and  commandant  ex- 
changed looks. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  your  father, 
young  man  .^"  inquired  the  general. 

"  No,  sir.  He  left  our  place  while  I 
was  yet  but  an  infant,  and  never  again 
returned." 

''  Did  he  desert  you  entirely .?"  said  the 


general.     "  Did  he   do   nothing   for  you 
and  your  mother  .'" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  replied  Fauconberg. 
"  In  that  respect  he  was  not  wanting.  He 
remitted  a  yearly  sum,  and  an  ample  one, 
for  my  support  and  education  ;  which  last 
he  desired  to  be  specially  attended  to." 

"  And  was  it  so  .^"  said  the  general. 

"  It  was,"  replied  Fauconberg.  "  What 
use  I  may  have  made  of  it,  it  is  not  for  me 
to  say  ;  but,  of  instruction,  I  have  had 
abundance,  in  various  departments  of 
learning." 

"  Your  mother  is  dead.  I  mean — I 
mean,"  continued  the  general,  with  some 
embarrassment  of  manner,  as  if  he  had 
committed  himself — "  I  mean,  is  your 
mother  dead  r'' 

"  She  is,  sir,"  replied  Fauconberg,  in 
some  surprise  at  the  general's  slip,  which 
did  not  escape  him.  "  She  died  several 
years  ago." 

The  latter  now  took  several  turns  up 
and  down  the  apartment,  saying  nothing, 
but  seemingly  in  considerable  agitation. 

At  length,  again  confronting  Faucon- 
berg— 

"  Young  man,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  / 
am  your  father." 

"  There  can  be  little  doubt  of  that," 
here  interposed  the  commandant,  smiling. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  during 
this  singular  interview.  "  Any  one  who 
sees  you  together  cannot  doubt  of  his  being 
your  son,  general.  The  resemblance  is 
very  striking." 

"I  think  it  is,"  replied  the  general, 
now  also  smiling. 

What  Fauconberg's  feelings  were,  on 
this  extraordinary  occasion,  we  need  not 
say  :  they  were  overpowering.  To  find  in 
the  man  before  whom  he  had  been  carried 
a  prisoner — in  the  man  who  had  adjudged 
him  to  a  violent  death — and  who  had,  as 
he  at  the  time  thought,  so  harshly  ordered 
him  to  execution — to  find  in  the  French 
general  before  him,  a  father — a  father 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  whom  he 
had  never  dreamt  of  ever   seeing — was  a 


FAUCONBERG ;  OR,  THE  EMIGRE. 


379- 


circumstance  whicli  might  well  disturb  the 
equanimity  of  the  most  callous  and  apa- 
thetic. 

Faucoubcrg  was  none  of  these  ;  and 
great,  therefore,  was  his  emotion  on  the 
extraordinary  discovery  being  made. 
These  emotions,  however,  he  controlled 
as  well  as  he  could ;  and,  after  returning, 
with  tenderness,  the  embrace  with  which 
his  father  followed  up  the  announcement 
of  his  relationship,  he  respectfully  awaited 
the  communication  of  his  new-found  pa- 
rent's further  pleasure  regarding  him,  as 
he  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  now,  and 
henceforth,  take  an  interest  in  his  welfare, 
and  seek  to  control,  or  at  least  to  advise 
as  to  his  future  proceedings.  In  the  mean- 
time, Fauconberg  saw  at  once,  in  the  cir- 
cumstance which  had  just  occurred,  a 
solution  of  the  mysteries  of  his  rescue  from 
death,  and  of  his  subsequent  hospitable 
treatment. 

He  had  now  no  doubt  that  he  was  in- 
debted for  all  to  his  father  ;  and  in  this 
conjecture  he  was  not  wrong,  as  the  latter 
now  informed  him. 

"  Besides  my  desire  to  keep  you  where 
I  might  readily  find  you,  when  circum- 
stances permitted  it,"  added  Fauconberg 's 
father,  after  informing  his  son  that  it  was 
by  his  orders  the  hussars  had  acted  in 
carrying  him  a  prisoner  into  France,  "  I 
could  not,  without  a  gross  dereliction  of 
my  duty,  have  liberated  you  entirely  ;  see- 
ing that  you  must  have  been  in  possession 
of  information  regarding  our  position 
which  might  have  been  highly  injurious  to 
us,  if  communicated  to  the  enemy  ;  and  I 
could  have  had  no  security  that  you  would 
not  communicate  what  you  knew,  should 
you  have  been  again  permitted  to  join  the 
British  army :  indeed,  consistently  with 
your  duty,  you  must  have  done  so.  Mine 
was  to  prevent  you — the  more  especially 
that,  in  rescuing  you  from  death,  I  had 
already  done  much  more  than  I  was  war- 
ranted in  doing,  and  for  which  I  had  ren- 


dered myself  liable  to  the  severest  repre- 
hension. This  part  of  the  business^ 
however,  I  got  over,  by  giving  assurance 
of  your  safe  custody — the  only  condition! 
on  which  I  could  possibly  have  saved  your 
life. 

^'  To  secure  you  good  treatment  in  your 
captivity,  and  which  you  have  no  doubt 
met  with,  I  addressed  a  letter  to  my  friend, 
the  commandant  here,  requesting  this 
kindness  at  his  hands — stating  our  rela- 
tionship, but  entreating  him  to  say  nothing 
of  his  knowledge  of  this  circumstance  to 
you.  This  1  wished  to  be  the  first  to  com- 
municate myself.  I,  besides,  wished  to  be 
farther  assured  of  your  identity — further 
assured,  in  short,  that  you  were  my  son. 
The  particulars  on  which  I  lately  ques- 
tioned you,  and  which  you  have  so  satis- 
factorily answered,  added  to  the  resem- 
blance between  us,  which  my  friend  here 
has  remarked,  has  given  me  this  assurance, 
and  on  this  point  I  am  perfectly  satisfied. 
I  am,  let  me  also  add,  young  man,  well 
pleased  with  your  appearance,  your  man- 
ner, your  intelligence  ;  and  proud  of  your 
bravery,  of  which  I  had  satisfactory  proof 
on  the  trying  occasion  on  which  we  first 
met." 

The  general  then  proceeded  to  inform 
his  son  that,  as  the  war  was  now  at  an  end, 
it  was  his  intention  to  retire  to,  and  spend 
the  remainder  of  his  days  on  his  paternal 
estate  ;  adding  that,  if  Fauconberg  had  no 
objection,  and  was  bound  by  no  particular 
ties  to  return  to  his  native  country,  he 
desired  he  should  accompany  him. 

To  his  father's  proposal,  young  Faucon- 
berg readily  consented. 

On  that  day  the  general  and  his  son 
dined  with  the  commandant  of  the  fortress 
of  Rougeville.  On  the  next,  they  set  out 
for  the  residence  of  the  former — one  of 
the  handsomest  chateaux  in  the  south  of 
France.  Six  years  afterwards,  young 
Fauconberg''s  father  died,  and  the  former 
succeeded  to  his  fortune  and  estates. 


380 


TALES   OF   THE  BORDERS. 


THE     SOLDIER'S    WIFE. 


'^^  It's  in  Vciiii  to  struggle  langcr  wi'  the 
stream,  Elleanor — I  caiiua  do  it.  My 
strength  is  worn  out,  and  my  spirit  ex- 
hausted, in  the  weary  strife.  The  current 
o'  adversity  is  owre  strong  for  me,  Ellea- 
nor ;  sae  I  mauu  just  yield  to  it,  and  allow 
it  to  overwhelm  me." 

"  Oh,  dinna  say  that,  James — dinna  say 
that,"  replied  the  young  and  beautiful 
wife  of  the  unfortunate  man  who  gnve  ut- 
terance to  this  desponding  language. 
*'  Dinna  say  that,  my  James,"  she  said 
throwing  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
gazing  in  his  face  with  a  look  at  once  of 
sorrow  and  affection.  "  There's  better 
days  in  store  for  us  ;  and  haena  we,  in  the 
meantime,  the  love  o'  each  other's  hearts 
to  compensate  for  the  want  o'  warld's 
gear  .-" 

James  Williamson  did  not  repel  the  en- 
dearments of  his  wife,  nor  reject  the  -con- 
solation which  she  would  offer  ;  for,  moody 
and  stern  as  his  misfortunes  had  rendered 
him,  to  her  he  was  still  the  same  kind  and 
gentle  being  he  had  ever  been  ;  Elleanor 
he  still  loved,  as  he  had  ever  done,  with 
the  most  devoted  affection  ;  and  it  was,  in 
truth,  the  reflection  that  he  had  involved 
her  in  his  miseries  and  sufferings  that  gave 
to  his  feelings  at  this  moment  the  bitter- 
ness and  poignancy  vrhich  rendered  them 
so  intolerable. 

James  Williamson  and  Elleanor  Dennis- 
toun  had  been  married  but  a  few  months  ; 
yet,  in  ti\at  short  time,  irretrievable  ruin 
had  overtaken  them  in  so  far  as  regarded 
their  worldly  circumstances.  An  unfor- 
tunate speculation  in  grain,  into  which 
Williamson,  who  was  a  small  farmer  in 
Berwickshire,  had  rashly  entered,  involved 
him  in  difficulties,  from  which  he  felt  it  to 
bo  all  but  impossible   he  should   ever  be 


able  to  extricate  himself.  Bankruptcy, 
with  all  its  appalling  consequences,  ejec- 
tion from  his  farm,  and  a  total  bereave- 
ment of  all  he  had  in  the  world,  stared 
him  in  the  face,  and  drove  him  to  despair. 

On  the  occasion  to  which  the  opening 
of  our  story  refers,  Williamson  had  ju.st 
received  a  letter  from  an  importunate  cre- 
ditor, threatening  that  a  caption,  which  he 
had  against  him  for  £150,  would  certainly 
be  put  in  force  within  three  days,  if  the 
amount,  with  interest  snd  expenses,  were 
not  then  paid  ;  and  thus  was  added  to  his 
other  miseries  the  dread  of  a  jail — to  poor 
Williamson  one  of  the  most  disgraceful 
and  appalling  visitations  vrhich  it  was  in 
the  power  of  misfortune  to  inflict. 

It  was,  then,  on  returning  home  after 
receiving  this  letter,  that  Williamson,  who 
had  hoped,  notwithstanding  the  desperate 
state  of  his  affairs,  that,  if  time  were  given 
him,  he  might  possibl}''  have  weathered  the 
storm,  gave  utterance  to  the  language  of 
despair  in  which  we  have  represented  him 
indulging.  He  had,  a  few  days  before, 
solicited  time  from  the  creditor  who  was 
now  threatenin2;  him  with  extreme  mca- 
sures,  and  the  refusal  of  this  indulgence 
had  deprived  him  of  all  heart  and  ail 
hope. 

Williamson,  as  we  have  said,  did  not 
reject  the  consolation  which  his  gentle  and 
affectionate  wife  offered  him  in  his  afflic- 
tion. He  returned  her  caresses  with  the 
same  tenderness  with  which  the}-  were 
bestowed,  and  acknowledged  her  words  of 
comfort  with  a  look  of  kind  regard  ;  but 
it  was  accompanied  by  a  faint  smile  of 
incredulity,  which  their  vagu.uiess,  when 
opposed  to  the  stern  and  positive  evils 
towards  which  they  were  directed,  could 
\  not  but  excite. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 


381 


'•  We  have,  indeed,  the  love  o'  each 
other's  hearts,  my  Elleanor,  to  console 
us."  replied  Williamson,  "  and  I  value 
yours  as  the  greatest  treasure  on  earth  ; 
but  what  will  it  avail  us  in  our  contest 
with  the  world  ?  It  canna  shield  us  frae 
the  storm  o'  adversity,  nor  avert  the  evils 
that  are  threatenin  us.'"* 

"  No,  James,"  said  Elleanor — "it  can 
do  neither ;  but  it  can  help  us  to  endure 
them  ;  and  I  hope  things  are  no  sae  bad 
but  that  they  may  yet  mend  wi'  us." 

Her  husband  shook  his  head  ;  but  it 
was  some  time  before  he  made  any  reply. 
At  length — 

"Elleanor,"  he  said,"!  hae  hitherto 
concealed  frae  ye  the  extent  and  urgency 
(•'  the  evils  which  threaten  us — and  I  hae 
dune  this  oot  o'  tenderness  to  you. ;  but  I 
tiiiak  it  now  necessary  that  you  should 
know  all,  and  know  the  worst,  that,  in  case 
any  part  of  my  future  conduct  may  stand 
in  need  o"*  an  apology,  ye  may  hae  ane  to 
refer  to." 

"  What  do  ye  mean,  James  ?  what  do 
ye  mean,  my  ain  dear  James  ?"  exclaimed 
Elleanor,  alarmed  at  the  ambiguity  of  her 
husband's  language,  which  seemed  to  point 
at  some  desperate  proceeding.  "  What 
do  ye  mean  ?"  she  said,  again  embracing 
him,  and  now  bursting  inta  an  agony  of 
tears.  "  Surely  misfortune's  no  gaun  to 
gar  ye  forget  yersel,  or  to  drive  ye  to  do 
ony thing  that's  unworthy  o'  ye  .^" 

■•'  Oh,  no,  no,  my  Elleanor,  have  no  fear 
of  that,"  replied  the  husbandy  smiling,  but 
embracing  her  tenderly  ;  then,  waiving  any 
further  discussion  on  the  subject,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  inform  her  precisely  o-f  the  situ- 
ation in  which  he  stood,  and  concluded  by 
throwing  down  the  letter  which  threatened 
him  with  instant  and  summary  proceed- 
ings, saying,  as  he  did  so — 

"  And  ye  see,  Elleanor,  they'll  not  only 
leave  us  houseless  and  landless ;  but  they'll 
hae  me  dragged  to  a  prison  like  a  thief  or 
a  murderer.  That  I  canna  stand.  A'  but 
ihctt^  I  think  I  might  bear.  But  that  I 
cauna,  I  winna  encounter." 


Elleanor   took  up  and  read  the  letter 

which  her  husband  threw  down  ;  and  when 

she  had  done  so — 

'      "  Aweel,  James,  even  in  a  jail  we  can  be 

j  happy  in  each  other.     They'll  alloo  me  tO' 

I  gae  wi'  ye,  1  fancy.     But  dinna  ye  think 

yer  uncle  would  lend  ye  as  much  as  pay 

I  this  debt,  as  it  seems  the  maist  pressin  r" 

j       "  I  doot  it,  I  doot  it  very  much,"  repli- 

I  ed  Williamson  ;   "  for  there's  little  o'  th-e 

j  milk  o'  human   kindness  in  him.     But  I 

'  may   try   him.     It's    our    last    and    only 

!  chance.       ]f    that    fails" Flere     the 

speaker  stopped  short,  and  left  the  sentence 
unfinished. 

The  application  to  Williamson^s  uncle, 
alluded  to,  was  made  on  the  following  day ; 
but  it  was  made  in  vain.  He  would  give 
no  assistance.  On  returning  home  from 
his  fruitless  mission  to  his  relatives,  Wil- 
liamson threw  down  his  bonnet,  and,  ad- 
dressing his  wife — 

"  Well,  Elleanor y"  he  said,  "  the  die 
is  cast.  The  last  throw  is  thrown,  and  it 
has  turned  up  a  blank.  It  is  just  as  I 
expected  :  my  unele  winna  advance  me  a 
penny,  and  to-morrow  I  maun  gang  to  jail 
— that  is,"  he  said,  after  a  pause^  "  if  I 
war  fule  eneuch  to  wait  till  they  took  me. 
I'll  gie  up  a'  to  the  last  penny,  but  no'  my 
liberty.  That  they  shanna  tak  frae  me-', 
if  I  can  help  it." 

Williamson  now  proceeded  to  explain 
to  his  wife  that  it  was  his  intention  to  go 
out  of  the  way  for  some  time  ;  and  in  the 
propriety  of  this  measure  he  succeeded  m 
obtaining  her  a.cquiesccn8e.  The  arrange»- 
ments  eonsoipent  on  this  contemplated 
proceeding  were — that  Elleanor  should 
go  to  reside  with  an  aunt  of  hers,  witi 
whom  slie  was  a  great  favorite,  and  with 
whom,  her  fibther  and  mother  being  both 
dead,  she  had  lived  previous  to  and  at  the 
time  of  her  marriage  ;  and  that  a  ccrtaia 
confidenti;il  friend  of  Williamson's  should 
look  after  his  interests  in  the  proceedings 
of  his  creditors,  and,  in  the  meantime,  take 
charge  of  his  effects.  All  this  being  ad- 
justed, Williamson,    early    on    the    third 


382 


TALES   OF   THE   BOR-DERS. 


moruing  after  the  day  on  wMda  our  story 
opens,  arose.  It  was  the  last  he  was  to 
see  from  the  windows  of  his  pleasant  little 
dwcllino-  at  Woodlee  :  for  his  landlord  was 
his  largest  creditor,  and  would,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  eject  him,  and  seize  upon  his 
stock  and  farming  implements.  This 
landlord,  Williamson  had  .never  seen.  He 
was  too  great  a  man  to  admit  of  his  hold- 
ing any  direct  personal  correspondence 
with  his  tenants,  especially  with  one  so 
humble  as  James  Williamson.  He  was  a 
lord — Lord  Allenton. 

It  was  with  his  facto.r,  then,   that  Wil- 
liamson had   had    always   to    deal;  and, 
from  his  previous  experience  of  this  gen- 
tleman's official  practice,  he   felt   that  he 
had    hut  littk   lenity  to    expect  in   that 
quarter.     Good  reason,  then^  had  the  un- 
fortunate man  to  mutter  to  himself,  as  he 
did,   on  looking  abroad  on  the  beautiful 
and  peaceful  scene  which  his  window  over- 
looked, on  the  morning  to  which  we  allude, 
that  it  was  the  last  time  he  should  behold 
it  from  the  same  situation.     Having  affec- 
tionately embraced  his  wife,  and  repeated 
for  the  thousandth  time  a  promise  to  write 
to  her   often,  and   to  return  to  her  the 
moment  his  affairs   permitted,  Williamson 
bade  her  farewell,  and  set  out  to  proceed 
to  Glasgow,  where  it  had  been  previously 
arranged  he  should  reside  until  such  an 
adjustment  of  his  matters  had  taken  place 
as  should  secure  his  personal  safety.    This, 
however,  was  an  affair  not  so  easily  ac- 
complished—or rather  it  was  one  which 
could  not  be  accomplished.     The  factor  of 
Lord  Allenton,  who  found  himself  consi- 
derably short  of  the  arrears  due  by  Wil- 
liamson, stood   out,   and  would  give   no 
quarter.     All    the    other    creditors    were 
satisfied  ;  but  he  remained  obstinate,  and 
would  listen  to  no  proposals  of  compro- 
mise.     In    the    meantime,     Williamson, 
faithful  to  his  promise   to  his  wife,  had 
written  to  her  frequently,  and  always  in 
the  most  affectionate  terms  ;  but  his  let- 
ters gradually  became  more  desponding, 
ai=  time  passed  away  without  bringing  a 


final  adjustment  of  his  affairs,  and  kept 
him  in  hopeless  and  listless  indolence,  at  a 
distance  from  all  he  held  dear.  From  the 
language  of  despondency,  poor  Williamson 
at  length  employed  that  of  despair,  and 
exhibited,  in  the  following  letier,  a  con- 
summation resulting  from  that  feeling,  for 
which  his  unfortunate  wife  was  but  little 


prepared. 

"  My  dearest,  dearest  Elleanor, — The 
intelligence  which  this  letter  will  convey 
to  you,  will  distract  you.     I  feel,  I  know 
it  will ;  but  1  trust  the  hopeless   state  of 
my  affairs  will  plead  my  apology.     I  have 
enlisted,  Elleanor.     I  have   taken  up  the 
musket.     I    saw   nothing   else   for  it.     I 
could  not  return  to  you  ;  or,  if  I  did.  and 
escaped    a  prison,  which  is  not  likely,  I 
^ould  not  have  supported  you  in  the  ease 
and  comfort  which  you  now  enjoy,  vdih 
your  kind  aunt,  and  from  which  1  should 
reckon  it  a   cruelty  to  withdraw  you — a 
consequence   that  would  result  from  my 
return.     Believe  me,  my  dearest  Elleanor, 
that  whatever  changes  may  take  place  in 
my  circumstances  or  condition,  none  shall 
ever  occur  in  the  feelings  I  entertain  to- 
wards you.     These  will  remain  unaltered 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  let  these 
vicissitudes  be  what  they  may." 

Much  in  a  similar  strain  with  this  fol- 
lowed, including  many  regretful  references 
to  their  once  happy  abode  at  Woodlee, 
which  the  writer  expressed  a  fear  he  might 
never  again  behold.  Williamson  then 
proceeded  to  detail  to  his  wife  various  par- 
ticulars relative  to  his  n«w  duties,  informed 
her  of  the  number  of  his  regiment,  and 
concluded  by  assuring  her  that  he  would 
regularly  inforpi  her  of  everything  that 
•occurred  to  him,  of  the  smallest  interest. 

It  would  serve  little  purpose  to  describe 
the  feelings  of  Elleanor  on  reading  this, 
to  her,  -most  heart-rending  letter.  Her 
first  idea  was  to  fly  to  her  husband,  and  to 
share  with  him  all  the  dangers  and  priva- 
tions to  which  his  new  life  might  expose 
him  ;  but  from  this  resolution  she  was, 
although  not  without  great  difficulty,  dis- 


1 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIPE. 


SS3 


suaded  by  her  aunt.  Nor  would  the 
efforts  of  that  relative  in  this  way  have 
been  successful,  had  they  not  been  se- 
conded by  the  earnest  entreaties  of  her 
husband  himself  that  she  would  at  no  time 
think  of  taking  such  a  step.  He  had 
feared  that  she  would  insist  on  joining 
him ;  and,  shocked  at  the  idea  of  her 
being  exposed  to  the  hardships  and  humi- 
liations of  a  soldier's  wife,  had  cautioned 
her  acjainst  enteitainini'  for  an  instant  the 
thought  of  becoming  one  otherwise  than  in 
name. 

At  this  point  of  our  story,  an  interval 
of  three  years  occurs,  during  which  no 
change  had  taken  place  in  the  fortunes  of 
either  Williamson  or  his  wife.  The  for- 
mer still  continued  in  the  army,  and  the 
latter  still  remained  with  her  aunt.  Al- 
though no  change,  however,  had  taken 
place  in  Williamson's  fortunes  in  this 
time,  many  had  taken  place  in  the  locali- 
ties of  his  residence.  He  had  been  moved 
with  his  corps  from  one  destination  to 
another  ;  and  was,  when  we  resume  our 
tale,  at  the  seat  of  war  in  the  Netherlands. 

Williamson  had,  by  this  time,  seen  some 
service.  He  had  be-en  in  two  or  three  en- 
gagements ;  and,  although  he  had  distin- 
guished himself  by  his  bravery,  had  hither- 
to escaped  uninjured.  But  it  was  not  in 
the  field  alone  that  he  had  made  himself 
remarkable  ;  he  enjoyed  an  equal  reputa- 
tion for  steadiness  and  orderly  conduct  in 
quarters.  In  the  meantime,  the  hostile 
spirit  of  the  nations  of  Europe  was  coming 
to  a  crisis  ;  a  mighty  consummation  was 
at  hand.  On  the  plains  of  Waterloo,  the 
power,  and  greatness,  and  glory  of  Napo- 
leon, were  about  to  be  overthrown  and 
trodden  in  the  dust. 

It  is  well  known  that,  for  some  time 
previous  to  that  tremendous  battle,  a  ge- 
neral feeling  prevailed  over  all  Europe, 
that  a  great  and  decisive  struggle  was  ap- 
proaching :  that  a  day  of  deadly  strife, 
such  as  the  world  had  never  seen,  was 
about  to  dawn  on  the  mighty  hosts  of 
armed  men  who  were  hurriedly  converg- 


ing, from  various  and  distant  lands,  towards 
that  point  which  destiny  had  marked  for 
the  last  and  closing  scene  of  Europe's 
long-continued  and  sanguinary  warfare. 

One  of  the  atoms,  in  this  huge  mass  of 
humanity,  on  hostile  purpose  intent,  was 
James  Williamson.  He  was  quartered 
with  his  regiment  in  Brussels,  and  with 
that  regiment  marched  out  to  battle  on 
the  memorable  mornino;  of  the  fif>-ht  of 
Quatre  Bras.  Two  days  afterwards,  he 
was  in  the  "•  ranks  of  death,"  mustered 
on  the  field  of  Waterloo.  Leaving  him 
here,  to  share  in  the  fatigues  and  dangers 
of  that  sanguinary  day,  we  shall  attach 
ourselves  to  a  personage  whom  we  hope  to 
render  no  less  worthy  of  our  sympathy  and 
interest. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the 
battle  of  Waterloo  was  fought,  a  young 
woman,  a  stranger,  who  had  just  arrived 
in  Brussels,  was  seen  hurrying  distractedly 
through  the  streets,  inquiring  of  every  one 
she  met,  if  they  could  tell  her  where  she 
could  find  the  — th  resriment.  None  could 
inform  her,  because  none  knew  the  lan- 
guage in  which  she  addressed  them.  It 
was  English.  At  length,  however,  she 
ascertained  that  the  re^ment  she  sousrht 

O  O 

had  left  Brussels  two  days  before,  and  that 
it  was  at  that  moment  on  the  field  of  Wa- 
terloo, where  the  mighty  contest  had  al- 
ready begun,  as  was  ominously  intimated 
by  the  distant  roar  of  cannon,  to  which 
her  informant  called  her  attention  at  the 
moment  he  spoke.  The  young  woman 
listened  for  an  instant  to  the  appalling 
sound  of  the  artillery,  whose  thunders 
rolled  onwards,  in  an  unintermitting  suc- 
cession of  dull  and  heavy  peals — and  she 
grew  pale  as  she  listened  ;  but  it  was  not 
the  paleness  of  a  timid  or  a  shrinking 
spirit.  It  was  the  effect  of  a  deep,  an 
agitating  sympathy  for  those  who  were 
exposed  to  the  perils  of  the  day,  associated 
with  distracting  fears  for  the  safety  of  one, 
in  particular,  who  was  a  sharer  in  those 
dangers. 
1      Having,  as  we  have  said,  listened  for  a 


584 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


moment  to  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  the 
young  woman  hurriedly  inquired  for  the 
road  that  l^d  to  the  field  of  battle.  It  was 
pointed  out  to  her.  She  immediately 
availed  herself  of  the  information,  and 
hastened  on  towards  Waterloo.  But  she 
had  not  gone  far,  ere  she  encountered 
sights  that  might  well  have  appalled  a 
stouter  heart  than  hers.  These  were 
wagons  filled  with  wounded  soldiers,  being 
conveyed  from  the  field  of  battle  to  Brus- 
sels. On  some  of  these  Death  had  alrea- 
dy set  his  seal  ;  the  fatal  impress  of  which 
mis^ht  be  marked  on  their  livid  and  ghast- 
ly countenances,  or  traced  in  the  total 
prostration  of  their  vital  energies.  Others, 
a2;ain,  whose  wounds  were  not  mortal,  yet 
dreadfully  severe,  exhibited  that  languid, 
sickly,  fainting  look,  which  betokens  the 
extremity  of  bodily  suffering.  All,  all  was 
appalling  to  behold,  and  it  did  appal  the 
lonely  and  unprotected  young  woman  on 
whose  sight  it  now  fell,  and  who  was  hur- 
rying on  to  the  fearful  source  from  whence 
all  this  misery  proceeded  ;  but  it  did  not 
for  a  moment  shake  the  resolution  which 
ursed  her  on  the  course  she  was  pursuing, 
nor  make  her  swerve  from  the  purpose 
which  prompted  her  daring  adventure. 
As  she  neared  the  field   of  strife  she 

heard — 

"  The  cannon's  roar, 
Nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before." 

Nor  was  this  alone  the  only  indication  of 
her  near  approach  to  the  scene  of  the 
mio^hty  contest.  Dismantled  cannon,  and 
broken  arms  of  various  kinds,  intermingled 
with  military  caps,  and  fragments  of  mili- 
tary accoutrements,  met  her  at  every  step, 
and  told  of  partial  combats  between  the 
remoter  parties  of  the  hostile  armies. 
Here  and  there,  too,  a  dead  body  intimat- 
ed in  language  still  more  unequivocal  the 
horrid  work  that  was  sroino;  forward.  Un- 
dismayed  by  these  appalling  sounds,  our 
heroine  held  on  her  way,  till  at  length  the 
great  scene  of  strife  itself — the  field  of 
Waterloo,  covered  with  its  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  fighting  men  engaged  in  mortal 


combat — burst,  in  all  its  wild  and  fearful 
magnificence,  on  her  view,  and  till  she 
found  herself  getting  involved  in  the 
movements  of  the  troops.  On  discover- 
ino;  this  last  circumstance,  she  left  the 
road,  and  struck  through  some  fields  on 
the  left,  for  the  purpose  of  gaining  a  soli- 
tary knoll  at  some  distance,  that  seemed 
at  once  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  move- 
ments of  the  hostile  armies,  and  to  promise 
a  complete  view  of  the  field  of  battle. 
Having  gained  this  eminence,  she  sat  down, 
and  gazed,  with  awe-stricken  eye  and 
beatino;  heart,  on  the  tremendous  scene 
before  her.  But  how  vain,  how  idle,  was 
at  least  one  of  the  objects  for  which  she 
now  so  intently  scanned  the  fieldof  battle  ! 
It  was  to  see  if  she  could,  by  any  sign  or 
circumstance,  discover  the  position  of  the 
— th  regiment.  She  had  earnestly  and 
eagerly  asked  every  party,  nay,  every  in- 
dividual she  had  met  as  she  came  along, 
if  they  could  tell  her  where  the  — th  regi- 
ment was.  None  could  inform  her,  and 
most  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  in- 
quiry. Idle,  therefore,  and  vain  in  the 
last  degree,  it  will  be  seen,  was  now  her 
attempt  to  distinguish,  amongst  so  many 
thousands,  and  these,  too,  constantly 
changing  their  positions,  that  particular 
corps  in  which  she  seemed  so  interested, 
and  which,  moreover,  she  had  no  outward 
mark  whatever  by  which  to  distinguish  it, 
even  were  it  otherwise  possible.  While 
thus  situated,  and  thus  hopelessly  employ- 
ed, the  young  woman  was  suddenly  start- 
led, by  hearing  the  moaning  of  a  person 
in  distress,  at  no  great  distance  from  where 
she  sat.  She  instantly  arose,  looked 
around  her,  and  discovered  a  wounded 
soldier  lying  on  the  ground,  half  concealed 
by  some  brushwood — which  shelter  he  had 
evidently  sought  before  he  fell.  On  hear- 
ing these  sounds,  and  seeing  the  prostrate 
warrior,  all  the  woman  rose  within  her, 
and  she  hurried  to  the  assistance  of  the 
sufferer.  He  proved  to  be  a  British  offi- 
cer.    He  was  severely  wounded,  and  in 


the  last  stasre  of  exhaustion.     On  seeimr 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 


385 


the  condition  of  the  apparently  dying 
soldier,  our  heroine,  instinctively  impress- 
ed with  a  confidance  in  the  invisroratino: 
and  refreshino;  eflfects  of  a  little  cold  water 
in  such  a  case  as  that  before  her,  instant- 
ly snatched  up  the  wounded  man's  cap, 
and,  hurrying  to  a  brook  that  was  hard  by, 
filled  it  with  the  simple  element.  This, 
on  returning  to  the  sufferer,  she  sprinkled 
gently  on  his  pallid  countenance,  and  with 
it  bathed  his  burnins;  forehead.  The 
beneficial  effects  of  the  cooling  application 
were  made  immediately  apparent.  The 
wounded  man  opened  his  eyes,  and,  after 
gazing  for  a  moment,  with  a  look  of  be- 
wilderment, on  the  fair  countenance  that 
was  wistfully  and  sympathizingly  hanging 
over  him,  muttered  the  word  "  water." 

Again  his  ministering  angel,  who  had 
been  thus  so  strangely  sent  to  his  relief, 
hastened  to  the  brook,  and  returned  with 
another  supply  of  that  element  which  was 
now  so  highly  prized.  Raising  him  gently 
up,  she  held  the  water  to  his  parched  lips. 
The  wounded  man  drank  greedily,  and 
was  instantly  restored  to  consciousness, 
and  to  a  state  of  comparative  vigor.  He 
now  sat  up,  and  was  able  to  express  the 
gratitude  he  felt  to  the  fair  strano;er, 
whom  heaven  seemed  to  have  sent  thus 
opportunely  to  his  aid.  But  that  fair 
stranger's  benevolent  ministrations  did 
not  terminate  with  those  acts  of  kindness 
already  mentioned.  She  did  more.  She 
took  a  shawl  from  her  shoulders,  tore  it 
into  strips,  and  with  these  bound  up  the 
soldier's  bleeding  wounds.  After  all  this 
had  been  done,  and  the  latter  had  so  far 
recovered  as  to  be  able  to  express  all  he 
felt— 

"  Who,  in  heaven's  name,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing his  fair  friend — "  who,  in  heaven's 
name,  are  you  .''  Where  are  you  from  ? 
and  what  on  earth  brought  you  here  ,?" 

The  young  woman  blushed,  and  smil- 
ingly replied — "  I  am  from  Scotland, 
sir^" 

"From  Scotland  I"  exclaimed  the 
wounded  officer.     "  My  own  dear  native 


VOT,.   Tf. 


63 


land  !  From  Scotland  are  you,  my  guar- 
dian angel  ?  Then,  indeed,  is  this  extra- 
ordinary circumstance  complete.  The 
gentle  hand  that  has  administered  to  my 
relief  in  my  sad  necessities — that  has, 
under  God,  restored  me  to  life,  and  saved 
me  from  perishing  on  the  field— is  that  of 
a  countrywoman." 

Having  said  this,  he  again  asked  her 
what  had  brought  her  into  such  a  danger- 
ous neighborhood.  The  young  woman  re- 
plied, that  her  husband  was  in  the  — th 
regiment,  and  that  she  had  come  there  to 
watch  for  him,  that,  in  case  he  should  be 
wounded,  she  might  be  at  hand  to  aid  him, 
and  to  attend  on  him. 

The  wounded  officer  appreciated  all  the 
heroism,  the  tender  and  ardent  affection, 
which  this  declaration  indicated  ;  but  he 
could  not  refrain  from  smiling  at  the  sim- 
plicity of  character  which  it  also  discover- 
ed.    A    young    woman    venturing   alone 
towards  a  battle-field,  to  be  in  readiness 
to  administer  relief  to  a  wounded  husband, 
whom  she  had  not  the  slightest  chance  of 
meeting  with — where,  of  many  thousands, 
he  was  but  one,  and  these  spread  over  a 
field  of  many  miles  in  extent — seemed  to 
him,  as  it  really  was,  the  very  extreme  of 
uncalculating  love.      Of  all  this,  however, 
the  wounded  officer  took  no  notice.     He 
rightly  conceived   that  any  remark  on  it 
would    be    ungracious,    and  he    therefore 
made  none  ;  but  he  resolved,  if  he  could 
by  any  means  prevent  it,  that  he  would 
not  permit  her  to  expose  herself  any  fur- 
ther in  so  hopeless  a  pursuit  ;  and  a  cir- 
cumstance at  this  instant  occurred,  which, 
singularly    enough,    brought    that    about 
which  he,  in  his  present  circumstances, 
could  only  desire.      Descrying   a  British 
wagon  with  wounded  passing  on  the  road 
(which  was  at  the    distance  of   about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile)   towards  Brussels,  he 
requested  his  guardian  angel,  as  he  called 
our  heroine,  to  do  him  one   other  act  of 
kindness,  by  going  down  to  the  road,  and 
informing  the  escort  by  which  the  wagon 
was  accompanied,  of  his  condition,  and 


386 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


desiring  that  a  partj  should  be  sent  to  re- 
move him.  The  escort  of  the  wagon 
•was  composed  of  a  party  of  the  — th  :  of 
that  regiment  which  the  fair  messenger 
had  so  anxiously  and  vainly  inquired  for. 
She  approached  it.  She  waved  to  the 
party  to  stop.  They  obeyed  the  signal ; 
but  looked  with  amazement  at  the  person 
who  made  it.  To  see  a  yoimg  female  in 
such  a  situation,  and  alone,  was,  to  the 
soldiers,  matter  of  inexpressible  surprise. 
The  young  woman  leaped  a  small  ditch 
that  separated  the  road  from  the  field. 
She  had  scarcely  done  so,  when  one  of  the 
soldiers  who  formed  the  escort  suddenly 
threw  down  his  musket,  and,  rushing  wildly 
towards  her,  enfolded  her  in  his  arms ; 
exclaiming,  in  a  transport  of  mingled  joy 
and  surprise — 

"  Heavens  ?  Elleanor,  Elleanor  !  my 
own  dear  Elleanor  !" 

"James  !"  exclaimed  Elleanor  (the  se- 
cret is  now  out,  good  reader — it  was  indeed 
Elleanor,  and  no  other),  in  a  voice  faint 
with  emotion ;  and,  without  adding  an- 
other word,  she  flung  hergelf,  in  an  ecstacy 
of  speechless  happiness,  on  her  husband's 
neck. 

"  What  on  earth  brought  you  here  El- 
leanor ?  and  above  all,  what  on  earth 
brought  you  here  at  such  a  time  as  this  .?" 
said  her  husband,  after  the  first  transports 
of  their  meeting  had  subsided,  and  looking 
her  afiectionately  in  the  face  while  he 
spoke. 

Elleanor  blushed  and  looked  down. 
There  were  too  many  witnesses  present, 
too  many  eyes  upon  her,  to  allow  her  to 
explain  herself ;  but  she  said  shortly,  and 
in  a  tone  so  low  as  not  to  be  heard  by  any 
one  but  him  for  whom  the  information 
was  intended — "  It  was  to  take  care  of 
you,  James,  in  case  anything  should  have 
happened  you."  James  acknowledged  the 
devoted  afi"ection  of  his  wife  by  a  smile 
and  gentle  pressure  of  her  hand. 

Williamson  would  now  have  pressed  his 
wife  for  a  history  of  her  journey,  and  pro- 
ceedings connected  with  it,  but  was  at  the 


;poment  prevented,  by  her  stating  the 
mission  on  which  she  came  from  th« 
wounded  officer,  and  her  urging  that  iiD- 
mediate  assistane-e  ghould  be  sent  hira. 
The  request  was  instantly  complied  with, 
A  party,  of  which  her  husba»d  was  one, 
proceeded,  accompanied  by  Elleanor,  to 
where  the  officer  lay.  None  of  the  sol- 
diers knew  him  personally;  but  Williamson 
thought  he  had  seen  the  countenance 
somewhere  before,  but  when,  where,  or  in 
what  circumstances,  he  could  not  at  all 
recollect.  On  this  subject,  however,  he 
made  no  remark.  The  wounded  officer,  on 
being  told  by  Elleanor  that  she  had  found 
her  husband,  expressed  the  utmost  satis- 
faction with  the  very  singular  circum- 
stance ;  and,  on  the  latter's  being  pointed 
out  to  him,  took  him  kindly  by  the  hand, 
and  informed  him,  and  all  the  others  pre- 
sent, how  much  he  was  indebted  to  his 
wife  for  her  most  opportune  and  friendly 
aid. 

"  I  shall  always  consider,"  he  said, 
"  the  aid  which  she  afi"orded  me  as  bavins 
been  the  means  of  saving  my  life  ;  and  it 
shall  be  my  first  care,  on  arriving  at  Brus- 
sels, to  see  that  the  important  service  is 
as  fully  acknowledged  as  it  is  already 
appreciated.'' 

Nothing  more  of  any  interest  at  this 
moment  passed.  The  wounded  officer, 
who  was  a  young  and  handsome  man,  with 
the  air  and  manner  of  a  person  of  high 
birth  and  breeding,  was  removed  to  the 
wagon  ;  in  which  proceeding  Williamson 
was  especially  anxious  and  careful  to  sub- 
ject him  to  as  little  suffering  as  possible  ; 
and,  soon  after,  the  whole  party  resumed 
their  march,  and  in  a  few  hours  afterwards, 
reached  Brussels  in  safety.  On  their  ar- 
rival there,  the  young  officer,  who  had  yet 
only  announced  himself  as  a  captain  in  the 
— d  regiment  of  infantry,  without  adding 
his  name,  was  conveyed,  by  his  own  de- 
sire, to  a  hotel,  where,  on  parting  with 
Williamson,  he  desired  him  to  call  on  him 
on  the  following  forenoon  ;  having  ascer- 
tained previously  that  the  party  to  which 


THE  SOLDIER'S   WIFE. 


387 


the  former  belonixed  had  duties  assisrned 
them  which  would  prevent  their  returning 
to  the  field  ;  and  that,  therefore,  this 
would  be  fully  in  Williamson's  power. 
He  also  requested  that  the  wife  of  the  lat- 
ter should  accompany  him  on  the  occasion 
of  his  visit.  With  these  requests  Wil- 
liamson promised  compliance  in  his  own 
name,  and  in  that  of  his  wife,  who  had 
not,  of  course,  accompanied  the  party  that 
conveyed  the  wounded  man  into  the  bed- 
room which  he  was  to  occupy,  but  waited 
her  husband's  return  on  the  street. 

In  the  meantime,  intelliiience  of  the 
victory  of  Waterloo  had  reached  the  city, 
and  a  scene  of  wild  excitation  and  confu- 
sion followed,  that  it  is  more  easy  to  con- 
ceive than  describe.  Every  street  and 
alley,  every  tavern,  every  house  of  enter- 
tainment, of  lesser  as  well  as  larger  note, 
filled,  durinor  the  nisht,  with  straijcrlers 
from  the  army,  and  private  houses  with 
the  wounded.  So  great,  indeed,  was  the 
confusion  and  turmoil  on  the  following 
day — these  having  rather  increased  than 
diminished — that  both  Wiliiamson  and 
Elleanor  began  to  think  of  abandoning  all 
idea  of  fulfilling  their  promise  to  wait  on 
the  wounded  officer  of  the  — d  ;  and  to 
this  they  were  induced  by  recollecting  that 
he  had  omitted  to  give  them  his  name,  and 
they  to  ask  it,  and  by  learning  that  the 
house  in  which  he  had  taken  up  his  quar- 
ters was  filled  with  persons  of  a  similar 
rank,  and  in  a  similar  condition.  Indeed, 
EUeanor  had  all  along  been  against  troub- 
ling  him  further  ;  saying,  that,  in  doing 
what  she  did  for  him,  she  had  merely  dis- 
charged a  duty,  and  that  she  neither  ex- 
pected nor  desired  any  reward  but  what 
her  own  feelings  afforded  her.  Her  bus- 
band,  however,  ultimately  came  to  the  reso- 
lution of  making  the  promised  visit,  which, 
on  refiiection,  it  appeared  to  him  it  would 
be  ungracious  to  withhold,  and  finally 
prevailed  on  his  wife  to  accompany  him. 
On  arriving  at  the  hotel,  they  found,  as 
they  expected,  from  the  want  of  the  name 
of   the  officer  whom  they   sought,   great 


difficulty  in  finding  him,  owing  to  the  great 
number  of  other  officers  who  were  in  the 
house.,  and  more  especially  from  the  rather 
odd  circumstance  of  there  being  no  less 
than  other  three  captains  of  the  same 
regiment  in  the  hotel  at  the  very  moment. 
By  dint  of  frequent  inquiry,  however,  and 
the  exercise  of  some  perseverance  in  the 
pursuit,  they  at  last  found  the  person  they 
wanted.  He  was  stretched  upon  a  couch 
or  sofa,  and  was  in  such  spirits  as  shewed 
that  his  wounds,  though  they  might  be, 
and  certainly  were,  of  a  very  serious 
character,  were  yet  by  no  means  mortal, 
nor  even  very  dangerous.  Having  express- 
ed the  utmost  delight  at  seeing  his  visi- 
tor  

'^  Now,  my  guardian  angel,"  he  said, 
smiling,  and  addressing  Elleanor,  "  what 
can  I  do  for  you  that  will  sufficiently  ex- 
press the  gratitude  I  feel  for  the  assistance 
you  rendered  me  yesterday  V 

Elleanor  blushingly  replied,  that  she 
wanted  no  reward — that  such  was  not  her 
motive  for  what  she  did — and  that  she  was 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  reflection,  that 
she  had  aided  a  fellow- creature  in  the 
hour  of  his  need. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  captain,  smiling ; 
"  all  very  well,  my  kind,  good  lady  ;  but, 
though  that  may  satisfy  you,  it  will  not 
satisfy  me.  By  the  way,"  he  abruptly 
added,  "  I  believe  1  have  never  yet  told 
you  who  I  am.  I  forgot  to  give  you  my 
address.     My  name  is  AUenton,  I" 

"  Allenton,  sir  !"  here  hurriedly  inter- 
rupted Williamson.  "  Excuse  me,  sir. 
Are  you  the  Hon.  Captain  James  AUenton, 
son  of  Lord  Allenton  .^" 

"The  same,  my  good  fellow,"  replied 
Captain  Allenton,  with  a  smile  and  a  look 
of  some  surprise.  "  Do  you  know  me,  or 
any  of  my  friends  in  Berwickshire,  in 
Scotland  V 

"  That  I  do  sir  :  know  your  father  well, 
and  I  knew  you  too  when  a  boy,  that  is  to 
say,  I  know  your  father  as  an  humble  ten- 
ant may  know  a  great  landlord,  and  you 
as  his  son.'' 


SS8 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  Why,  this  is  odd,"  said  Captain  Allen- 
ton  ;  "  very  add." 

"  You  were  a  tenant  of  my  father's, 
then.     Pray,  where  did  ycvu  live  .^" 

"  At  Woodlee,  sir,"  replied  William- 
son. 

"  Ah,  I  reccllect   the  place  well.     x\ 

heautiful  spot." 

"  It  is-,  sir,"  said  Williamson,  with  a 
sigh,  which  was  responded  to  by  his  wife. 
"  Would  I  were  there  again  T  Many  a 
happy  day  1  have  spent  in  it." 

"  And  why  did  you  leave  it,  my  good 
fellow.^"  inquired  Captain  Allenton,  in  a 
friendly  tone. 

Williamson  answered  the  question  by 
briefly  recapitulating  certain  of  those  par- 
ticulars of  his  history  which  are  already  be- 
fore the  reader. 

When  be  had  done,  Captain  Allenton, 
after  thinking  for  some  little  time,  asked 
him,  directing  the  question  by  a  look  at 
the  same  time  to  his  wife,  whether  he 
would  like  to  be  again  set  down  at  Wood- 
lee. 

"  Oh,  sir,  Eo thing  on  earth  we  would 
like  so  well  as  that,"  exclaimed  Elleanor  ; 
"  but  that's  ont  o'  the  question  now.'' 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Captain  Allenton, 
musingly.     Then  added,  after  a  pause — 


"  I  think  I  could  manage  that  matter  for 
you,  if  you  really  wish  it ;  and  I'll  do  it. 
Leave  the  affair  in  my  hands." 

Need  we  pursue  our  story  beyond  t\n» 
point  ?  We  feel  that  we  need  not.  A  con- 
summation, the  reader  will  see,  is  at  hand, 
and  the  sooner  we  now  arrive  at  it  the- 
better. 

Captain  Allentan  procured  Williamson'& 
discharge — this  was  his  first  step — and  near- 
ly at  the  same  time  presented  him  with  a. 
remission  of  the  debt  due  to  his  father — 
paid  his  and  his  wife's  passage  to  Scot- 
land— got  them  reinstated  at  Woodlee — 
stocked  their  farm — advanced  money  to 
Williamson  to  discharge  all  his  old  debts — 
and,  in  short,  set  him  one  more  fairly 
agoing  in  the  world.  Williamson  prospered.. 
He  entered  into  na  more  speculations,  but 
stuck  steadily  to  the  business  of  his  farm^ 
and  was  contented  with  its  slow  but  com- 
paratively certain  return.  Captain  Allen- 
ton  in  time  became  Lord  Allenton  ;  and 
when  he  did  so,  and  settled  dovm  a  married 
man  acd  sedate  country  gentleman  afc 
Merlin  Castle,  he  was  a  frequent  caller  at 
Woodlee,  and  on  such  occasions  took  much 
pleasure  in  reminding  Elleanor  of  their 
first  acquaintance  on  the  field  of  Water- 
loo, 


^*^*^ 


THE    IRISH    REAPER, 


Some  years  ago,  I  was  proceeding  from 
Runcorn  to  Manchester,  in  one  of  the 
passage -boats  which  ply  upon  the  Duke 
of  Bridgewater's  canal.  There  could  not 
be  less  than  a  hundred  passengers,  and 
they  were  of  as  motley  a  description  as 
the  imagination  of  man  could  conceive 
even  in  a  di-eam.  The  boats  exactly  re- 
semble   a   long,  low,   fiat-roofed  wooden 


house  ;  but  sufficiently  lofty  for  a  middle- 
sized  person  to  stand  erect  between  the 
floor  and  the  roof,  or  rather  the  deck. 
At  one  end  sat  about  a  dozen  Primitive 
Methodists,  alternately  reading  passages 
of  Sci-ipture,  or  bm-sting  forth,  at  the  ex- 
treme pitch  of  their  voice,  into  a  squall 
of  music,  singing  hymn  upon  hymn,  till 
my  very  ears  ached,  and  the  timbers  of 


THE   IRISH  REAPER. 


389 


the  boat  might  have  started.  Near  them 
sat  a  number  of  yoimg,  ros^'-choeked 
Welsh  women,  staring  at  the  vocalists  with 
a  look  of  wondeiing  vacancy,  that  the 
goats  OQ  tlieir  own  mountains  could  liot 
have  surpassed.  There  wei-o,  also,  manu- 
iacturers'  Avives  and  children  returning 
from  a  seven  days'  visit  to  Runcorn,  for  the 
benefit  of  a  salt  water  dip  in  the  Mersey  ; 
and  six  or  eight  prim,  sober,  sleek,  silent, 
welldresscd  Quakers  ;  with  &  more  than 
sprinkling  of  the  boys  of  the  Emerald  Isle. 
The  loud  laugh  of  one  of  them  was  ever 
and  anon  heard  above  the  shrill  music  of 
the  Ranters.  He  was  about  five  feet 
seven  inches  high,  and  exceedingly  strong 
and  well-made.  He  wore  an  old  great 
c^at,  of  a  yellowish  blsuket  color,  a3ad  a 
hat,  the  crown  of  which  had  fallen  in  with 
service^  and  its  brim  "was  equally  turned 
up  before  and  behind,  and  on  both  sides. 
His  feet  were  thrust  into  a  pair  of  brogues 
of  true  Irish  manufacture,  which,  with  a 
pair  of  coarse  blue  worsted  stockings  and 
corduroy  inexpressibles,  completed  his 
outward  man.  He  carried  an  apparently 
empty  sack  under  his  arm,  and  was  sur- 
rounded by  about  a  dozen  of  his  country- 
men, who  seemed  to  regard  him  as  an 
oracle,  heartilj^  echoing  back  his  boisterous 
laughter,  and  exclaiming — "  Well  done, 
Mister  ]M' Car  thy  ! — faith  and  it's  you 
that's  your  mother's  own  son,  at  iny  rate," 

O'Connell  had  sailed  from  Liverpool  on 
the  previous  day,  and  his  countrymen  were 
discussing  his  political  merits. 

"  Why,  bad  luck  to  ye,"  exclaimed  our 
hero  with  the  greatcoat,  in  answer  to  one 
who  had  held  forth  in  praise  of  the  coun- 
sellor ;  "  and  is  it  you,  Mike  Behan,  that 
says  every  man  in  Ireland  should  pay  the 
O'Connell  rint  t — but  Pli  tell  you  a  bit  of 
a  parable,  as  father  O'Shee  says,  and  a 
parable,  too,  of  my  own  natural  mother's 
making.  '  Larry,'  says  she  to  me,  '  Larry 
McCarthy,  don't  be  after  planting  those 
big  potaties  for  seed ;  for  they've  a  hole 
m  their  heart  a  little  Christian  might  slape 
in.?'" 


"  You're  no  better  thin  a  Sassenach, 
Larry,"  interrupted  the  aforesaid  Mick ; 
'•'  can't  you  speak  your  maneing  like  a 
man,  if  you  have  any  maneing  at  all,  at 
all." 

This  was  like  to  have  ended  in  an  Irish 
row  in  reality — though  the  majority  evi- 
dently sided  with  Mister  Larry  M'Carthy, 
not  because  they  agreed  with  him  in  opin- 
ion, but  because,  as  afterwards  appeared,  he 
was  their  master  or  employer.  The  dis- 
putants paused  for  a  moment,  and  a  loud 
groan,  as  if  from  one  in  great  bodily  pain, 
mingled  with  the  wailings  of  a  woman,  was 
heard  from  the  farther  corner  of  the  boat. 
Larry  turned  round,  to  use  his  own  ex- 
pression, "  like  a  flash  of  lightning,"  and 
the  next  moment  he  stood  by  the  side  of 
the  sufferer,  who  was  a  tall,  bony-looking 
figure ;  but,  save  the  skin  that  covered 
them,  there  was  little  of  his  mortal  man 
but  the  bones  left.  It  was  only  necessary 
to  look  ofi  his  features,  wasted  as  they 
were,  to  tell  that  he,  too,  was  an  Irishman. 
A  young  wifesat  beside  him,  whose  counte- 
nance resembled  beauty  personifying  sor- 
row ;  she  had  a  child  at  her  breast,  and 
two  othera,  the  eldest  not  more  than  five 
years  of  age,  stood  by  her  knee.  Larry 
looked  U|?on  the  group,  and  his  heart  was 
touched. 

"  Och?  and  what  may  be  ailing  ye, 
count;yman  .?"  said  he  ;  "  sure  and  ye 
wouldn't  be  after  dying  among  friends, 
would  ye  .?" 

"  Ohon  !  and  is  it  a  friend  that  would 
be  asking  after  my  own  Patrick  ."'  replied 
the  poor  wife  ;  "  sure  then,  and  he  is  ill, 
and  we're  all  ill  togidder  ;  and  it  is  six 
blessed  months  since  he  earned  the  bridth 
of  tinpinny.  Oh  !  blackness  on  the  day 
that  the  rheumatis  came  on  him" 

"  Sure  now  and  is  that  all,"  interrupted 
Larry ;  ''  and,  belike,  the  doctors  have 
been  chatiug  you  ;  for,  I  tell  you,  honey, 
and  you,  too,  Patrick,  those  'natomy  chaps 
know  no  more  about  the  rheumatis  then 
holy  Solomon  knew  about  steam-boats. 
But,  belike,  I'm  the  lad  that  disn't  .know 


390 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


neither  ;  but,  maybe,  your  cbating  your- 
silf  if  ye  think  so.  Til  tell  yc  what  it  is  ; 
the  rheumatis  is  a  wandering  whid  be- 
tween the  flesh  and  the  bone  ;  and,  more 
than  that,  there  is  no  way  to  cure  it,  bnt 
to  sqiiazo  it  out  at  the  ends  of  the  fingers 
or  tous." 

"  Oh  !  my  childcr's  sorrow  on  it,  thin  !" 
replied  the  suffering  man's  wife ,  "  but, 
more  and  above  the  rheumatis,  Patrick 
got  his  log  broke  last  Fibruary" 

"  Ay,  splintered,  honey,"  added  the 
husband ;  "  and  the  doctors,  bad  luck  be 
wid  them,  can't  make  nothing  on't  ;  and 
I  am  now  gone  to  the  great  Salford  bone 
doctor." 

*'  And,  maybe,  he  won't  be  curing  the 
bit  bone  without  the  money,"  said  Larry, 
with  an  expression  of  sympathy. 

The  sufferer  shook  his  head,  and  was 
silent ;  his  wife  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  will  work.  1  will  beg,  I  will  die  for 
my  Patrick,"  she  exclaimed,  and  pressed 
the  child  closer  to  her  breast. 

"  You  had  better  be  barring  the  dying, 
honey,"  returned  Larry  ;  "  and  wouldn't 
a  raffle,  think  ye,  among  friends,  be  more 
gintale  thin  begging  among  strangers!" 

"  Ohon  !  and  is  it  friends  you  say  .?" 
replied  she. 

"  Yes,  sure,  and  it  ia  friends  that  I  say," 
answered  Larry;  "and  a  raffle  is  what  no 
gintleman  need  be  ashamed  on." 

The  boat  at  this  moment  stopped  oppo- 
site an  inn  at  the  side  of  the  canal ;  Larry 
borrowed  a  quart  measure  from  the  skip- 
per, and  sprang  ashore.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  returned  with  a  quantity  of  rum,  and, 
handing  it  first  to  the  wife,  and  then  to  her 
lame  husband,  said — "  Come,  warm  up 
thy  ould  bones  with  a  drop  of  the  cratur." 
He  called  the  rest  of  his  countrymen 
around  him,  and  handed  the  liquor  to  each. 
When  gathered  together,  there  might  be 
about  sixteen  or  eighteen  of  them  in  all. 

"  Arrah,  now,  and  these  are  all  my  men," 
said  Mister  Larry  M'Carthy,  with  a  look 
of  comical  consequence,  to  his  infirm 
countryman ;    "  and  where  would  you  be 


finding  better  ?  We  are  gone  up  to  a  bit 
of  work  in  Lancashire  ;  for  the  Inglish  are 
no  better  than  born  childer  at  our  work  ;* 
and,"  raising  the  liquor  to  his  head,  he 
added,  "  here's  the  Holy  Virgin  be  with 
us,  countryman,  and  better  luck  to  your 
bad  leg  ;  and  should  it  ever  be  mended  at 
all — though  you  may'nt  be  good  for 
much  at  hood-work  iny  more,  you  have 
still  a  stout  bone  for  a  barrow — and  you 
won't  be  forgetting  to  ask  for  Larry 
M'Carthy.  And,  now,  boys,"  continued 
he,  turning  to  his  workmen,  "  here  is  this 
poor  man,  and,  more  than  this,  I'm  saying, 
our  own  lawful  countryman,  with  the 
rheumatis  and  a  broken  leg,  and  his  wife, 
too,  as  you  see,  and  those  three  little 
cherubiuis,  all  starving,  to  be  sure,  and  he 
going  to  the  doctor's  without  a  penny  I 
Sure  you  won't  disgrace  ould  Ireland — 
just  look  at  the  childer — and  1  say  that  a 
raffle  is  the  gintale  way  of  doing  the 
thing." 

So  saying,  he  thrust  his  band  into  his 
pocket,  and  pulled  out  a  small  canvas  bag 
well  filled  with  silver,  and  tied  round  the 
mouth  with  a  strong  cord.  Pie  took  ofT 
his  indescribable  brown  hat ;  he  threw  in 
a  piece  or  two  of  silver,  and  went  round, 
shaking  it  among  his  countrymen.  Each 
took  out  a  bag  similar  to  Larry's,  and  threw 
his  mite  into  the  hat.  He  then,  without 
counting  them,  emptied  its  contents  into 
the  lap  of  the  poor  woman  ;  and  I  should 
think,  from  their  appearance,  they  must 
have  amounted  to  thirty  or  forty  shillings. 
She  burst  into  tears.  The  lame  man 
grasped  his  band,  and  endeavored  to 
thank  him. 

"  Don't  be  after  spakeing,"  said  Larry  ; 
"  did  you  think  we  warn't  Christians.^" 

Such  was  the  Irish  raffle.  Larry  in- 
stantly resmned  his  jokes,  his  jests,  and 
his  arguments  ;  but  I  could  do  nothing 
during  the  rest  of  the  passage,  but  think 

»  Larry  and  his  countrymen  were  all  navisalon 
as  they  are  called,  or  rather  excavators,  employed 
iu  digging  cauals,  railways,  dix:ks,  &c. 


THE  IRISH   REAPER. 


391 


of  'the  good  Samaritan,  and  adniii-e  Mister 
L^rry  M 'Car thy. 


In  the  September  of  1834, 1  was  wandcr- 
ing  by  the  side  of  a  country  cliurchj^ard, 
situated  aoar  the  banks  of  the  Tync.  The 
sun  had  gone  down,  and  the  twilight  was 
falling  grey  upon  the  graves.  1  saw  a 
poor-looking  man,  whose  garnicn'ts  flutter- 
ed in  tatters  with  the  evening  breeze,  and 
who,  by  \n^  appearance,  seeme-d  to  be  an 
Irish  reaper,  rise  from  among  the  tombs 
He  repeated!}'-  drew  the  sleeve  of  his  coat 
across  his  eyes,  and  I  could  hear  him 
sobbing  heavily,  as  thoiigh  his  heart  would 
burst.  As  we  approached  each  other,  1  dis- 
covered that  he  was  my  old  canal-boat 
companion,  the  then  merry  and  kind-heart- 
ed Larry  M'Carthy  ;  but  no  more  like  the 
Larry  I  had  then  seen  him,  than  a  funeral 
to  a  bridal. 

His  frame  was  w^asted  to  a  skeleton, 
and  hunger  aad  misery  glistened  in  his 
eyes  together. 

^'  Ha  !"  said  I,  accosting  him,  "  is  it 
possible  that  sorrow  can  have  laid  its  heavy 
hand  upon  the  light  heart  of  Larry  M'Car- 
thy  ?" 

'"  Sure,"  said  he,  drying  away  the  tears 
that  run  down  his  wan  and  want-worn 
■cheeks,  "  and  it  is  true,  and  too  true,  and 
heavy  is  the  hand,  sure  enough  ;  but  not 
so  heavy  as  it  should  be,  or  it  would  be 
weighing  me  into  that  grave.""  He  point- 
ed to  the  grave  I  had  seen  him  leave,  and 
added,  '''  But  how  do  you  know  me,  sir — 
and  who  tould  ye  my  name — as  I  don''t 
know  yours  ? — for,  sure,  and  mine  is  Larry 
M''Carthy,  as  my  father  and  mother,  and 
his  rivircnce,  wid  my  natural  sponsors,  to 
boot,  all,  every  one  of  thim,  say  and 
affirm." 

1  reminded  him  of  the  canal-boat  and 
the  raffle,  and  inquired  the  cause  of  his 
distress,  and  his  idsit  to  the  srave. 

"  Arrah,  master,""  said  he,  ■"  and  you 
touch  a  sore  place  when  you  ask  me  to  tell 
it.  Perhaps  you  don't  know — for  how 
should  you — that,  not  long  after  the  time 


you  spake  of  in  the  canal-boat,  I  came 
down  to  what  3'-ou  call  the  Borders  here, 
to  a  bit  'of  navigating  work  t'bat  was  to  be 
a  long  job.  I  lodged  wid  a  widow — b,  da- 
cent  ould  woman,  that  had  a  daughtea*  they 
called  Mary — and,  och  !  you  may  be 
j  thinking  that  ever  Mary  had  an  equal,  but 
I  it's  wrong  that  ye  are  if  ye  think  so.  Her 
I  eyes  were  Hke  drops  of  dew  upon  the 
I  shamrock  ;  and  although  she  was  not  Irish 
j  but  •S'cot'ch,  it  was  all  one  ;  for,  ye  know, 
the  Scotch  and  Irish  are  one  man's  childer. 
But,  at  iny  rate,  she  had  a  true  Irish  heart ; 
and,  but  for  the  sae  or  the  channel,  as 
they  call  it,  she  would  have  been  Irish  as 
well  as  me.  Lhe  more  I  saw  of  Mary,  I 
loved  her  the  more — better  than  a  bird 
loves  the  green  tree.  She  loved  nic,  too  ; 
and  we  were  married.  The  ould  woman 
died  a  few  weeks  before  Mary  presented 
me  wiih  two  little  Larrys.  1  might  have 
called  them  both  Larry ;  for  they  were  as 
like  each  other  as  your  two  eyes,  and  both 
of  them  as  lilie  me,  too,  as  any  two  stars 
in  the  blessed  firmament  are  like  each 
other,  where  nobody  can  see  the  dilFerence. 
"  Mary  made  the  best  wife  in  Christen- 
dom ;  and,  when  our  little  cherubs  began 
to  run  about  our  knees,  and  to  lisp  and 
spake  to  us,  a  thousand  times  have  I  clasp- 
ed Mary  to  my  breast,  and  blessed  her  as 
though  my  heart  would  burst  with  joy. 
'  Sure,'  I  used  to  say,  '  what  would  my 
own  mother  have  said,  had  her  ould  eyes 
been  witness  to  the  happiness  of  her  son, 
Larry  M'Carthy  ?">' 

*'  But  often  the  thought  came  staleing 
over  me,  that  my  happiness  was  too  like  a 
drame  to  last  long  ;  and  sure  and  it  wa^  a 
drame,  and  a  short  one  too.  A  cruel, 
mortal  fever  came  to  the  village,  and  who 
should  it  seize  upon  but  my  little  darlints. 
It  was  hard  to  see  them  dying  together, 
and  my  Mary  wept  her  bright  eyes  blind 
over  them.  But  bad  luck  was  upon  me. 
The  '  pothecary  tould  us  as  how  our  lovely 
childer  would  die  ;  and,  on  the  very  day 
that  he  said  so,  the  wife  that  was  dearer 
to  me  than  ould  Ireland  to  Saint  Patrick, 


392 


TALES   OF   THE  BORDERS. 


lay  down  on  the  bed  bcsicfe  them — and, 
och,  s^ir  !  before  another  sun  looked  in  at 
our  window,  a  dying  mother  lay  between 
her  dead  ehilder.  1  wish  that  1  might  die 
too;  and,  within  I'hree  days,  1  followed 
my  wife  and  my  little  ones  together  to  the 
same  grave.  It  was  this  arm  that  lowered 
them  into  the  cold  earth — into  the  narrow 
iiousc — and,  sure,  it  has  been  weak  as  a 
child's  since.  INIy  strength  is  buried  in 
their  grave.  I  have  wrought  but  little  siuee ; 


for  I  cannot.  1  have  no  home  now  ;  and 
1  take  a  light  job  anywhere  when  it  comes 
in  my  way.  Every  year,  at  reaping  time, 
I  visit  their  grare,  and  bring  with  me  a 
bit  of  shamrock  to  place  over  it,  and  that 
it  may  be  a  mark  where  to  bury  me,. 
should  1  die  here,  as  I  hope  I  will." 

Within  ten  days  after  this,  I  beheld  the* 
body  of  the  once  lively  and  generous- 
hearted  Larry  M'Carthy  consigned  to  the- 
grave,  by  the  side  of  his  wife  and  children» 


-^►^♦►^^ 


THE  STORY  OF  DUGALI>  GLEN; 


THE    SHEPHERD    OP    DILSTON. 


Several  years  have-  now  elapsed  since  I 
resolved  to  spend  a  month  of  the  sum- 
mer's vacation  in  making  a  pigrimage  to 
some  of  the  scenes  famed  in  history  or  in 
song,  whfich  impart  an  interest  to  the  con- 
fines of  the  si&ter  kingdoms.  With  this 
intention  I  set  out,  one  morning  early, 
from  my  habitation  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tweed,  with  a  heart  as  light  as  the  breeze 
that  played  around  me.  The  third  week 
of  my  peregrinatioD-s  found  me  in  what  is 
called  the  Tiudale  Ward  of  Northumber- 
land. Having  feasted  my  appetite  for  the 
antique,  by  exploring  the  numerous  relics 
of  the  Romans  with  which  that  district 
abounds,  one  afternoon  I  came  unexpect- 
edly upon  the  picturescjue  ruins  of  the 
castellated  mansion  of  Dilston  Hall — for- 
merly tho  residence  of  the  unfortunate 
James,  Earl  of  Derweutwater,  who,  in 
171G,  was  beheaded  for  al>etting  the  Earl 
of  Mar  in  his  vain  attempt  at  reinstating 
the  Stuarts  upon  the  throne.  These  vene- 
rable remains  occupied  the  summit  of  a 
steep  and  beautifully  wooded  bank,  which 
overhangs  the  romantic  rivulet,  or  rather 


brook,  of  DeviTs  Water,  near  its  conflu- 
eoce  with  the  Tyne.  The  sky,  which, 
during  the  earlier  part  of  the  day,  ha(J 
been  clear  and  serene,  became  suddenly 
now  overcast  with  dark  clouds,  which 
forthwith  bcinin  to  discharge  themselves  iis 
a  heavy  shower.  To  escape  a  ^'  ducking,"' 
I  found  myself  compelled  to  seek  shelter 
in  the  interior  of  a  gloomy  vault,  a  few 
yards  distant  from  the  ruins,  which  had 
been  used  as  a  burial  place  by  the  ancient 
Barons  of  Dilston  Hall,  but,  as  I  ascer- 
tained from  the  marks  upon  its  pavement, 
had  been  latterly  converted  into  the  igno- 
ble purpose  of  a  pen  for  sheep.  Scarcely 
had  I  entered,  when  the  storm  burst  forth 
furiously,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  brook, 
which  laved  the  base  of  the  rock  on  whichs 
the  vault  stood,  came  brawling  down  with 
the  noise  and  vehemence  of  a  torrent.  Na< 
alternative  was  thus  left  me,  but  to  amuse 
myself,  as  best  I  might,  in  attempting  to 
decipher  a  few  of  the  time-worn  monu- 
mental tablets  that  were  imbedded  in  the 
walls  of  this  stombre  mansion  of  the  dead. 
I  had   spent   some   time   in  tracing   the 


STORY  OF  DUGALD  GLEN. 


393 


scarcely  legible  characters  that  told  of  the 
deeds  and   achievements    of   the   ancient 
barons  of  Dilston,  whose  mouldering  ashes 
crumbled   bonoath  my  feet,  and  was  pro- 
ceeding to  transfer  to  a  scrap  of  paper  the 
inscription  upon  the  most  recent  of  these 
monuments,   erected   by  Anne,  Countess 
of  Denventwater,  to  the   memory  of  her 
brave  but  unfortunate  son,  when  the  vault 
became  suddenly  darkened.      On   turning 
round   to  ascertain    the   cause  of  this,   I 
found  it  to  be  occasioned  by  an  old  shop- 
herd,  v.dio  stood  at  its  entrance,  apparent- 
ly a  good   deal    astonished  at  jfinding  me 
seated  in  such  a  situation,     I  soon  entered 
into  conversation  with  him,  and  discover- 
ed him  to  be  not  only  intelligent,  but  like- 
wise  disposed  to  be  very  communicative. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  a  native  of  Scot- 
land ;    but,    for    several    years    past,  had 
been   employed   in  the  capacity  of  shep- 
herd to  a  farmer   in   that  neighborhood. 
The  family  of  Derwentwater  became  the 
subjecl  of  conversation  ;  and  having  talked 
of  the  fate  of  the  last  of  its  earls,  I  was 
led  to  speak  of  the  subsequent  insurrection 
of   1745,  whicli   had  for  ever  blasted  the 
hopes  of  the   House  of  Stuart.     Talking 
of  the  battle  of  Preston,  which,  for  a  time, 
had  inspired  the  adherents  of  the  Cheva- 
lier w^itli  expectations  of  success,  the  old 
man's  face  brightened  up,  and,  with  con- 
siderable pride,  he  told  me  that  his  father 
had  been  one  of  those  who  fell  fii2;htin2:  in 
the   "  gude  cause  "  on   that  bloody  field. 
"  Had  you  time,  sir,"  said  he,   "  I  could 
tell   you  something   about   that    business 
that,  aiblins,  you  may  ria  ha'e  heard  afore  ; 
but  it's  a  lang   story,  and,  1  dou])t,  no  jist 
a  proper  ane  to  be  tauld  in  siccan  a  eerie 
place  as  this      An'  you^-e  no  feared  for  a 
wet  coat,  you   might  e'en  stap   down   the 
burn  to  my  bsiid,  that's  no  muckle    mair 
than  a  stancsthraw  frae  this,  an'  there  you 
shall  be  made  welcome  to  rest  yoursel'  till 
sic  time  as  the  storm  blaw  by  ;  and  I,  the 
meantime,  wad  be  tellin'  you  the  story  o' 
my  faithcr  and  the  Laird  o'  Glengorroch." 
A  minute's  walk,  or  rather   run,  brought 


us  to  the  shepherd's  hut,  and  another  had 
scarcely  time  to  slide  by  befoi-e  I  was  seat- 
ed, hob-a-nob,  with  Dugald  Glen  (for  that 
was  the  name  of  my  new  acquaintance), 
before  a  blazing  fire,  listening  to  a  narra- 
tion of  the  marvellous  incidents,  which, 
on  my  return  homo,  I  embodied  in  the  fol- 
lowing story,  which  is  now  submitted  to 
the  readers  of  the  Border  Tales. 

It  was  on  a  fine  still  evening  in  the  au- 
tumn of  1745,  that  the  clansmen  of  Glen- 
gorroch, with  tlieir  aged  chieftain  at  their 
head,  marched  from  the  Highland  glen  of 
that  name,  to  share  the  fortunes  of  Prince 
Charles  P^dward,  who  had  reared  his  stan- 
dard on  the  heath  of  Glenfinnan.      Their 
wives    and    children    were    collected   in 
groups  on  the  sides  of  the  Gorroch  moun- 
tain, in   order   to    enjoy  as  long  a  view  as 
possible  of  the  "  tartaned  warriors."    The 
anxious,  though  somewhat  proud  interest, 
with  which   they  gazed  on  their  departing 
forms,  deepened  in  proportion  as  the  dis- 
tance  between  them  was  magnified  ;  and 
when,  at  length,  an  abrupt  winding  of  the 
glen  carried   their  kinsmen,  one  by  one, 
from  their  sight,  a  simultaneous  shriek,  or 
rather  yell,  burst  from  the  female  multi- 
tude.    Then,  having  gazed  for  some  time 
on   the  particular  object  of  their  love  or 
affection,  they  hastily  pressed  their  weep- 
ing children  to  their   bosoms,  and  slowly 
began  to  move   down  the  acclivity  of  the 
mountain  to   their   hamlet  in  the  vale  be- 
low, to   muse   in  silence  on  the  strano^e 
enterprise  that  was  taking   their  relatives- 
"  awa  frae  the   land  o'  the  mountain  and 
heather;"   wliile   Lady  Helen,  the  daugh- 
ter of  tlr.'ir  chieftain,  returned  in  sorrow 
to  the  old  castle  or  tower  of  Glengorro<5h, 
which   reared  its  high  and   somewhat  di- 
lapidated turrets  on  the  summit  of  a  pre- 
cipitous   cliff    that    proj.^cted    from    the 
northern  side  of  the  mountain. 

With  the  proceedings  of  Prince  Char- 
les, after  his  being  joined  by  the  Glengor- 
roch and  other  disaffected  clans,  our  read- 
ers are  too  well  acquainted  to  require  any 
farther   information  from  us.     They  will 


S94 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


recollect  that,  on  the  evening  prior  to  the 
tattle  of  Preston,  the  royal  army,  under 
the  command  of  Sir  John  Cope,  lay  en- 
•caraped  on  that  wide  and  then  barrea 
plain  which  extends  between  the  village  of 
Tranent  and  the  sea  ;  whereas  the  insur- 
gent forces  occupied  the  gentle  slope  of  a 
bill  a  little  to  the  northward  of  that  vil- 
lage— an  extensive  and  intricate  morass, 
"which  has  now  disappeared  under  the  im- 
provements of  moder.R  agriculture,  stretch- 
ing between  them.  Thus  were  the  rival 
armies  situated  on  the  wet  and  foggy  night 
•of  the  20th  September,  1745,  awaiting  the 
approach  of  the  dawn  to  commence  the 
•onset.  The  hardy  mountaineer,  aoeus- 
tomed  to  deeds  of  slaughter  and  blood- 
shed, lay  wrapt  in  his  tartan  plaid  on  the 
bare  ground,  in  profound  repose  ;  while 
■manj''  a  less  courageous  Lowkndcr,  who 
had  either  joined  in  the  enterprise  in  a  fit 
of  enthusiasm,  or  from  a  spirit  of  retalia- 
iiion  engendered  by  wrongs  received  from 
iihose  in  authority,  heard  the  cry  of  the 
sentinels  as  they  changed  guard,  and  view- 
ed the  watch  fires  blazing  on  the  plain  with 
feoJings  of  a  far  from  pleasing  kind. 

On  that  night,  as  the  chieftain  of  Glem- 
gorrech  sat  in  his  tent,  after  his  brother 
ofiicers  had  retired  to  their  slumbers,  me- 
ditating on  the  probable  issue  of  the  mor- 
row"'s  eno-ao-ement,  there  entered  the  form 
of  an  aged  Highlander,  accoutred  in  a  full 
suit  of  armor  ;  but  his  body  was  bowed 
down  with  the  load  of  years,  and  the  sword 
which  hung  unsheathed  by  his  side  was 
reddened  with  g-ore,  that  flowed  in  a  dark 
purple  stream  from  a  wound  in  his  side. 
His  face  was  unearthly  pale,  the  features 
being  contracted  into  a  convulsive  grin, 
rather,  however,  betokening  a  feeling  of 
acute  pain  than  of  displeasure.  The  spec- 
tre (for  such  it  was)  glided  toward  the 
•spot  where  the  chieftain  was  sitting,  and 
then  fixing  his  lustreless  eyes  upon  him, 
he  pronounced,  in  a  solemn  sepulchral 
tone — "  Glengorroch,  prepare;  for  thy 
hour  is  coming  !  Ere  the  morrow's  sun 
hath  set,  the  last  chieftain  of  Gleno^orroch 


shall  be  no  more  !"  And,  as  the  voice 
died  away,  the  figure  became  gradually 
more  and  more  indistinct,  tiil,  at  length, 
it  almost  disappeared.  At  first,  the  chief- 
tain had  tried  to  speak,  and  ask  the  offi- 
cer, whom  he  then  conceived  the  appari- 
tion to  be,  the  cause  of  so  uncxp'^cted  a 
visit,  when  suddenly  the  idea  of  his  being 
in  the  presence  of  Dhorach  nan  Dhu,  the 
mysterious  being  who  was  supposed  to 
preside  over  the  destinies  of  his  race, 
flashed  upon  his  mind,  and  rendered  every 
effort  to  speak  for  some  time  abortive, 
though  his  mind  remained  little  more  af- 
fected than  might  be  attributed  to  surprise 
at  so  strange  a  sight.  During  the  vision, 
he  sat  boldly  gazing  on  the  spectre,  and 
instead  of  appearing  alarmed  or  daunted  at 
the  appalling  annunciation,  a  smile  of  sad- 
ness played  u^Don  his  aged  features  ;  and, 
on  regaining  his  speech,  just  as  the  appa- 
rition was  gliding  out  of  sight,  he  calmly 
exclaimed — 

"  Spectre  !  phantom  !  or  whoever  thou 
art,  who  hast  thus  kindly  come  to  warn 
me  of  mj  approaching  doom,  depart  not, 
I  pray  thee,  till  thou  hast  likewise  foretold 
to  me  what  shall  be  the  destiny  of  the  heir- 
ess of  our  house,  that,  when  the  fatal  blow 
shall  fall  on  his  head,  Glengorroch  may 
die  in  peace." 

While  he  spoke,  the  spectre  entirely 
vanished ;  but,  at  the  further  end  of  the 
apartment,  the  form  of  a  lady,  in  tears  and 
in  deep  mourning,  was  seen  approaching 
a  gloomy  convent,  at  the  portj,l  of  which 
stood  a  train  of  nuns  attired  in  the  unos- 
tentatious garb  of  the  sisterhood.  As  the 
figure  of  the  lady  entered  the  convent,  the 
tent  resounded  with  the  solemn  tones  of 
the  organ,  which  ceased  on  the  novice  and 
the  nuns  disappearing,  and  the  gates  being 
closed.  Glenn-orroch  sat  for  some  time 
with  his  eyes  rivetted  to  the  spot  where 
the  vision  had  melted  away,  engaged  in 
deep  thought.  At  length  he  gave  utter- 
ance to  the  painful  emotions  which  over- 
came him  at  the  latter  apparition. 

"  And  is  it  even  so  .^ — are   thus  all  my 


STORY  OF  DUGALD  GLEN. 


395 


high  fancies  to  be  blasted  for  ever  ? — and 
is  it  to  fare  thus  hard  with  the  hist  rem- 
nant of  Glengorroch  ?  Alas  !  my  poor 
child !  how  are  all  thy  father's  proud  hopes 
and  wishes  for  thy  happiness  in  a  moment 
departed,  and  the  heart,  which  could  have 
smiled  upon  its  own  misfortunes,  made  to 
weep  tears  of  blood  for  thine  !" 

During  the  remainder  of  the  night,  he 
continued  to  pace  backward  and  forward, 
his  mind  ens^rossed  with  the  most  melan- 
choly  reflections.  The  dawn  at  length 
began  to  break,  and  they  were  interrupted 
by  the  entrance  of  his  old  and  faithful  do- 
me-stic,  Dugald  Glen,  a  Lowlander  by 
birth,  but  whose  long  servitude  had  caused 
him  to  be  considered  by  his  master  rather 
in  the  light  of  a  confidant  than  as  an  or- 
dinary serving-man.  He  entered  the  tent 
with  a  smile  on  his  countenance,  which 
became  suddenly  dispelled  as  he  observed 
that  of  his  master  overcast  with  a  look  of 
unusual  sadness.  Without  paying  much 
attention  to  the  old  man,  who  had  now 
intruded  himself  into  his  presence,  Glen- 
gorroch continued  his  perambulations, 
engaged  in  the  same  gloomy  reverie  as 
previous  to  Dugald's  appearance.  By 
tliis  time,  daylight  had  advanced  so  far  as 
to  render  the  torch,  which  continued  to 
blaze  on  the  floor  of  the  apartment,  alto- 
gether superfluous.  This  quickly  attract- 
ed Dugald's  notice,  who  remarked,  as  he 
extinguished  the  blazing  faggot,  that  it 
was  ''  neither  mair  nor  le-ss  than  sinnin' 
ane's  mercies  to  use  baith  day  an'  torch 
light  at  the  same  time ;"  and  this  he  did 
in  a  louder  tone  than  usual,  chiefly  with  a 
view  of  rousing  his  master  from  his  reve- 
ries, that  he  might  ascertain  what  had  given 
rise  to  the  painful  reflections,  which,  from 
long  experience  of  his  habits,  he  readily 
saw  were  passing  in  the  chieftain's  mind. 
The  latter,  at  the  loud  exclamation  of  Du- 
gald, turned  hastily  round,  and,  speedily 
assuming  his  wonted  smile,  said  to  the 
venerable  valet — "  So,  Dugald,  you  are 
quickly  afoot ;  you,  for  one,  seem  deter- 
mined not  to  be  backward  in  the  fight. 


How  goes  the  time,  Dugald  ? — is  the 
Prince  astart  yet ! — and  how  are  our 
English  friends  looking;  this  mornin.'x  I" 

"  Please  your  honor,"  replied  Dugald, 
bowing  respectfully,  "  the  sun  is  just  be- 
ginning to  keek  out  frae  the  clouds  ower 
Berwick  Law  ;  an' as  for  the  Prince,  he's 
been  rinniu'  frae  ae  tent  to  anither  this 
half  hour,  an',  I  doubt  not,  will  bo  wi' 
your  Grace  i'  the  crack  o'  a  nut  shell ; 
an'  when  I  came  ben,  the  Southrons  were 
putting  out  their  fires,  and  seemed  to  be 
in  an  unco  flurry.  But,  i'  the  name  o' 
the  Holy  Virgin,  what's  makin'  you  look 
sae  pale  an'  fearsome  :  1  declare  your 
cheeks  are  as  white  as  a  snaw-ba',  or  a 
sliced  turnip  ;  it  canna  be  that  your  honor's 
fear'd  for  the  day's  wark  ;  but,  aiblins, 
you  may  find  yourseP  ower  weak  to  fight 
at  your  time  o'  life,  an'  nae  wonder  .^" 

"  Fear  hath  ever  been  a  strano-er  to  the 
heart  of  our  race,  Dugald,"  rejoined  the 
chieftain,  reassuming  the  thouo-htful  look 
which  had  been  dispersed  by  the  appear- 
ance of  his  attendant  ;  "  and  at  no  period 
during  my  long  life  did  I  feel  myself  more 
able  or  willing  to  wield  my  sword  manful- 
ly, than  to-day.  But,  if  my  face  be,  as 
you  say,  paler  than  usual,  it  is  owino" 
neither  to  fear  nor  weakness  ;  other  and 
weightier  causes  are  required  to  drive  the 
color  from  my  face  ;  and,  alas  !  these  have 
been  sent  enough  to  curdle  every  drop  of 
blood  in  my  veins  ;  but  thou  knowest 
them  not,  Dugald,  and  it  is  better  thou 
shouldst  not,  for  thine  old  eyes  will  may- 
hap have  closed  in  death  ere  the  last  event 
come  to  pass." 

"  By  the  Holy  St.  Peter  !"  said  the  old 
man,  with  a  look  of  the  most  serious 
alarm,  "  am  I  to  be  believe  my  ears,  or 
has  your  honor  been  dreamin'  }  My  dear 
maister,  if  you  care  ae  straw  for  your  puir 
servant,  tell  him  what  it  is  that's  makm'' 
you  speak  in  that  fashion.  Before  I  left 
you  last  night,  you  were  in  the  greatest 
spirits,  an'  now  you're  lookin'  as  white  as 
a  corp,  an'  talkin'  in  that  fearsome  man- 
ner just  when  you're  on  the  point  o'  being 


396 


TALES   OP  THE  BORDERS. 


restored  to  a'  your  ancient  honors  and 
dignities.  O  my  dear  maister,  tell  me  if 
ony  danger  is  like  to  happen  thee  or  thine, 
an'  auld  Dugald  Glen  '11  no  grudge  the 
best  drap  o'  bluid  in  his  body  to  keep 
you  frae  skaith."  And  here  the  tears 
ran  down  the  old  man's  face  as  he  fell  to 
the  ground  and  grasped  his  master's 
knees. 

"  Poor  old  man  !"  said  the  chieftain,  a 
tear  at  the  same  time  glistening  in  his 
eyes,  ''•'  last  night  I  thought  as  thou  dost 
even  now,  that  honor  and  power  were 
about  once  more  to  smile  on  our  ill-star- 
red house  ;  but  the  fates  have  otherwise 
determined.  However,  my  kind  old  man, 
enouf^h  hath  been  left  from  the  wreck  to 
enable  thee  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
thy  days  in  peace  and  comfort ;  take  this, 
Duo-aid  " — holdim:  out  to  the  old  man 
his  purse,  at  which  however,  he  gazed 
without  offering  to  accept  it — "  this  is  all 
I  will  be  able  to  leave  thee  for  thy  long 
and  faithful  services  ;  but  I  will  speak  to 
the  Prince  in  thy  behalf,  and  he,  1  doubt 
not,  will  not  see  our  old  servant  want; 
one  thing,^^  added  Glengorroch,  hurriedly, 
"  one  thing  let  me  beseech  thee  to  do,  in 
the  event  of  evil  betiding  thy  master — 
give  this  ring  to  Helen,  as  a  memorial 
from  her  father." 

"  My  honored  maister  !"  exclaimed  the 
poor  old  man,  after  a  great  many  ineffec- 
tual efforts  to  speak,  and  in  a  voice  quiver- 
ing with  emotion,  "  waes  me,  that  my  auld 
cen  should  hae  seen  this  day  ! — auld  Du- 
gald Glen  should  hae  been  lang  syne  lyin' 
wi'  his  forbears  in  Auchtcrmuchty  kirk- 
yard.  O  my  puir  maister  !  But  what 
did  the  bogle  say  was  to  befa'  Leddy 
Helen  .^" 

''  Ask  me  not  further,  Dugald  ;  what  I 
have  alluded  to  has  been  foretold  for  the 
last  time  by  the  being  who  presides  over 
the  destinies  of  our  race.  Take  the 
money,  Dugald  ;  you  will  find  it  useful 
when  you  are  once  more  obliged  to  shift 
for  yourself;  and  keep  this  for  Helen." 

'^  0  my  puir  niaistcr  !  an'  is  it  so  you 


I  think   my  affections    are  to    be  got    and 

broken  off  t     Do  you  think  that  auld  Du- 

i  gald  Glen  can  live  after  his  first  and  only 

j  maister  has  perished  ? — No,  no,  my  Lord  ; 

i  the  same  hour  that  shall    terminate   the 

I  race  of  Glengorroch  shall  lay  auld  Dugald 

i'  the    dust.      I    needna,    therefore,    the 

money,  my  Lord,  an'  the  ring  you  maun 

consign  to  other  hands  to  gie  puir  Leddy 

Helen.      O  my  puir   maister  !  waes   me  1 

should  hae  lived  to  see  this  day  !" 

*'  Thou  art  wrong,"  said  Glengorroch, 
:  struirixlins:  to  conceal  his  emotion.  ''  thou 
art  wrong,  my  kind  old  man  ;  thou  mayest 
yet  live  to  see  many  a  happy  day,  and  it 
were  folly  in  thee  to  betake  thyself  to  the 
field,  resolved  to  share  the  fate  of  thy  un- 
happy master,  particularly  when  thou 
couldst  be  so  well  employed  in  conveying 
to  poor  Helen  this  last  token  of  her  father's 
love." 

Any  further  controversy  on  this  distress- 
ing subject  was  now  arrested  by  a  slight 
tap  on  the  door,  at  which  almost  instant- 
ly. Prince  Charles  entered  between  two 
Highlanders,  who  placed  themselves  by 
his  side.  He  wore  a  blue  velvet  bonnet, 
surmounted  by  the  famous  "  white  cock- 
ade," and  a  tartan  coat  with  the  star  of 
St.  Andrew  on  his  breast.  A  blue  sash, 
embroidered  with  gold,  hung  gracefully 
over  his  shoulder,  while  at  his  side  dangled 
a  massy  silver-hilted  broadsword.  His 
countenance  was  lightened  up  bv  a  smile  ; 
and  immediately  he  began  to  discourse 
with  the  chief  respecting  the  approaching 
contest.  During  this  interview,  the  latter 
seemed  to  have  regained  his  former  spirits, 
smilinij  and  even  laucrhins;  at  the  humor- 
ous  remarks  with  which  the  Prince's  con- 
versation, as  usual,  abounded.  Ere  long 
they  sallied  out  together,  joined  the  rest 
of  the  officers,  held  a  council  of  war,  and 
resolved  to  attack  the  enemy  immediately. 
The  mist,  hovering  in  dense  clouds  over 
the  intervening  morass,  prevented  cither 
army  from  distinctly  observing  the  move- 
ments of  the  other,  so  that,  by  the  aid  of 
a  person  well  acquainted  with  the  ground, 


STORY  OP  DUGALD   GLEN. 


397 


the  troops  of  Prince  Charles  were  enabled 
to  cross  the  marsh  without  observation, 
and  to  draw  themselves  up  in  order  of 
battle.  A  scene  of  bustle  and  confusion 
pervaded  the  royal  army,  when  the  terrific 
yell,  whereby  the  Highlanders  commenced 
the  attack,  too  truly  proved  that  the 
hedge,  which  they  fancied  they  saw  before 
them,  gradually  becoming  more  and  more 
conspicuous  as  the  day  approached,  was 
none  other  than  the  armed  host  of  the  en- 
emy. Short  but  decisive  was  the  conflict 
that  followed.  The  hardy  Highlanders, 
with  the  fury  of  a  winter's  torrent  rushing 
down  their  mountain  glens,  fiercely  assault- 
ed the  troops  of  the  foe,  and,  in  five  or 
six  minutes,  routed  and  put  them  to 
flight ;  and,  amid  the  groans  of  the  dying 
warriors,  rose  the  joyful  shout  of  "  God 
save  King  James — the  Stuart  for  ever  !" 
After  the  battle,  the  field  presented,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  a  most  melan- 
choly and  disgusting  spectacle — strewed 
with  the  mangled  bodies  of  the  slain  who 
had  fallen  under  the  tremendous  broad- 
sword. The  few  surviving  retainers  of 
Glengorroch  sought  out  from  the  lifeless 
bodies  of  their  clansmen,  that  of  their 
venerated  master,  which  was  pierced  with 
many  a  wound.  During  the  engagement 
he  had  fought  bravely  at  the  head  of  his 
own  undisciplined  group  of  mountaineers. 
The  last  chargje  vras  made.  Glengorroch 
rejoiced  in  the  expectation  of  victory,  and 
the  prophecy  of  Dhorach  seemed  unlikely 
to  be  realized.  And  victory  came — but 
the  chieftain  was  pierced  with  a  bullet 
which  stretched  him  on  the  plain  ;  and  on 
the  now  cultured  spot  where  he  fell,  a 
stately  hawthorn  tree,  that  has  braved  the 
storms  of  upwards  of  ninety  winters,  points 
out  to  the  passing  traveller  the  place 
where  in  peace  he  rests  from  his  warfare  ; 
near  which  a  solitary  mound  marks  the 
lowly  sepulchre  of  his  faithful  domestic, 
Dugald  Glen,  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
ill-fated  clan  of  Glengorroch. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  whose  morn 
had  proved  so  fatal  to  her  parent,  did  the 


fair  Helen  leave  the  tower  of  Glengorroch, 
with  the  intention  of  proceeding  to  the 
hamlet,  to  ascertain  if  any  intelligence  had 
arrived  of  the  proceedings  of  the  Prince  ; 
but  so  occupied  did  her  mind  become  with 
forebodings  relative  to  the  success  of  the 
enterprise  whereon  her  father  had  embark- 
ed his  life  and  fortunes,  that  she  proceed- 
ed in  a  totally  difi"erent  direction,  through 
a  wild  and  trackless  ravine,  utterly  uncon- 
scious, or,  at  any  rate,  heedless  whither 
she  wandered.  Over  this  rugged  path 
did  she  continue  to  move  onwards,  not- 
withstanding the  many  obstacles  which 
impeded  her  progress,  till  her  farther  ad- 
vancement was  eventually  stayed  by  her 
arriving  on  the  margin  of  the  deep  lake  of 
Gorroch,  whose  placid  bosom. was  then 
illumined  by  the  pale  rays  of  the  moon. 
As  she  gazed  on  its  tranquil  waters,  slum- 
bering in  all  the  beauty  of  an  autumn's 
eve,  the  anxious  feelings  which  previously 
harassed  her  mind  became  gradually  sub- 
dued. Regardless  of  the  hour  and  the 
solitude  of  the  spot,  she  seated  herself  on 
a  fragment  of  rock  that  lay  upon  the  mar- 
gin of  the  lake,  and  continued,  if  not  to 
admire,  at  least  to  be  soothed  by  the  calm 
scene  before  her.  At  length,  however, 
her  attention  was  irresistibly  distracted 
from  the  subject  that  had  given  rise  to 
her  moonlight  excursion,  on  observing,  at 
about  sixty  or  seventy  yards  from  her,  a 
sudden  burst  of  flame  arise  from  a  small 
Island  whereon  mouldered  the  ruins  of  a 
chapel,  within  whose  vaults  had  been  de- 
posited, from  time  immemorial,  the  ashes 
of  the  chieftains  of  Glengorroch.     Utterly 

at  a  loss  to  account  for  so  strans-e   a  cir- 
ri 

cumstance,  and  possessed  of  a  mind  im- 
pressed from  her  earliest  childhood  by 
the  wild  legends  and  superstitions  which 
did  then,  as  well  as  at  the  present  day, 
exert  so  powerful  a  sway  over  the  feelings 
of  the  Highlanders,  it  will  not  be  wonder- 
ed at  that  a  sort  of  dread  overcame  her 
at  the  sight.  It  increased  as  the  moon 
became  once  more  obscured  by  a  dense 
mass  of  clouds  ;  the  dark  interval  being 


398 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


rendered  yet  more  dismal  by  the  terrific 
o-lare  in  which  the  whole  of  the  trees  upon 
the  Island  were  speedily  enveloped. 
Motionless  she  fiat,  with  her  eyes  fixed  in 
fearful  gaze  upon  the  towering  conflagra- 
tion, in  which  appeared  to  be  fast  con- 
suming the  spot  that  had  ever  been  held 
sacred  by  the  natives  of  that  wild  region, 
till  the  lake,  and  the  hills  in  whose  bosom 
it  reclined,  became  once  more  irradiated 
by  the  more  genial  moonlight.  Not  to 
dispel,  indeed,  the  terror  which  had  now 
seized  upon  the  maid  of  Glengorroch,  did 
fair  Luna  once  more  throw  her  gladsome 
mantle  over  the  heath-embrowned  moun- 
tains for  no  sooner  had  the  clouds  float- 
ed from  before  her  round  disc,  than  the 
pale  Helen  descried  a  form,  apparently  of 
mortal  make,  gliding  upon  the  surface  of 
the  lake,  and  nearing  the  spot  where  she 
sat.  She  had  just  time  to  observe  that 
neither  boat  nor  oars  were  required  to 
carry  this  mysterious  intruder  on  her 
solitude  on  his  way  to  the  shore,  and  to 
infer  that  none  other  than  Dhorach  nan 
Dhu,  of  whom  she  had  previously  heard 
much,  but  whom  she  had  never  before 
seen,  was  approaching,  before  terror 
overcame  her  and  she  swooned.  On  ar- 
riving within  a  few  yards  of  the  damsel, 
he  halted  ;  and  lookinG;  lonsr  and  stead- 
fastly  on  her  pale  features,  his  withered 
countenance  assumed  a  look  of  pity,  as 
he  uttered  to  himself  the  followino;  in 
Gaelic  :  — 

"  And  has  it,  at  length,  fallen  upon 
Dhorach  nan  Dhu  to  pronounce  to  the 
fairest  maiden  of  these  mountains  the  fate 
which  has  Ions:  been  hoverino;  over  her 
father's  race  .'  Now  is  my  father's  son 
the  most  wretched  of  beings.  Oh  !  blame 
me  not,  lady,  for  even  now,  methinks,  1 
see  au  upbraiding  look  distort  thy  most 
beautiful  of  countenances." 

Thus  far  had  his  soliloquy  proceeded, 
when  the  object  to  w^houi  it  related, 
probably  startled  by  the  loud  tone  of  the 
speaker,  or  supernaturally  influenced, 
raised  her  head    from    the  position  into 


which  it  had  fallen  on  the  occurrence  of 
the  syncope,  and,  strange  as  it  may  ap- 
pear, now  looked  with  comparative  com- 
posure upon  the  being  whose  very  approach 
had  well  nigh  bereft  her  of  existence.  A 
pause  ensued,  ascribable,  probably,  on 
the  part  of  the  one,  to  a  certain  incapa- 
bility of  utterance  which  has  been  uni- 
formly supposed  to  overcome  mortals 
when  in  the  presence  of  beings  of  "  more 
than  mortal  mould,"  (and  of  the  ethereal 
essence  of  Dhorach  nan  Dhu,  it  may 
readily  be  supposed  Lady  Helen  did  not 
harbor  the  slightest  doubt),  and  on  the 
part  of  the  other,  to  an  unwillingness  to 
communicate  the  painful  intelligence 
which  devolved  upon  him,  as  the  last  seer 
who  presided  over  the  expiring  destinies 
of  Glengorroch.  Turning,  at  length,  half 
round,  and  pointing  to  the  flaming  pile  in 
the  midst  of  the  lake,  he  continued — 
"  Lady  of  Gorroch,  seest  thou  yonder 
flame,  in  which  is  consuming  the  spot 
where  the  ashes  of  thy  ancestors  repose  .'' 
Thy  father,  and  the  clan  whom  thou  saw- 
est  march  forth  from  these  glens,  shall 
need  no  such  resting-place  !  They,  and 
he  from  whom  thou  art  sprung,  have  found 
a  sepulchre  on  the  battle-field  of  the  Low- 
lander,  and  there  in  peace  shall  the  last 
chieftain  of  Glengorroch  rest  from  his 
warfare  !  The  work  of  Dhorach  nan  Dhu 
is  now  at  a  close  ;  and  with  yonder  ex- 
piring flame,"  continued  he,  still  p>oiuting 
'  to  the  island  where  the  fire  was  now 
nearly  extinguished,  "  shall  perish  the  last 
seer  of  thy  father's  clan  !" 

Having  thus  spoken,  he  plunged,  head- 
foremost, into  the  lake  ;  and  the  rever- 
beration of  one  solitary  shriek  among  the 
surrounding  caverns  and  glens,  rang  the 
death-knell  of  Dhorach  nan  Dhu. 

How  or  when,  after  the  above  awful 
meeting  with  Dorach  nan  Dhu,  Lady 
Helen  reached  the  tower  of  Glengorroch, 
the  narrative  of  the  shepherd  left  us  unin- 
formed. Certain  it  is.,  however,  that 
from  that  period  her   health   and   beauty 


THE  LAIDLEY  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTON  HEUGH. 


bcirnn  to  wane,  notwithstanding;  all  the 
cfTcu-ls  of  tho-se  who  lent  their  skill  to  ef- 
fect a  cure  ;  and  prior  to  her  entering  a 
foreign  conTent,  not   many  months  after- 


wards, such  as  were  familiar  with  her, 
traced  in  the  incoherency  of  her  discourse, 
which  always  had  reference  to  that  fatal 
meeting,  a;  lamentable  failure  in  her  mind. 


■^4^*-^ 


THE  LAIDLEY  WORM  OF  SPINDLESTON  HEUGH 


A    TALE-   OF    THE    ANGLO-SAXONS. 


"  Word  went  east,  and  word  went  west, 

And  word  is  gone  over  the  sea, 
That  a  Laidley  Worm  in  Spindleston.  Heugh 

Would  ruin  the  north  countrie. 

"^  All  folks  believe  wijhin  the  shirs 

This  story  to  be  true, 
And  they  all  run  to  Spindleston 

The  cave  and  trough  to  viev/. 

"  This  fact  now  Duncan  Fi-azier,. 

Of  Cheviot,  sings  in  rhyme. 
Lest  Bamboroughshire-raen  should  forget 

Some  part  of  it  in  lime."" — Ancient  Ballad.^ 


"  Tell  me,  old  man,'^  said  a  Northum- 
brian chief  to  a  Saxon  bard,  who  claimed 
his  hospitality,  "  tell  me  a  tale  of  the  old- 
en time— a  legend  of  the  race  of  Woden." 
The  bard  bowed  his  head  and  began  : 
— Great  was  Ida,  the  flame-bearer,  above 
all  the  kings  of  the  isles.  His  ships 
covered  the  sea  in  shoals,  and  his  war- 
riors, that  launched  them  on  the  deep, 
were  strcnsier  than  its  wave-s.  He  built 
the  towers  of  Bamborough  on  the  mighty 
rock  whose  shadow  darkens  the  waters. 
He  reared  it  as  a  habitation  for  his  queen, 

♦  The  popular  Ballad  of  the  Laidley  (or  loath- 
ly) Wonn  of  Spindleston  Heugh^  was  com-posed 
by  Duncan  Frazier,  the  Cheviot  bard,  more  than 
five  hundred  years  ago,  and  has  rendered  the  le- 
gend familiar  far  beyond  the  Borders.  The  tradi- 
tion had  doubtless  been  commemorated  by  the  an- 
cient Saxon  bards,  when  old  Duncan  turned  it  into 
rhyme  J  and  it  is  under  this  supposition  that  the 
present  tale  is  told,  the  narrator  being  understood 
to  be  a  wandering  bard  of  the  Saxon  race. 


and  he  called  it  by  her  name.  *  Where- 
soever he  went,  strong  places  were  con- 
sumed, kings  were  overthrown  and  became 
his  servants,  and  nations  became  one.  But 
Ida,  inf  the  midst  of  his  conquests,  fell  in 
battle,  by  the  red  sword  of  Owen,  the 
avenging  Briton.  Then  followed  six  kings 
wha  reigned  over  Bernici*,  from  the 
southern  Tyne  even  to  the  Frith  of  Dun 
Edin.  But  the  durati^on  of  their  sove- 
reignty was  as  a  summer  cloud  or  mornino" 
dew.  Their  reigns  were  as  six  spans  from 
an  infanfs  hand,  and  peaceful  as  an  in- 
fant's slumber. 

But  to  them  succeedexi  Ethelfritb  the 
Fierce — the  grandson  of  Ida — the  descend- 
ant of  the  immortal  Woden.  His  voice, 
when  his  ire  was  kindled,  was  like  the 
sound  o-f  deep  thunder,  and  his-  vengeance 

*  According  to  the  venerable  Bede,  the  name  of 
Ida's  queen  was  Bidda,  and  the  original  name  of 
Bamborough,  Biddaburgh. 


400 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


fleeter  than  the  lightning.  He  overthrew 
princevS  as  reeds,  and  he  swept  armies  be- 
fore him  as  stubble.  His  conquests  ex- 
tended from  where  clouds  sleep  on  the 
brow  of  Cheviot,  to  where  the  heights  of 
terrific  Snowdon  pierce  heaven.  Men 
trembled  at  his  name  ;  for  he  was  as  a 
wolf  in  the  fold,  as  an  eagle  amongst  the 
lesser  birds  of  heaven. 

Now,  the  wife  of  Ethelfrith's  bosom 
died  ;  «he  departed  to  the  place  of  spirits 
— to  the  company  of  her  fathers.  She 
left  behind  her  a  daughter,  Agitha,*  with 
the  tresses  of  the  raven's  wing  ;  and  she 
was  beautiful  as  sunbeams  sparkling  from 
morning  dew  amongst  the  flowers  of  spring. 
Her  eyes  were  bright  as  the  falcon's,  but 
with  their  brightness  was  mingled  the 
meekness  of  the  dove's.  The  breath  of 
sixteen  summers  had  fanned  her  cheeks. 
Her  bosom  was  white  as  the  snow  that  lay 
in  winter  on  the  hills,  and  soft  as  the  plum- 
ao-e  of  the  sea-fowl  that  soared  over  the 

o 

rocks  of  her  lofty  dwelling. 

A  hundred  princes  sighed  fer  the  hand 
of   the  bright-haired  Agitha  ;    but   their 
tales  of  love  had  no  music  for  her  ear,  and 
they  jarred  upon  her  soul  as  the  sounds  of 
a  broken  instrument.     She  bent  her  ear 
only  to  listen  to  the  song  of  affection  from 
the  lips  of  the  Chylde  Wynde — even  to 
Chylde   Wynde   of  the  sharp  sword  and 
the  unerring  bow,  who  was  her  own  kins- 
man, the  son  of  her  father's  brother.    His 
voice  was  to  her   as  the  music  of  water 
brooks  to  the  weary  and  fainting  traveller 
— dear  as  the  shout  of  triumph  to  a  con- 
quering  king.      Great   was   the    Chylde 
Wynde  amoisg  the    heroes  of   Bernicia. 
He  had  honored  the   shield  of  his  father. 
He    had    rendered    his    sword    terrible. 
Where  the  battle  raged  fiercest,  there  was 
his  voice  heard,  there  was  his  sword  seen  ; 
war -horses   and  their   riders  fell  before  it 
— it  arrested  the  fury  of  the  chariots   of 
■war.     Bards  recorded  his  deeds  in  immor- 
tal strains,  and  Agitha  saiag  them  in  secret. 


*  In  the  old  ballad  she  is  called  Margaret. 


Yet  would  not  Ethelfrith  listen  to  the 
prayer  of  his  kinsman,  but  his  anger  was 
kindled  against  him.  The  fierce  kinf^ 
loved  his  daughter,  but  he  loved  domi- 
nion more.  It  was  dearer  to  him  than  the 
light  of  heaven,  than  the  face  of  the  bless- 
ed sun.  He  waded  through  blood  as  wa- 
ter, even  the  blood  of  his  victims,  to  set 
his  feet  upon  thrones.  Ho  said  unto  him- 
self— "  Agitha  is  beautiful — she  is  fairer 
than  her  mother  was.  She  is  stately  as  a 
pine,  lifting  its  head  above  the  sacred 
oaks.  She  is  lovely  as  the  moon  when  it 
blesseth  the  harvest  fields.  A  king  only 
shall  possess  her  hand,  and  give  a  king- 
dom in  exchange  for  it." 

Thus  spoke  her  father,  the  mighty 
Ethelfrith,  whose  word  was  power,  and 
whose  purpose  was  fixed  as  the  everlasting 
rocks  on  which  the  foundations  of  the 
earth  are  built.  He  said,  therefore,  unto 
the  Chylde  Wynde — "  Strong  art  thou  in 
battle,  son  of  my  brother  ;  the  mighty 
bend  before  thy  spear,  and  thy  javelins 
pierce  through  the  shields  of  our  enemies 
As  an  eagle  descendeth  on  its  prey,  so 
rusheth  my  kinsman  to  the  onset.  But 
thou  hast  no  nation  to  serve  thee— no 
throne  to  offer  for  my  daughter's  hand. 
Whoso  calleth  himself  her  husband,  shall 
for  that  title  exchange  the  name  of  king, 
and  become  tributary  unto  me — even  as 
my  sword,  before  which  thrones  shake  and 
nations  tremble,  has  caused  others  -to  do 
homage.  Go,  therefore,  son  of  my  bro- 
ther, take  with  thee  ships  and  warriors, 
and  seek  thee  a  people  to  conquer.  Go, 
find  a  land  to  possess  ;  and  when  with  thy 
sword  and  with  thy  bow  thou  hast  done 
this,  return  ye  to  me,  bringing  a  crown  in 
thy  left  hand,  and  in  thy  right  will  I  place 
the  hand  of  Agitha  with  the  bright  hair, 
whose  eyes  are  as  stars." 

"  O  king  !"  answered  the  Chylde— 
"  thou  who  boldest  the  fate  of  priiici^s  in 
thy  hands,  and  the  shadow  of  whose  scep- 
tre stretohcth  over  many  nations — the  up- 
liftino-  of  whose  arm  turneth  the  tide  of 
battle— swear  unto  me,  by  the  spuit  of 


THE   LAIDLEY  WORM  OP  SPINDLESTON  HEUGH. 


401 


mighty  Woden,  that  while  I  am  doing  that 
which  thou  requirest,  and  ere  I  can  return 
to  lay  a  cr<3wii  at  thy  feet,  swear  that  thou 
will  not  bless  another  king  for  an  offered 
kingdom,  with  the  hand  of  Agitha,  in 
whom  my  soul  liveth  !" 

Then  did  the  wrath  of  the  king  wax 
terrible  ;  his  eyes  were  as  consuming 
iires,  even  as  the  fire  of  heaven  when  it 
darteth  from  the  dark  clouds  of  midnight. 
His  countenance  was  fierce  as  the  sea, 
when  its  waves  boil  and  are  lifted  up  with 
the  tempest.  In  his  wrath  he  dashed  his 
heel  upon  the  floor  ;  and  the  armor  of  con- 
quered kings,  the  spoils  of  a  hundred  bat- 
tles, rans;  round  the  halls  of  Ida. 

"  Shall  the  blood  of  my  brother,"  he 
cried,  "  stain  the  floor  of  his  father  ?  Boy  ! 
ask  ye  an  oath  from  a  king,  the  descend- 
ant of  Woden  ?  *  Away  !  do  as  I  com- 
mand thee,  lest  ye  perish  I" 

Then  did  the  Chylde  Wynde  withdraw 
from  before  the  anger  of  the  great  king, 
in  the  presence  of  whom,  in  his  wrath,  the 
life  even  of  his  kindred  was  as  a  spider's 
thread.  He  sought  Agitha  with  the  rain- 
bow smile,  where  she  sat  with  her  maid- 
ens, in  the  groves  of  Budle,  ornamenting 
a  robe  of  skins  for  her  father,  the  might}- 
Ethelfrith.  The  sea  sang  its  anthem  of 
power  along  the  shore,  and  the  caves  of 
the  rocks  resounded  with  the  chorus  of 
the  eternal  hymn.  The  farthest  branches 
of  the  grove  bent  over  the  cliff  that  over- 
hung the  sounding  sea.  The  birds  of 
heaven  sang  over  her  head,  and  before 
her  the  sea-birds  wheeled  in  myriads, 
countless  as  the  sand  upon  the  shore,  like 
burnished  clouds  over  the  adjacent  isles. 
Their  bright  wings  flashed  in  the  sun,  like 


*  It  may  be  necessary  to  mention,  that  the  ima- 
ginary deities  of  the  Saxons  were  named  Woden, 
Tuisco,  Thor,  Frea,  and  Seator.  They  also  wor- 
shipped the  sun  and  moon.  Woden  was  their 
god  of  war;  and  from  him  Ida  and  his  descend- 
ants professed  to  spring.  It  is  after  these  objects 
of  pagan  worship,  that  we  still  name  the  days  of 
the  week  ;  as  Woden's  day  (Wednesday,)  Thor's 
day  (Thursday,)  Frae's  day  (Friday,)  &;c.,  &c. 
VOL.  II.  63 


the    fitful   fires  that    light   the  northern 
heavens. 

The  warrior  Chylde  drew  near  to  where 
the  princess  sat.  There  was  gloom  and 
sorrow  on  his  brow.  The  echoes  of  the 
grove  answered  to  his  sighs.  Agitha  heard 
them.  She  beheld  the  cloud  of  anguish 
that  was  before  his  countenance.  The 
robe  of  skins  dropped  from  her  hand. 
Her  eyes,  that  were  as  the  morning  light, 
became  dim.  She  arose  and  went  forward 
to  meet  him. 

"  Wherefore,"  she  inquired,  "  does  my 
hero  sigh,  and  why  sits  heaviness  on  the 
brightness  of  his  face  .?  Are  not  thou  re- 
nowned in  sons;  as  the  warrior  of  the 
dauntless  heart  and  the  resistless  sword.'* 
Art  not  thou  the  envy  of  princes — the  be- 
loved of  the  people — the  admired  of  the 
daughters  of  kings  ?  And  can  sadness 
dwell  upon  thy  soul .''  Oh  !  thou  who 
art  as  the  plume  of  my  father's  warriors, 
and  as  the  pride  of  his  host,  if  grief  hath 
entered  into  thy  bosom,  let  it  be  buried 
in  mine." 

Then  thus  replied  the  warrior  Chylde  : — 
"  Affitha — thou  that  art  fairer,  milder  than 
the  light  that  plays  around  the  brows  of 
the  summer  moon,  and  dearer  to  me  than 
a  mother's  milk  to  the  lips  of  her  babe — 
it  is  for  thee  that  my  countenance  is  sad, 
and  my  soul  troubled.  For  thy  father 
has  pierced  my  spirit  with  many  arrows  ; 
yea,  even  with  the  poisoned  arrows  of  a 
deadly  foe.  He  hath  wrung  my  soul  for 
thee,  Agitha.  Thou  didst  give  me  thy 
heart  when  the  sacred  moon  rose  over  the 
rocky  Ferns  and  beheld  us  ;  and  while  the 
ministering  spirits  that  dwell  in  its  beams 
descended  as  a  shower  of  burning  gold  up- 
on the  sea,  and,  stretching  to  the  shore, 
heard  us.  We  exchanged  our  vows  be- 
neath the  light  of  the  hallowed  orb,  while 
the  stars  of  heaven  hid  their  faces  before 
it.  Then,  Agitha,  while  its  beams  glowed 
on  my  father's  sword,  upon  that  sword  I 
swore  to  love  thee.  But  our  vows  are 
vain.  Daughter  of  kings  !  our  love  is 
sorrow.     Thy  father  hath  vowed  by  the 


I  ^ 


402 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


miglity  Woden,  that  thou  shalt  bo  the 
wife  of  a  king,  and  that  a  kingdom  shall 
he  the  price  of  thy  hand.  Yet  will  I  ga- 
ther my  warriors  together.  They  num- 
ber a  thousand  spears  ;  they  have  a  thou- 
sand bows.  The  charge  of  their  spears  is 
as  the  rushing  of  the  whirlwind.  The 
flight  of  their  arrows  hides  the  face  of  the 
sun.  Foes  perish  at  their  approach. 
Victory  goeth  before  their  face.  There- 
fore, will  I  go  forth  into  a  far  country.  I 
will  make  war  upon  a  strange  people,  that 
I  may  take  the  kingdom  from  their  ruler, 
and  present  his  crown  unto  thy  father  for 
the  hand  of  my  Agitha." 

The  maiden  wept.  Her  head  sank  on 
her  bosom  like  a  fair  flower  weighed  down 
with  dew.  Tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the 
warrior. 

''  Weep  not,  daughter  of  heroes  !  "  he 
said ;  "  the  tide  of  battle  is  in  the  hands  of 
Woden.  He  will  not  turn  it  against  a  de- 
scendant of  his  race.  I  will  return  to 
thee  in  triumph.  I  will  throw  a  crown  at 
thy  father's  feet,  and  rush  to  the  arms  of 
Agitha.  Thou  wilt  greet  me  again  with 
thy  smile  of  love — with  thy  voice  that  is 
sweeter  than  the  music  of  spring.  Thy 
heart,  which  is  dearer  than  life,  shall  be 
my  kingdom  ;  and  thy  bosom,  that  is 
whiter  than  the  breast  of  the  wild  swan, 
my  throne.  I  will  fly  to  thee  as  the  hunt- 
ed deer  to  its  covert — as  a  bird  to  its  nest 
where  its  young  await  it." 

Thus  departed  the  warrior,  and  Agitha 
returned  to  her  maidens ;  she  sat  down 
amonofst  them  and  mourned. 

Gormack,  the  weird,  a  thane  of  the 
Pictish  race,  had  his  dwelling  near  the 
giddy  cliffs  where  the  young  eagles  scream 
to  the  roar  of  the  dark  waters  of  the  Forth. 
He  had  a  daughter  whosa  beauty  was  the 
theme  of  all  tongues.  Her  fame  went 
over  the  land  like  the  sound  of  shells — yea 
like  the  sound  of  shells  when  the  wind  is 
hushed,  and  the  moon  is  bright  in  the 
heavens.  Fair  was  the  daughter  of  Gor- 
mack  as  the  lily  thatgroweth  by  the  brook. 
Her  hair  was  as  the  finest  fleece  when  it 


is  purified.  It  fell  down  her  back  in 
ringlets.  It  was  bright  as  the  golden 
clouds  that  encircle  the  throne  of  the  ri.s- 
ing  sun — as  the  golden  clouds  when  they 
are  dipped  in  silver.  Her  father  held 
counsel  with  spirits  of  evil.  They  were 
obedient  to  his  will.  He  invoked  them 
to  endue  his  daughter  with  more  than 
mortal  beauty,  that  she  might  inflame  the 
soul  of  princes,  and  sit  upon  their  throne. 
Such  was  the  tale  of  men.  Her  beauty 
was  the  burden  of  the  song  of  bards.  In 
their  chorus  to  swell  the  praise  of  others, 
they  said  that  they  were  "  lovely  as  the 
fair  daughter  of  Gormack." 

The  tale  of  her  charms  was  heard  by 
Ethelfrith.  It  was  heard  by  the  fierce  in 
war — the  impetuous  in  love — the  victor 
in  battle — yea,  even  by  Ethelfrith,  king 
of  Bernicia.  "  I  will  see  the  fair  daughter 
of  the  thane,"  said  the  proud  king,  to 
whose  will  even  war  and  the  mighty  in 
war  did  homage.  Moreover,  Gormack 
the  thane  was  his  vassal.  He  had  sworn 
to  his  obedience. 

The  king  went  forth  to  the  dwelling  of 
Gormack,  among  the  cliffs.  Ealdormen,* 
comites,  I  and  thanes,  J  attended  him. 
The  weird  thane  came  forth  to  meet  him  ; 
he  bowed  low  his  head  and  made  obei- 
sance. 

Ethelfrith  beheld  Bethoc  the  Beautiful ; 
and  the  songs  that  he  had  heard  in  her 
praise  were  as  an  idle  tale,  for  her  loveli- 
ness exceeded  the  power  of  song.  The 
soul  of  the  fierce  kino;  melted  within  him. 
It  was  subdued  by  the  sorcery  of  her 
charms. 

"  Give  me,"  said  he  unto  her  father — 
and  commandments  ever  fell  from  his  lips 
— "  give  me  Bethoc  to  be  my  wife  ;  for 
she  is  more  lovely  than  the  morning  star. 
She  is  fit  for  a  warrior's  bride  ;  she  shall 
be  The  Lady§  of  Bernicia," 

*  Earls.  t  Companions. 

t  Thanes  signified  men  high  in  power,  of  va- 
rious degrees  of  rank. 

§  The  Lady  was  the  appellation  given  to  a 
,  queen  amongst  the  Anglo-Saxons. 


Tfc:lE   LAiDLL:Y  WORM   OF  SPfNDLESTON  HEUGH. 


403 


Again  the  weird  bowed  his  head.  He 
knelt  upon  his  knee.  Ho  presented  his 
dauo-hter  to  the  kino;.  Then  did  Ethel- 
frith  take  her  by  the  hand.  He  led  her 
forth  to  his  chariot  of  war,  through  the 
midst  of  his  ealdormen,  his  comites,  and 
his  thanes,  who  were  great  in  power  and 
resistless  in  war,  and  they  made  obeysance 
to  her  as  she  passed  through  the  midst  of 
them.  They  saluted  her  as  their  queen. 
Her  breast  swelled  with  exultation.  Pride 
flashed  from  her  eyes,  as  the  sun  bursting 
from  a  cloud  dazzleth  the  eye  of  the  gazer. 
The  king  gazed  upon  her  beauty  as  a 
dreamer  on  a  fair  vision. 

Now,  the  beauty  of  Bcthoc  was  sin 
made  lovely.  Her  bosom  was  as  a  hill 
where  the  vine  and  the  cedar  grew,  and 
where  flowers  shed  forth  perfume  ;  but 
beneath  which  a  volcano  slept.  To  the 
eye  was  beauty,  beyond  were  desolation 
and  death.  Pride,  hatred,  and  envy,  en- 
circled her  soul.  She  was  sold  unto  evil, 
even  as  her  father  was.  The  spirit  of  de- 
struction, in  answer  to  her  father's  prayer, 
had  formed  her  a  beautiful  destroyer. 
Whatsoever  was  lovely  that  she  looked 
upon  in  envy,  withered  as  though  an  east 
wind  passed  over  it — the  destroying  wind 
which  blighteth  the  hopes  of  the  husband- 
man. 

At  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 'the  king, 
and  his  fair  queen,  Bethoc,  with  his  mighty 
men,  drew  near  to  the  tower  which  ida 
had  built  on  the  mountain-rock,  and  all 
the  people  of  the  city  came  forth  to  meet 
him,  and  to  greet  their  queen. 

The  bards  lifted  up  their  voices ;  they 
styled  her  the  fairest  of  women. 

'*  Fair  is  the  wife  of  the  king,"  replied 
an  aged  thane,  "  but  fairer  is  Agitha  his 
daughter  !  Bethoc,  the  queen,  is  a  bright 
star,  but  Agitha  is  the  star  of  the  morning 
— fairest  of  the  heavens  !" 

Queen  Bethoc  heard  the  words  of  the 
a<yed  thane,  and  she  hated  Agitha  because 
of  them.  The  spirit  of  evil  spread  his 
darkness  over  her  soul.  He  filled  her 
brea,st  with  the   poison  of  asps,  her  eyes 


with  the  venom  of  the  adder  that  lures  to 
destruction. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  tower  of  kings, 
stood  Agitha,  lovely  as  the  spirits  that 
dwell  among  the  stars,  and  give  beauty 
to  the  beings  of  earth.  She  knelt  before 
the  queen.  She  offered  her  a  daughter's 
homage. 

"  Rise,  beautiful  one  !  inspirer  of 
song !"  said  the  queen ;  "  kneel  not  to 
me,  for  I  am  but  a  star — thou  art  the  star 
of  the  morning.  Hide  not  thy  face  from 
before  men.  Let  them  serve  and  worship 
thee." 

Cold  wore  her  words  as  water  whicb 
droppeth  from  the  everlasting  icicles  in  the 
caves  of  the  north.  x\s  is  the  mercy  of  the 
tears  of  the  crocodile,  so  was  the  kind- 
ness of  her  looks.  Envy  and  hatred 
gleamed  in  her  eyes,  like  lightnings  round 
the  sides  of  a  dark  cloud. 

The  countenance  of  Agitha  fell ;  for  she 
knew  that  her  father  in  his  wrath  was 
fiercer  than  the  wild  boar  of  the  forest 
when  at  bay  ;  and  she  feared  to  reply  to 
the  sneer  of  the  wife  in  whom  his  eyes 
delighted. 

Queen  Bethoc,  the  daughter  of  Gor- 
mack,  knew  that  men  said  she  was  less 
beautiful  than  Agitha,  the  daughter  of  the 
king.  When  they  walked  by  the  clear 
fountains  or  the  crystal  brooks  together, 
the  fountains  and  the  brooks  whispered  to 
her  the  words  which  men  spoke — ''  Agitha 
is  the  most  lovely."  Therefore  did  the 
queen  hate  Agitha  with  a  great  and  deadly 
hatred.  As  the  sleuth-hound  seeketh  its 
prey,  so  did  she  seek  her  destruction.  As 
the  fowler  lureth  the  bird  into  his  net,  so 
did  she  lie  in  wait  for  her.  Yet  she  feared 
to  destroy  her  openly,  because  that  she 
was  afraid  of  the  fierce  anger  of  her  hus- 
band Ethelfrith,  and  his  love  for  his 
daughter  was  great. 

Sleep  fled  from  her  eyes,  and  color  for- 
sook her  cheeks,  because  of  her  envy  of 
;the    beauty    of    Agitha,    and  the  hatred 
I  which  she  bore  her.     She  spoke  unto  her 
'  father  Gormack,  the  weird  thane,  that  he 


404 


TALES   OF   THE    BORDERS. 


-1 


would  aid  her  with  his  sorceries  against 
her.  Then  did  they  practise  their  unclean 
spells,  and  perform  their  dark  incantations 
to  destroy  her  ;  but  their  spells  and  incan- 
tations prevailed  not,  for  the  spirit  of 
Woden  protected  Agitha. 

Now,  there  resided  at  that  time  in  a 
dark  cave,  in  the  heugh  which  is  called 
Spindleston,  an  enchantress  of  great  power, 
named  Elgiva — the  worker  of  wonders. 
Men  said  that  she  could  weave  ropes  of 
sand,  and  threads  from  the  motes  of  the 
sunbeamsr  She  could  call  down  fire  from 
the  clouds,  and  transform  all  things  by 
the  waving  of  her  magic  wand.  Around 
her  hung  a  loose  robe,  composed  of  the 
skins  of  many  beasts.  Her  feet  and  her 
arms  were  bare,  and  they  were  painted 
with  strange  figures.  On  her  face,  also, 
was  the  likeness  of  the  spirits  that  minis- 
tered to  her  will.  She  was  fearful  to  look 
upon.  Men  fled  at  her  approach.  The 
beasts  of  the  field  were  scared  by  her 
shadow.  Round  her  head  was  wreathed 
a  crown  of  fantastic  hemlock — round  her 
neck  a  corslet  of  deadly  nightshade.  On 
her  left  arm  coiled  a  living  snake,  and  it 
rested  its  head  upon  her  bosom.  In  her 
right  hand  she  held  a  wand  dipped  in  the 
poison  of  all  things  venomous.  Whatso- 
ever it  touched  died..  Whatsoever  it 
waved  over  was  transformed.  No  human 
foot  approached  her  cave — no  mortal 
dared.  The  warrior,  who  feared  not  a 
hundred  foes,  quailed  at  the  sight  of  El- 
giva, the  enchantress,  the  worker  of  won- 
ders. Unclean  reptiles  crawled  around 
her  cave — the  asp,  the  loathsome  toad, 
and  the  hissing  adder.  Two  owls  sat  in 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  cave,  and  their 
eyes  were  as  lamps  in  its  darkness.  They 
sat  upon  skulls  of  the  dead.  A  tame  ra- 
ven croaked  in  the  midst  of  it.  It  was^ 
told  that  the  reptiles,  the  owls,  and  the 
raven,  were  objects  of  her  enchantment — 
warriors,  and  the  daughters  of  warriors, 
transformed  by  the  waving  of  her  wand. 

Now,   when  Bethoc  could  find  no   rest 
because  of  the  greatness  of  her  hatred  for 


Agitha  ;  and,  moreover,  as  she  herself  had 
communed  with  impure  spirits,  she  over- 
came the  terror  which  the  name  of  Elaiva 
spread.  She  sought  her  aid.  In  the 
dead  of  night,  when  the  moon  had  gone 
to  rest,  yea,  when  clouds  and  darkness  had  -* 
blotted  out  the  stars  that  were  left  to  . 
watch  in  the  heavens,  she  went  forth  from 
the  tower  of  kings.  She  stood  before  the 
cave  of  the  enchantress.  She  lifted  up 
her  voice  and  cried — ''  Elgiva — worker  of 
wonders  !  the  feared  of  mortals  ! — come 
forth!" 

The  owls  clapped  their  wings  and 
screamed  ;  the  ravens  croaked,  and  the 
adders  hissed.  From  the  darkn<?ss  of  her 
cave  the  voice  of  the  enchantress  came- 
forth — it  came  forth  as  a  voice  from  the 
grave,  saying — "  Who  amongst  the  chil- 
dren of  mortals  dareth  to  call  upon  the 
name  of  Elgiva  .' — or,  what  deed  of  sin 
brino-eth  thee  hither  .^" 

"The  queen,"  answered  Bethoc,  "  the 
wife  of  the  mighty  Ethelfrith,  she  calleth 
thee,  she  invoketh  thine  aid.  The  strong- 
est spirits  obey  thee — the  spirits  of  the 
earth,  of  the  air,  and  of  the  sea.  Then 
help  me,  thou  that  art  more  powerful 
than  the  kings  of  the  earth,  that  art 
stronger  than  the  fate  of  the  stars  ;  help 
— rid  me  of  mine  enemy  whom  I  hate^ 
even  of  Agitha,  the  daughter  of  the  king. 
Make  her  as  one  of  the  poisoned  worm^ 
that  crawl  within  thy  cave.  Or,  if  thou 
wilt  not  do  this  thing  to  serve  me,  when 
my  right  hand  hath  shed  her  blood,  turn 
from  me  the  fierce  wrath  of  her  father  the 
king." 

Aicain  the  voke  of  the  enchantress'came 
forth  from  the  cave,  saj-ing — '*  In  seven 
days  come  unto  me  again — bring  with  thee 
the  Princess  Agitha  ;  and  Elgiva,  the 
enchantress,  will  do  towards  her  as  BethpCy 
the  dauo-hter  of  the  weird  thane,  hath  re- 
quested." 

Thus  did  the  queen,  while  Ethelfrith, 
her  lord,  was  making  war  against  a  strange 
king  in  a  far  country. 

Darkness  lay  heavy  on  the  hills,  it  con- 


THE  LAID  LEY  WORM  OP  SPINDLESTON  HEUGH. 


405 


ceaiod  the  objects  on  the  plains.  Tke 
seven  days,  of  which  the  enchantress  had 
spoken,  were  expired. 

"  Maiden,"  said  the  qaeen  unto  Agitha, 
"  rise  and  follow  nie." 

Agitha  obeyed  ;  for  the  fear  and  the 
commandment  of  her  father  were  upon  her. 
Two  servants,  men  of  the  Pictish  race, 
also  followed  the  queen.  She  went  to- 
wards the  cave  of  the  enchantress.  Agitha 
would  have  slirunk  back,  but  the  queen 
grasped  her  band.  The  swords  of  the 
men  of  the  Pictish  race  waved  over  her. 
They  dragged  her  forward.  They  stood 
before  tbe  cave  of  tbe  potent  Elgiva. 

"  Elgiva  I  worker  of  wonders!"  ex- 
claimed the  queen;  ^'  Bethoc,  thy  servant, 
is  come.  The  victim  also  is  here — Ao-i- 
tha,  the  morning- star.  By  thy  power, 
which  is  sfcroniz;er  than  th.e  lightnino-  and 
invisible  as  the  wind,  render  loathsome 
her  beauty  ;  yea,  make  her  as  a  vile 
worm  which  crawleth  on  the  ground,  with 
venom  in  its  mouth." 

Again  was  heard  the  deep  voice  of  the 
enchantress,  mino-led  with  the  croakino;  of 
the  raven,  and  the  screeching  of  the  ovvls, 
as  she  rushed  from  her  cave,  crying — "  It 
shall  be  as  thou  hast  said." 

Terror  had  entered  the  soul  of  the  fair 
Agitha — it  had  brought  a  sleep  over  her 
senses.  The  enchantress  grasped  her 
hand.      She  threw  her  arm  around  her. 

"  Away,  acciiirsed  V  she  exclaimed  unto 
Bethoc,  the  queen  ;  "  fly  !  lest  the  power 
of  the  enchantment  fall  upon  thee  also. 
Fly  !  lest  it  overtake  thee  as  darkness 
overtaketh  the  benighted  traveller.  Fly  ! 
ere  the  wand  of  the  worker  of  wonders 
is  uplifted,  and  destruction  come  upon 
thee." 

The  followers  of  Bethoc  quaked  with 
dismay.  They  turned  with  her  and  fled 
to  the  tower  of  Ida.  Of  their  outcroins: 
and  their  incoming  none  knew. 

The  maidens  of  Bernicia  wept  when  the 
loss  of  Agitha  was  known.  "  Beauty," 
said  they,  "  hath  perished.  Agitha,  whose 
face  was  as  the  face  of  heaven  when    its 


glories  appear — as  the  face  of  the  earth 
when  its  flowers  give  forth  their  fragrance 
— Agitha  is  not  !''  And  because  she  was 
not,  the  people  mourned.  Queen  Bethoc 
alone  rejoiced,  and  was  silent. 

Dismay  and  wonder  spread  over  the 
land — f\jr  a  tale  was  told  of  a  serpent- 
worm,  fearful  in  magiiitude  and  of  mon- 
strous form,  which  was  seen  at  Spindleston, 
by  the  cave  of  Elgiva — the  worker  of 
wonders — the  woman  of  power. 

The  people  trembled.  They  said  of  the 
monster — "  It  is  Agitha,  the  beloved  ! — 
the  daughter  of  our  king,  of  conquering 
Efhelfrith.  Elgiva,  the  daughter  of  de- 
struction, "who  communeth  with  the  spirits 
of  the  air,  and  defeateth  armies  by  the 
waving  of  her  wand,  hath  done  this.  She 
hath  cast  her  enchantments  over  Agitha, 
the  fairest  of  women — the  meekest  amon^ 
the  daughter  of  princes." 

The  bards  raised  songs  of  lamentation 
for  her  fate.  "  Surely,"  said  they, 
"  when  the  Chylde  Wynde  cometh,  his 
sword,  which  maketh  the  brave  to  fall  and 
bringeth  down  the  mighty,  will  break  the 
enchantment."  And  the  burden  of  the 
songs  was — "  Return,  O  valiant  Chylde, 
conqueror  of  nations — thou  who  makest 
kings  captives,  return  !  Free  the  en- 
chanted!     Deliver  the  beautiful  !" 

Now,  the  people  of  the  land  where  the 
Chylde  and  his  warriors  landed,  were 
stricken  with  terror  at  their  approach. 
They  fled  before  them,  as  sheep  fly  upon 
the  hills  when  the  howl  of  the  hungry 
wolf  is  heard.  He  overthrew  their  kino-, 
he  took  possession  of  his  kingdom.  He 
took  his  crown,  and  he  brouo-ht  it  to 
Ethelfrith,  whose  ambition  was  boundless 
as  the  sea.  He  brought  it  as  the  price  of 
Agitha's  hand. 

It  was  morn.  The  sun  rose  with  his 
robes  of  glory  o'er  the  sea.  Bethoc,  the 
dausfhter  of  Gormack  the  weird,  stood 
upon  the  turrets  of  Ida's  tower.  She  was 
performing  incantations  to  the  foui'  winds 
of  heaven.  She  called  upon  them  to  lift 
up  the  sea  on  their  invisible  wings,  to  raise 


405 


TALES   OP  THE   BORDERS. 


it<^  waves  as  mountains,  and  whelm  the 
Bliips  upon  its  bosom.  But  the  winds 
obeyed  not  hrr  voice,  and  the  sea  was 
still.  In  the  bay  of  J3ucllc  lay  the  vessels 
of  the  Chyldc  Wyndo,  and  the  weapons  of 
his  warriors  flashed  in  the  sunbeams  and 
upon  the  sea.  Therefore  was  the  spirit 
of  Queen  Bcthoc  troubled.  It  was 
troubled  lest  the  enchantment  should  be 
broken — Agitha  delivered  from  the  spell, 
and  her  wronQ;s  aveno;ed. 

As  a  great  wave  rolleth  in  majesty  to 
the  shore,  so  advanced  the  warrior  ships 
of  Chylde  Wynde,  the  subduer  of  heroes. 
The  people  came  forth  to  meet  hun  with  a 
shout  of  joy.  "  He  is  come,"  they  cried  ; 
"  the  favored  of  the  stars,  the  Chylde  of 
the  sharp  sword,  is  come  to  deliver  Agitha 
the  beautiful,  to  break  the  spell  of  her 
enchantment." 

He  heard  the  dark  tale.  His  bosom 
heaved.  He  rent  the  robe  that  covered 
him.  His  giicf  was  as  the  howling  of  the 
winter  wind,  in  a  deep  glen  b':'tween  great 
mountains.  He  threw  himself  upon  the 
earth  and  wept. 

But  again  the  spirit  of  Woden  came 
upon  him.  It  burned  within  his  bosom  as 
a  fierce  flame.  He  started  to  his  feet. 
To  his  lips  he  pressed  the  sword  of  his 
father.  He  vowed  to  break  the  enchant- 
ment that  entombed  his  betrothed. 

He  rushed  towards  the  cave  of  Elgiva, 
the  worker  of  wonders.  His  warriors 
feared  to  follow  him.  The  people  stood 
back  in  dismay.  For  by  the  waving  of 
Elgiva's  wand  she  turned  the  swords  of 
warriors  upon  themselves ;  she  caused 
them  to  melt  in  their  hands. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  cave  stood  the  en- 
chantress. By  her  side  lay  the  serpent- 
worm. 

"  Daughter  of  wickedness  !"  shouted 
the  Chylde,  "  break  thy  accursed  spell; 
restore  the  fliir  form  of  my  Agitha,  else 
thy  blood  shall  dissolve  the  charm." 

"  Hearken,  O  Chylde,"  cried  the  en- 
chantress ;  "  thou  subduer  of  kings,  thou 
vanquisher    of   the    strong — sharp   is  thy 


sword,  but  against  me  it  hath  no  power. 
Would  it  pierce  the  breast  that  suckled 
thee  ? — the  breast  of  her  that  bore  thee  .'" 

IVom  the  hand  of  the  warrior  dropped 
his  uplifted  sword. 

"  Mother  !"  he  exclaimed.  He  fell  on 
his  knees  before  her. 

"  Yea,  thy  mother,"  answered  the  en- 
chantress ;  "  who,  when  her  warrior  hnsr 
band  fell,  fled  to  the  desert,  to  the  cave, 
and  to  the  forest,  for  protection — even  for 
protection  from  the  love,  and  from  the 
wrath  of  Ethelfrith  the  fierce,  the  brother 
of  thy  warrior  father,  who.se  eyes  were  as 
the  eagle's,  and  his  arm  great  of  strength. 
Uncouth  is  the  habit,  wild  is  the  figure, 
and  idle  the  art  of  thy  mother.  Broken 
is  her  wand  which  the  vnlgar  feared. 
That  mine  eyes  might  behold  my  son,  this 
cave  became  my  abode.  Superstition 
walled  it  round  with  fire." 

"  And  Agitha  .^"  gasped  the  warrior. 

"  Behold  !"  answered  she,  *'  the  loathly 
worm  at  the  feet  of  thy  mother." 

The  skins  of  fish  of  the  deep  sea  were 
sewed  together  with  cords — they  "were 
fashioned  into  the  form  of  a  great  serpent. 

"  Come  forth,  my  daughter  I''  cried  the 
enchantress.  Agitha  sprang  from  her  dis- 
guise of  skins.     She  sank  upon  his  breast. 

The  people  beheld  her  from  afar.  Their 
shout  of  joy  rang  across  the  sea.  It  was 
echoed  among  the  hills.  A  scream  rose 
from  the  tower  of  Ida.  From  the  highest 
turret  Bethoc  the  queen  had  sprung.  In 
pieces  was  her  body  scattered  at  the  foot 
of  the  great  cliff.  They  were  gathered  to- 
gether— they  were  buried  in  the  cave  of 
Elgiva.  From  her  grave  crawled  an  un- 
clean beast,  and  it  crawleth  around  it  for 
ever. 

Ethelfrith  died  in  battle.  Woden  shut 
his  eyes  and  saw  him  not,  and  he  fell. 
And  Elgiva,  the  enchantress,  the  worker 
of  wonders,  was  hailed  as  Rowcna,  the 
mother  of  Wynde,  the  subduer  of  priuces  ; 
yea,  even  as  Chylde  Wynde,  the  beloved, 
and  the  lord  of  Agitha  the  Beautiful. 

Such  was  the  tale  of  the  Saxon  bard. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  HILLS.  407 


THE  HEEMIT  OF  THE  HILLS. 


*'  Intruder,  tliou  slialt  hear  my  tale,"  the  solitary  said  ; 
While  far  adown  beneath  our  feet  the  fiery  levin  played  ; 
The  thunder-clouds  our  carpet  were — we  gazed  upon  the  storm, 
Which  swept  along  the  mountain  sides,  in  many  a  fearful  form. 

I  sat  beside  the  lonely  man,  on  Cheviot's  cloudless  height ; 
Above  our  heads  wns  glory,  but  beneath  more  glorious  night ; 
For  the  sun  was  shining  over  us,  but  lightninfrs  flashed  below, 
Like  the  felt  and  burning  darkness  of  unutterable  wo. 

"  I  love,  in  such  a  place  as  this,"  the  desolate  began, 
*'  To  gaze  upon  the  tempests  wild  that  sop 'rate  me  from  man  ; — 
To  muse  upon  the  passing  things  that  agitate  the  world — 
View  myself  as  by  a  whirlwind  to  hopeless  ruin  hurled. 

"  My  heart  was  avaricious  once,  like  yours  the  slave  of  feeling — 

Perish  such  hearts  ! — vile  dens  of  crime  !  man's  selfishness  concealing  ; 

For  self!  damned  self's  creation's  lord  ! — man's  idol  and  bis  god  ! 
Twas  torn  from  me,  a  blasted,  bruised,  a  cast  ofi",  worthless  load. 

^'  Some  say  there's  wildness  in  my  eyes,  and  others  deem  me  crazed, 
They,  trembling,  turn  and  shun  my  path — for  which  let  Heaven  be  praised  ! 
They  say  my  words  are  blasphemy — they  marvel  at  my  fate. 
When  'tis  my  happiness  to  know,  they  pity  not,  but — hate. 

"  My  father  fell  from  peace  and  wealth  the  day  that  I  was  born — 
My  mother  died,  and  he  became  his  fellow-gamblers'  scorn  ; 
I  know  not  where  he  lived  or  died — I  never  heard  his  name — 
An  orphan  in  a  workhouse — I  was  thought  a  child  of  shame. 

"  ^QmQ  friend  by  blood  had  lodged  me  there,  and  bought  my  keeper  too, 
Who  pledged  his  oath  he  would  conceal  what  of  my  tale  he  knew. 
Death  came  to  him  ;  he  called  on  me  the  secret  to  unfold  ; 
But  died  while  he  was  utterino;  the  little  I  have  told. 

"  My  soul  was  proud,  nor  brooked  restraint — was  proud,  and  I  was  young  ; 
And  with  an  eager  joyanc}'-,  I  heard  his  faltering  tongue 
Proclaim  me  not  of  beggars  born  ;  yea,  as  he  speaking  died, 
I — greedy — mad  to  know  the  rest- — stood  cursing  by  his  side. 

"  1  looked  upon  the  homely  garb  that  told  my  dwelling-place — 
It  hung  upon  me  heavily — a  token  of  disgrace  ! 
I  fled  the  house — 1  went  to  sea — Wiis  by  a  wretch  impressed, 
The  stamp  of  whose  brutality  is  printed  on  my  brea^st. 

^' Like  vilest  slave  he  fettered  me,  my  flesh  the  irons  tore — 
Scourged,  mocked,  and  worse  than  buried  me  upon  a  lifeless  shore 
Where  human  foot  had  never  trode — upon  a  barren  rock. 
Whose  caves  ne'er  echoed  to  a  sound,  save  billows  as  they  broke. 


408  TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 

"  'Twas  midnight — biit  the  morning  came.     I  looked  upon  the  sea, 
And  a  melancholy  wilderness  its  waters  were  to  me  ; 
The  heavens  were  Mack  as  yonder  cloud  that  rolls  beneath  over  feet^ 
While  neither  land  nor  living  thing  my  eager  eyes  could  meet. 

"  I  naked  sat  upon  the  rock  ; — I  trembled — strove  to  pray  ; — 
Thrice  did  I  see  a  distant  sail,  and  thrice  they  bore  away. 
My  brain  with  hunger  maddening,  as  the  steed  the  battle  braves,. 
Headlong  I  plun.ged  from  the  bare  rock  and  buflfeted  the  waves. 

"  Methougiit  I  saw  a  vessel  near,  and  bitter  were  my  screams  ; 
But  they  died  within  me  echoless  as  voices  in  our  dreams ; 
For  the  winds  were  howling  round  me,  and  the  suffocating  gusk 
Of  briny  horrors  rio^ted,  the  cry  of  death  to  crusk. 

"  My  senses  fled.     I  lifelessly  upon  the  ocean  slept ; 
And  when  to  consciousness  I  woke,  a  form  before  me  wept ; 
Her  face  was  beautiful  as  light  \ — but  by  her  side  there  stood 
A  group,  whose  savage  glances  were  more  dismal  than  the  flood. 

"  They  stood  around  ezultingly  ; — they  snatched  me  from  the  wave — 
Stole  me  from  death — to  torture  me,  to  sell  me  as  a  slave. 
She  who  stood  o'er  me  weeping  was  a  partner  of  my  chains. 
We  were  sold,  and  separation  bled  my  heart  with  d-eeper  pains. 

"  I  knew  not  what  her  birth  had  been,  but  loved  her  with-  a  love 

Which  nor  our  tyrant's  cruelty  nor  mockery  could  move. 

I  saw  her  offered  to  a  Moor  — another  purchased  me^ — 

But,  heavens !  my  arms  once  fetterless,  ere  midnight  I  was  free  f 

*'  Memory,  with  ea-ger  eye,  had  marked  her  master's  hated  door — 
I  grasped  a  sabre — reached  the  house,  and  slew  th'  opposing  Moor, 
I  bore  her  rapidly  away  ;— a  boat  was  on  the  beach — 
We  put  to  sea— saw  morning  dawn  'yond  our  pursuer's  reach,. 

"  I  gazed  upon  her  silently — I  saw  her  sink  to  sleep, 

As  darkness  gathered  aver  us  upon  the  cheerless  deep  ; — 

I  saw  her  ia  her  slumber  start — unconsciously  she  spoke — 

0  death  ! — she  called  upon  his  name  who  left  me  en  the  rock  I 

"  Then  !  there  was  madness  in  my  breast  and  fury  in  my  brain — 
She  neyer  beard  that  name  from  me — yet  uttered  it  again  ! 

1  started  forth  and  grasped  her  hand — "  Ar*  we  pursued  !"  she  cried — 
I  trembled  in  my  agony,  and  speechless  o'er  her  sighed. 

"  I  ventured  not  to  speak  of  love  in  such  an  awful  hour, 
For  hunger  glistened  in  our  eyes,  and  grated  to  devour 
The  very  rags  that  covered  us  ! — My  pangs  I  cannot  tell, 
But  in  that  little  hour  I  felts  the  eternity  of  hell  ! 

"  For  the  transport  of  its  tortures  did  in  that  hour  surround 
Two  beings  on  the  bosom  of  a  shoreless  ocean  found  ; 
As  we  gazed  upon  each  other,  with  a  dismal  longing  look, 
A^d  jealousy,  but  not  from  love,  our  tortured  bosoms  shook. 


THE  HERMIT  OF   THE  HILLS.  409 

"  I  need  but  add  that  we  were  saved,  and  by  a  vessel  borne 
Ao-ain  toward  our  native  land,  to  be  asunder  torn. 
The  maiden  of  my  love  was  rich — was  rich — and  I  was  poor — 
A  soulless  menial  shut  on  me  her  wealthy  guardian's  door. 

"  She  knew  it  not,  nor  would  I  tell — tell  !  by  the  host  of  heaven, 
My  tongue  became  the  sepulchre  of  sound  ! — my  heart  was  rivcn„ 
I  fled  society  and  hope  ;  the  prison  of  my  mind 
A  world  of  inexpressible  and  guilty  thoughts  confined. 

"  She  was  not  wed — my  hope  returned  ;  ambition  fired  my  soul, 
Sweeping  round  me  like  a  fury  ;  while  the  beacon  and  the  goal 
Of  desire  ever  turbulent  and  sleepless,  was  to  have 
The  hand  that  mine  had  rescued  from  the  fetters  of  a  slave. 

"  I  was  an  outcast  on  the  earth,  but  braved  ray  hapless  lot ; 
And  while  I  groaned  impatiently,  weak  mortals  heard  it  not. 
A  host  of  drear,  unholy  dreams  did  round  my  pillow  haunt ; 
While  my  days  spent  in  loneliness,  were  darkened  o'er  with  want., 

"  At  length  blind  fortune  favored  me — my  breast  to  joy  awoke  ; 
And  then  he  who  had  left  me  on  the  isolated  rock, 
1  met  within  a  distant  land  ;  nor  need  I  farther  tell, 
But,  that  we  met  as  equals  there,  and  my  antag'nist  fell. 

"  Awhile  I  brooded  on  his  death  ;  and  gloomily  it  brought 
A  desolateness  round  me,  stamping  guilt  on  ever}^  thought. 
I  trembling  found  how  bloodily  my  vengeance  was  appeased, 
At  what  vile  price  my  bosom  was  o^  Jealousy  releasod. 

"  For  still  the  breathing  of  his  name  by  her  I  lov'd,  had  rung, 
In  remembrance,  like  the  latest  sound  that  falleth  from  the  tongue 
Of  those  best  loved  and  cherished,  when  upon  the  bed  of  death 
They  bequeathe  to  us  their  injuries  to  visit  in  our  wrath. 

"  But  soon  these  griefs  evanished,  like  a  passing  summer  storm, 
And  a  gush  of  hope  like  sunshine  flashed  around  me,  to  deform 
The  image  of  repentance,  while  the  daikness  of  remorse 
Retieated  from  its  presence  with  a  blacker  with'ring  curse. 

"  I  hurried  home  in  eagerness  ; — the  leaden  moments  fled  ; — - 
My  burning  tale  of  love  was  told — was  told,  and  we  were  wexJ.. 
A  tumult  of  delightfulness  had  rapt  my  soul  in  flame, 
But  on  that  day — my  wedding  day — a  mourning  letter  came. 

"  Joy  died^n  ev'ry  countenance — she,  trembling,  broke  the  seal — 
Screamed — ghmced  on  me  !  and  lifeless  fell,  unable  to  reveal  . 
The  horrid  tale  of  death  that  told  her  new-made  husband's  guilt — 
"  The  hand  which  she  that  day  had  wed — her  brother's  blood  had  spilt. 

"  That  brother  in  his  mother's  right  another  na:ne  did  boar — 
'Twas  him  I  slew  ; — all  shrank  from  me  in  horror  and  in  fear  ; — 
They  seized  mo  in  ray  bridal  dress — ray  bride  still  senseless  lay — 
1  spoke  not  wlule  they  pinioned  me  and  hurried  me  away. 


410 


TALES  OF  THE  BONDERS. 


"  They  lodged  me  in  a  criminal  cell,  bj  iron  gratings  barred, 
And  there  ?he  third  day  heavily  a  funeral  bell  I  heard. 
A  sable  crowd  my  prison  passed— they  gazed  on  it  with  gloom — 
It  was  my  bride — luy  beautiM,  they  followed  to  the  tomb  ! 

"  I  was  acquitted— but  what  more  had  I  with  life  to  do  ? — 
I  cursed  my  fate — my  heart — the  world— and  from  its  creatures  flew. 
Intruder,  thou  hast  heard  my  tale  of  wretchedness  and  guilt — 
Go,  mingle  with  a  viler  world,  and  tell  it  if  thou  wilt." 


THE    HEROINE 


After  it  became  known  that  the  wily  Sir 
Robert  Carey  had  hurried  away  from  the 
deathbed  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  to  announce 
to  the  delicrhted  monarch  of  Scotland  his 
succession  to  the  crown  of  England,  a 
great  many  English  noblemen  and  gen- 
tlemen came  to  Scotland  on  much  the 
-same  errand  that  brings  so  many  of  them 
at  this  day,  viz.  to  hunt ;  the  game,  in  the 
'one  case,  being  place  and  favor,  and  in 
the  other,  blackcock  and  grouse.  Among 
the  rest,  there  was  one  Sir  Willoughby 
Somerset,  of  Somerset-Hall,  in  Devon- 
shire, a  knight  of  gay  and  chivalric  man- 
ners, exceliently  set  off  by  an  exterior  on 
which  nature  and  art  had  expended  their 
best  favors,  but  exhibiting,  at  same  time, 
in  his  total  want  of  true  honor  and  mental 
acquirements,  that  tendency  to  a  fair  dis- 
tribution, which  nature,  in  all  her  depart- 
ments, delights  in  displaying — suggesting, 
as  it  did  to  an  ancient  philosopher,  that 
the  pulchrum  asad  the  utile  are  dealt  out 
in  equal  portions  under  a  whimsical  law 
against  their  combination. 

Having  arrived,  with  his  gay  suite  of 
servants  and  splendid  equipage,  at  the 
palace  of  Holyrood,  Sir  Willoughby  was 
informed  that  there  were  no  apartments 
close  to  the  pala<3e  which  could  be  given 


to  him  for  his  accommodation,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  great  influx  of  noble  visitors 
who  had  come  from  all  parts  of  Scotland 
and  England  to  testify  their  allegiance, 
and  express  their  satisfaction,  whether 
real  or  assumed,  on  the  occasion  of  King 
James'  succession.  Sir  Willoughby,  there- 
fore, took  up  his  abode  in  a  house  in  the 
Canongate,  which  was  pulled  down  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago — at  that  time 
known  by  the  name  of  the  House  of  Gor- 
don, in  consequence,  it  is  supposed,  of 
having  at  one  time  been  occupied  by  the 
ducal  family  of  that  name. 

The  house  which  Sir  Willoughby  thus 
took  possession  of  was  situated  on  the 
south  side  of  the  street,  and  nearly  oppo- 
site to  the  close  called  Big  Loch-end  Close, 
which  possessed  at  that  time  a  very  differ- 
ent appearance  frjom  what  it  does  at  pre- 
sent ;  for  the  double  row  of  low  Flemish- 
looking  huts  which  lined  the  narrow  entry, 
have  given  place  to  modern  buildings, 
which  do  not  look  half  so  well  as  their 
more  humble  predecessors. 

la  one  of  these  little  huts,  there  lived, 
at  that  time — unconscious,  doubtless,  that 
their  names  would  thus  become  of  histori- 
cal interest  centuries  after  they  were  ga- 
thered   to    their   fathers — a    man     called 


THE    HEROINE. 


411 


Adam  Hunter,  and  his  wife,  Janet,  both 
of  some  importance  in  the  small  sphere  of 
their  own  little  gossiping  world  ;  but,  if 
these  humble  individuals  had  been  all  that 
their  lowly  mansion  had  contained,  the 
chronicler  would  scarcely  have  stooped  to 
notice  either  it  or  its  inhabitants.  There 
was  a  third  inmate  in  that  house — an  or- 
phan girl,  called  Margaret  Williamson  ;  a 
young,  slender,  azure-eyed  creature,  about 
seventeen  years  of  age,  of  startling  and 
bewitching  beauty,  and  of  a  simplicity, 
kindness,  and  meekness  of  disposition,  that 
endeared  her  to  thousands.  Producing 
that  kind  of  interest  and  sensation  in  her 
own  limited  circle,  which  is  so  often  found 
to  be  the  effect  of  the  mysterious  power  of 
beauty,  though  allied  to  poverty,  which, 
indeed,  sometimes  enhances  it,  Margaret 
seemed  as  unconscious  of  the  mairic  influ- 
ence  of  her  charms,  as  she  was  of  the  sin- 
gular fate  that  awaited  her.  She  had  been 
heard  of  where  she  was  not  seen  ;  and, 
innocent  and  harmless  as  she  was,  she  had 
not  been  passed  unheeded  by  the  "  wise 
women"  of  her  day,  who,  in  spite  of  fire 
and  King  James'  wrath,  provided  her,  ac- 
cording to  their  love  or  their  spite,  with  a 
prison  or  a  palace,  as  her  lot  upon  earth. 
As  already  hinted,  Margaret  was  repre- 
sented as  being  an  orphan,  brought  up  by 
the  gratuitous  kindness  of  Adam  Hunter 
and  his  wife — though  there  were  not  want- 
ing some  who  thought  that  her  parentage 
was  not  of  the  equivocal  kind  that  was 
represented. 

Scotland  was  not,  at  that  time,  so  far 
behind  in  the  love  and  praciice  of  gossip- 
ing, as  that  there  should  be  any  want  of 
the  usual  kind  and  number  of  remarks  on 
the  new-comers  to  the  house  of  Gordon  ; 
and  the  family  of  Adam  Hunter  were 
not  behind  their  neighbors  in  their  cu- 
riosity. 

"  He's  a  braw  knight  that  wha  has  come 
to  the  House  o'  Gordon,"  said  Janet 
Hunter,  one  night  when  they  were  setting 
round  the  fire. 

"  Ken  ye  wha,  or  what,  or  whence  he 


is,"   inquired   Adam,   "  attour  the   mere 
title  an'  form  o'  his  knighthood  ?" 

"  1  ken  naething  about  him,"  replied 
Janet,  "  save  that  his  name  is  Sir  Wil- 
loughby  Somerset,  and  that  he  has  a  great 
number  o'  servitors,  wham  he  treats  like 
princes.  They  sr-.y  he  is  gallant  and  weel- 
favored  ;  and  Elspet  Craig,  the  wise 
woman  o'  the  Watergate,  says,  in  her 
fashion  o'  speech,  that  he  is  a  rock  whereon 
the  happiness,  and  peace  o'  mind,  and 
honor  o'  mony  a  bonny  maiden  may  per- 
ish like  the  silly  boats  that  trust  to  the 
smiles  o'  an  autumn  day.  But,  if  I'm  no 
cheated,  Peggy  Williamson  can  tell  mair 
about  the  knight  than  a'  the  '  wise  women' 
frae  the  Watergate  to  St.  Mary's." 

"  An'  if  she  can,"  said  Adam,  "  it  may 
be  waur  for  her  than  if  she  were  as  deep 
learned  as  Elspet  Craig  in  the  mysteries 
o'  that  art  whereby  she  works  sae  meikle 
mischief  to  her  faes,  and  may,  pcradven- 
ture,  bring  upon  her  head  the  vengeance 
of  the  law.  I  houp  better  things  o' 
Peggy." 

"  I  ken  naething  aboot  the  Knight  o' 
the  White  Feather,'"'  said  Margaret,  with 
a  deep  sigh  ;  "  and  wherefore  should  I  ? — 
he's  far  abune  my  degree." 

''  But  ye  ken,  at  least,"  rejoined  Adam, 
"  that  he  wears  a  white  feather,  my  bonny 
bird — and  feathered  creatures  are  flichtie, 
especially  when  they  are  far  faae  their  ain 
countrie.  Even  our  ain  robin,  wha  con- 
descends to  come  and  eat  our  crumbs, 
when  the  snaw  is  on  the  hill,  leaves  us  in 
summer ;  and,  mair  than  a'  that,  he's  a 
bird  o'  prey,  and  doesna  hesitate,  when  he 
has  a  gude  opportunity,  to  soil  his  bonny 
red  breast  wi'  the  blood  o'  his  compa- 
nions." 

It  was  apparent  that  both  Adam  Hunter 
and  Janet  were  suspicious  of  Margaret's 
limited  knowledge  of  the  knight ;  and  they 
had  good  reason  to  be  so  ;  for  Janet  had 
been  told  that,  one  night,  when  Margaret 
had  said  she  was  going  to  meet  a  person  of 
the  name  of  Simon  Frazer — a  tradesman 
who  had  been  making  honorable  proposals 


41- 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


t )  Ikt,  alono;  with  nianj  others  who  were 
proud  to  be  called  her  suitors — she  had 
been  saen  walkin2  with  a  gentleman  wrap- 
ped up  in  a  Spanish  cloak,  supposed  to 
be  .Sir  VVilloughby,  in  tlic  glen  of  St.  Ar- 
thur's Seat,  call-id  the  Hunter's  Bog.  On 
another  occasion,  she  had  been  followed 
by  wSimon  Fraz-T  to  a  trysting  place, 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Hunter's  Rest 
— a  large  boulder  of  basalt  lying  on  the 
side  of  the  bog,  and  reiuarkalle  to  geolo- 
giMits  by  its  unaccountable  position.  On 
this  stone  Margaret  had  sat  till  the  moon 
had  concealed  her  horns  behind  the  top  of 
St.  Arthur's  and  the  glen  had  gradually 
become  enveloped  in  the  shade  of  the  hill. 
Simon  Frazer  took  advantage  of  the  gloom, 
and  concealed  himself  near  to  the  spot 
where  Margaret  sat ;  and,  amidst  the  si 
lence  which  reigned  in  this  secluded  place, 
he  could  distinctly  hear  the  sighs  of  the 
maiden,  as  the  hope  of  seeing  the  person 
she  had  come  to  meet  became  fainter  and 
fainter. 

''  Wae's  my  puir  deluded  heart  !"  she 
said,  in  a  desponding  and  tremulous  voice  ; 
"  what  is  it  that  drives  me,  like  a  charmed 
bird  or  a  dementit  thing,  into  the  power  o' 
this  braw  knight,  in  spite  o'  the  warnings 
o'  Elspet  Craig,  the  admonition  o'  Adam 
Hunter,  and,  what's  abune  a',  the  fear- 
some visions  o'  my  ain  wild  dreams  ?  Can 
it  be  that  I,  wha  hae  seen,  and  may  still 
see,  sae  mony  bended  knees  o'  lovers  o' 
my  ain  country  supplicating  my  fiivors  as 
if  their  condition  here  and  in  anither 
wa;ld  depended  on  a  blink  o'  these  worth- 
less een,  sit  here,  even  noo,  at  the  Hun- 
ter's Rest,  a  mile  frae  my  ain  hamo,  and 
when  naething  but  spirits  are  in  the  glen, 
to  meet  a  lover  frae  a  strange  land,  wha 
speaks  a  strange  language,  and  maks  love 
in  a  strange  fashion  .'  But  it  is  even  sae. 
My  heart  is  nae  langer  my  ain.  He  has 
ta'cn  it  into  his  ain  keepino:,  and  he  may, 
in  his  ain  pleasure,  as  easily  break  it  as 
he  may  crush  the  bonny  blue  bells  that 
flower  there  i'  the  glon." 

At  the   tcrminatioii  of  I\Iar£!:arct's  sim- 


ple soliloquy,  the  sound  of  footsteps  was 
heard,  and  there  soon  followed  the  greet- 
ing of  lovers.  Margaret's  spiiits  soon 
revived,  and,  having  taken  Sir  Willough- 
by's  arm,  she  said,  playfully,  as  she  looked 
up  into  his  face — "  The  faithless  moon 
has  been  truer  this  nicht  than  ye  hae  been  ; 
for  she  left  the  tap  o'  the  hill  half  an  hour 
syne,  and  ye  are  only  here  noo."*' 

"  Upbraid  me  not,  my  fair  Margaret," 
answered  Sir  Willoughby ;  '*  for  I  was 
scared  at  the  Friar's  Path  by  some  person 
who  seemed  inclined  to  follow  me,  and  I 
was  obliged  to  change  my  road  ;  but  thou 
knowest  that  love  is  fed  by  hindrances,  and 
its  course  is  none  of  the  straightest." 

"  i  didna  think,''  answered  the  simple 
maiden,  "  that  true  love  stood  in  need  o' 
onything  else  in  this  warld,  than  the  com- 
pany and  kindness  o'  the  twa  lovers  to  ane 
anither  " 

"  By  my  feather,  Margaret,  that  is  a 
true  maiden's  speech  !  But  1  do  not  think 
that  St.  Arthur,  who  must  surely  be  the 
lover's  saint,  will  thank  us  for  an  argu- 
ment, instead  of  a  love  token,  on  such  a 
beautiful  night  as  this.  Observe  these 
gleams  of  Cynthian  glory,  falling  like 
streaks  of  silver  on  the  tops  of  the  crags, 
investing  the  darkness  of  this  glen  with  a 
mystery  in  which  love  delights,  and  thou 
wilt  forget  thy  argument,  iu  the  sweets  of 
our  accustomed  dalliance." 

"  That  is  a  licht  aith.  Sir  Willoughby, 
that  ye  hae  sworn,"  answered  the  maiden  ; 
'•  but  every  land,  as  the  sang  says,  has  its 
ain  laugh,  and  it  may  also  hae  its  ain  aith  ; 
and  1  may  weal  forgic  ye  that,  for  the 
bonn}'  words  ye  hae  novr  spoken.  Foreign 
lands  hae  finer  words  than  puir  Scotland  ; 
but  dinna  think  that  1  cauna  enjoy  the 
beauty  o'  these  silvery  rocks  and  that 
mirky  glen,  because  my  silly  h.>art  can 
find  nae  utterance  to  its  feelings,  but  by 
its  ain  unmeanins;  thrabs." 

"  And  that  is  nature's  best  and  most 
beautiful  language,  m}-  sweet  bird,"  said 
Sir  Willoughby,  kissing  the  yielding 
maiden  ;  "  nor  would  1  give  one  throb  of 


THE  HEROINE. 


413 


thy  fair  bosom  for  all   tlie   eloquence   of 
poetry." 

Holding  such  conversation,  the  lovers 
passed  deeper  into  the  shades  of  the  hill, 
and  disappeared ;  but  the  death-like  silence 
of  the  place,  discovered,  to  the  disappoint- 
ment of  Simon  Frazer,  many  sighs  and 
protestations  which  otherwise  would  have 
been  sacred  to  the  happy  pair. 

Many  such  meetings  had  Sir  Willough- 
by  and  Margaret.  Their  walks  became 
more  frequent,  and  of  longer  duration  ; 
and  it  was  often  a  late  hour  before  Mar- 
garet returned  to  her  home.  It  could  not 
be  that  such  a  change  in  the  habits  of  the 
girl  could  escape  the  keen  eye  of  public 
curiosity,  and  far  less  the  suspicious  guar- 
dianship of  Adam  Hunter.  Wide  spread 
and  generally  known  as  was  the  beauty  of 
the  maiden,  so,  in  proportion,  was  the 
voice  of  scandal  heard  over  the  town, 
whispering  the  strange  tidings,  that  Peggy 
Williamson  had  been  seduced  by  the  great 
knight  who  lived  in  the  House  of  Gor- 
don. 

The  circumstance,  indeed,  very  soon 
became  apparent,  from  the  condition  of 
the  unhappy  girl,  who  could  no  longer 
conceal  her  pregnancy.  She  was,  in  con- 
sequence, sorely  beset  by  Adam  Hunter, 
and  interrogated  whether  she  had  received 
any  promise  of  marriage,  or  any  pledge 
whereon  she  could  found  any  expectation 
or  hope  that  the  knight's  intentions 
towards  her  were  of  an  honorable  nature. 
On  this  subject,  no  satisfaction  could  be 
got  from  Margaret,  who  persisted  in  a 
dogged  silence,  whenever  any  question 
was  put  to  her,  tending  to  implicate,  in 
any  way,  the  man  who,  to  all  appearance, 
had  ruined  her.  But  chance  brought  to 
light  what  jMargaret  had  been  so  anxious 
to  conceal ;  for  one  evening,  Janet  Hunter 
discovered  in  Margaret's  sleeping  apart- 
ment a  small  scented  paper,  curiously 
folded  up,  which  she  instantly  carried  to 
her  husband.  Adam  took  the  paper  to  a 
learned  clerk,  in  Blackfriars'  Hospital — 
(for  few  persons,  at  that  day,  could  either 


write,  or  read  writing)— who  read  it  to 
him  ;  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  it 
contained  a  promise,  on  the  faith  of  a 
knight,  that  Sir  Willoughby  Somerset 
would  make,  when  time  and  circumstance 
afforded  opportunity,  Margaret  W^illiam- 
son  his  wedded  wife.  The  paper  was 
again  returned  to  the  place  from  which  it 
was  taken. 

This  paper,  combined  with  J^.Iargaret's 
pregnancy,  having  satisfied  Adam  Hunter 
of  the  truth  of  the  general  report  and  his 
own  suspicions,  he  lost  no  time  in  waiting 
upon  the  knight.     Being  a  man  of  a  hasty 
and  even   furious  temper,  he  taxed    Sir 
Willoughby  in    unmeasured  terms,  with 
the  seduction  of  his  ward,  and  demanded, 
with  a  stern  determination,  satisfaction  to 
the  maiden  and  to  himself.     Touched  to 
the  quick,  and  wounded   in  his   pride  by 
the  pertinacious  manner  of  Adam  Hunter, 
Sir   Willoughby  lost  in   turn  his   temper, 
and,  seizing  a   baton  which  lay  near  him, 
he  struck  the  choleric  Scot  a  heavy  blow 
on  the  head,  and,  with  the  aid  of  his  ser- 
vants, kicked  him  out  of  the  house.     One 
of  Sir  Willoughby's   servants,  who   aided 
in  this  ejection  and  outrage,  was  Richard 
Forster  ;  the  person  who,  it  was  supposed, 
first    procured    a    meeting    between   his 
master  and  Margaret.      He  was  possessed 
of  his  master's  secrets,  in  this  and  many 
other   dishonorable   amours  ;  and,  thou-r^-h 
he  now,  by  his  master's  ordars,  assisted  in 
the  expulsion  of  Adam  Hunter,  he  hated 
him  in  his  heart,  in  consequence  of  a  blow 
which  he  had  some  time    before   received 
from    him,   on    which    occasion    he    had 
threatened  to  report  his  master's  practices 
to  Sir  Robert  Carey,  who  would  not  have 
failed    to    communicate    them    to    Kino- 
James,  whereby  Sir   Willoughby's  status 
at   Court  would   have   been   lost,  and  his 
ruin  accomplished.     The  knight  wished 
therefore,  to  get  quit  of  Richard  ;  but  to 
part  with  him  living  was  to  part  with   his 
secrets  ;  and  he  had  accordingly  made  up 
his  mind  to  get  him  disposed  of  in  such  a 
manner  as  that  he  could  tell  no  tales.     An 


414 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


opportunity  for  this  occurred  soouer  than 
might  have  been  expected. 

Stung  with  an  ungovernable  rage, 
Adam  Hunter,  on  passing  the  threshold 
of  the  House  of  Gordon,  threw  himself  on 
his  knees,  and  vowed  to  Almightv  God 
that  he  would  take  the  first  opportunity 
that  fortune  afforded  him  of  depriving  his 
enemy  of  life.  This  dreadful  purpose, 
thus  definitively  and  impiously  settled, 
calmed  Adam  Hunter's  rage  ;  for  he  felt, 
as  if  by  anticipation,  that  he  was  revenged. 
He  walked  deliberately  home,  and,  with- 
out hinting  anything  of  his  deadly  purpose 
to  his  wife,  S3nt  for  Simon  Frazer,  Mar- 
garet's rejected  suitor,  communicated  to 
him  his  intention,  and  requested  his  co- 
operation. Frazer  entered  into  the 
scheme  with  all  the  spirit  of  his  clan,  and 
all  the  rage  of  a  disappointed  lover 
towards  his  successful  rival.  They  re- 
solved to  fix  the  manner  of  accomplishing 
their  purpose  that  evening,  after  Janet 
and  Marfjaret  had  retired  to  rest. 

In  the  evening;,  when  Adam  Hunter  and 
Simon  Frazer  met,  Margaret  had  just 
retired  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  Her 
mind  was  occupied  with  the  thoughts  of 
her  situation.  She  had  now  become  sus- 
picious of  Sir  Willoughby's  intentions. 
In  her  late  interviews  with  him,  he  had 
been  distant  and  shy  ;  and  he  had  even 
refused,  on  one  occasion,  to  meet  her, 
alleging,  as  an  excuse,  that  he  was  engag- 
ed to  20  to  an  evening:  entertainment,  to 
which  it  was  ascertained  he  never  went. 
He  had,  besides,  endeavored  to  get  back 
from  her  the  letter,  which,  in  an  unguard- 
ed moment,  when  intoxicated  with  love 
and  wine,  he  had  given  to  her.  All  these 
circumstances  satisfied  the  unhappy  maid- 
en that  she  was  about  to  become,  or  rather 
had  already  become,  the  dupe  of  a  heart- 
less villain.  She  now  considered  herself 
standing  on  the  very  verge  of  ruin  ;  about 
to  become,  as  Elspet  Craig  had  foreboded, 
the  victim  of  a  passion  insidiously  intro- 
duced into  her  young  heart ;  and  left  to 
the  scorn  of  an  unfeeling  world,  or  the 


unavailing  pity  of  a  conceited  and  unfruit- 
ful philanthropy.  These  reflections  were 
passing  through  her  mind,  when  she  heard 
Simon  Frazer  come  into  the  house  ;  for 
her  bed  was  so  situated  that  she  could 
hear  everything  that  occurred  in  the  ad- 
joining apartment,  She  soon  ascertained 
the  object  of  this  late  meeting  of  the  two 
friends  ;  and,  with  feelings  that  shook  her 
whole  frame,  she  heard  it  fixed  that,  on 
the  following  evening,  when  Sir  Willough- 
by  was  expected  to  go  to  an  evening  en- 
tertainment at  the  palace,  Adam  Hunter 
should  gain  the  staircase  window  of 
Widow  Hutchinson,  fire  upon  his  enemy, 
and,  upon  seeing  him  fall,  make  his  escape, 
along  with  his  friend,  by  a  back  passage 
that  led  to  the  North  Back  of  the  Canon- 
gate.  This  resolved  upon,  the  two  friends 
parted. 

The  agitation  which  the  knowledge  of 
this  fierce  and  bloody  purpose  produced 
in  the  mind  of  Margaret,  was  proportion- 
ed to  the  love  which  she  still  bore  to  her 
seducer,  and  to  the  gentle  character  of 
the  maiden,  who  shrank  from  the  very 
thought  of  violence.  Her  nerves  had, 
moreover,  been  severely  affected  by  the 
train  of  sorrowful  thoughts  which,  at  the 
moment  when  she  heard  the  fatal  resolu- 
tion, were  passing  through  her  mind.  But 
a  new  feeling  soon  arose.  She  was  now 
called  upon  to  act,  and  the  urgency  of  the 
case  requiring  the  most  prompt  communi- 
cation to  Sir  Vv^illouo'hbv,  assuag-ed,  in 
some  degree,  her  nervous  excitement,  by 
forcing;  her  ideas  into  a  train  calculated  to 
the  contrivance  of  some  method  of  meet- 
ing; him  in  the  morning;. 

At  daybreak,  ^Margaret  rose  from  her 
sleepless  pillow,  wrapt  herself  up  in  her 
plaid,  and  went  and  secreted  herself  be- 
hind a  large  tree,  which  stood  in  the 
garden  at  the  back  of  the  House  of  Gor- 
don, from  which  she  could  observe  the 
bedroom  window  of  Sir  Willoughby.  It- 
was  a  cold  raw  morning ;  the  rain  was 
pouring  in  torrents,  and  bursts  of  distant 
thunder  shook  the  heavens.     In  this  situa- 


THE  HEROINE. 


415- 


tion,  Margaret  sat  for  two  hours,  wet, 
wearied,  and  disconsolate.  Her  attention 
was,  in  some  degree,  arrested  by  a  new 
equipage  that  stood  in  the  court-yard,  ap- 
parently newly  arrived  from  a  distance ; 
and  she  concluded  that  Sir  Willoughby 
had  visitors — a  prediction  which  she  haid 
good  reason  to  verify.  Her  eye  sought 
continually  the  casement  of  the  knight's 
sleeping  apartment,  which  was  at  last 
opened,  and  to  her  surprise  and  ^mortifica- 
tion, she  saw  standing  behind  the  dressing 
glass,  the  form  of  a  gay  and  fashionable 
lady,  with  Sir  Willoughby  standing  behind 
her — his  head  leaning  on  her  left  shoulder, 
and  his  right  hand  patting,  with  playful 
fondness,  her  cheek,  and  arranging  her 
ringlets  with  the  sportive  gaiety  and  coBt- 
Sdence  of  a  professed  libertine. 

Overcome  by  this  apparition,  which  so 
completely  justified  Margaret's  suspicions 
of  the  character  of  her  lover,  and  wearied 
and  wasted  as  she  was  by  the  scene  of  the 
previous  night,  the  fevered  vigil  which 
succeeded,  and  the  cold  and  wet  position 
she  had  so  long  occupied  on  this  morning, 
she  became  faint ;  and,  being  unable  longer 
to  stand,  leant  herself,  in  a  stooping  pos- 
ture, against  the  stem  of  the  tree  under 
which  she  stood.  Sir  Willouighby  now 
entered  the  garden  ;  he  had  observed  her 
from  the  window,  and  came  with  marked 
displeasure  in  his  countenance. 

"  Why  this  early  visit,  young  maiden  .^" 
he  said,  with  a  querulous  iorte  of  voice, 
and  without  making  any  effort  to  assist 
her  to  rise. 

"  1  dinna  come  here  this  morning,  Sir 
Willoughby  Somerset,"  replied  Margaret, 
with  the  warmth  of  offended  pride,  and 
standing  up,  nerved  by  her  feelings,  which 
were  roused  as  far  as  the  gentleness  of  her 
nature  permitted — "  I  dinna  come  here  this 
morning  on  my  ain  account,  though  may- 
be I  hae  as  meikle  reason  to  do  that  as  the 
braw  leddie  wha  sits,  even  noo,  in  your 
sleeping  chamber,  and  whose  braw  hair  ye 
were  pleased,  in  a  fashion  of  merriment, 
to  put  in  disorder.     Oh,  that  it  had  pleas- 


ed heaven  that  ye  had  deranged  nae  mair 
o'  me   than  my  worthless  locks,  I  might 
this  mornino;  hae  been  the  blithe,  thocht- 
fess,  and  innocent  Peggy  Williamson,  that 
I  was  when  my  stray  wits  left  me  to  my- 
seP  at  the  Hunter's  Rest  I  Na,  Sir  Wil- 
loughby, I   dinna  crome  to   tell  ye  o'  your 
broken  troth,  and  my  lost  love,  and  the 
ruin  o'  a  puir  lassie,  wha  wad  gladly  hae 
laid  down  her  worthless  life  to  save  yours.- 
These  things, — though,  by  om*  memories, 
whilk   are   but  as  the  quick    sand   to  the 
finger-mairks  of  the  drooning  sailor,  they 
may    ance    be    forgotten — are   recorded, 
doubtless,  whar  they  shall  remain,  ay,  a» 
the   graving   on    adamant.     Yet,    thoixgh 
these  things,  in  this  world  at  least,  concern 
only  me,  wha  am,  doubtless,  o'  sma  con- 
cernment to  ony  living  mortal  ;  and  though 
they  may  cost  me  7ny  life  whilk  may  be  o' 
sma  avail,  they  are  o'  less  importance  to 
me   at  this  time  that  what  I   cam'   to-  tell 
ye,  being  naething  less  than  how  to  save 
your  ain.     Adam  Hunter  has  resolved  to 
slay  ye  this  night,  as  ye  gang  to  Holyrood. 
Tak'  anither  road  than  the   Canongate  ; 
or,  what  is  better,  stay  at  hame,  and  save 
a  life  that  is  dearer  to  Peggy  Williamson' 
than  her  ain. — Fareweel,  fareweel !"  And; 
before   Sir  Willoughby    could   reply,    she 
had  left  him,  waving  her  hand  to  him  as 
she  went.     But,  on  looking  baek,  as  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  garden,  she   saw 
the  same  lady — whom  she  afterwards  as- 
eertained  to  be  Lady  Arabella  Winford,  a 
person  of   bad    repute,    with   whom    Sir 
Willoughby  had  resided  for  some  time  on 
ih.e    continent — enter    the     garden,    and 
greet  him  in  a  manner  very  different  frort* 
the  modest  custom  of  Scotland  at  that  day. 
After  the  departure  of    Margaret,  Sir 
Willoughby,  instead  of  being  in  asy  de- 
gi-ee  affected  by  gratitude  for  the  preser- 
vation of  his  life,  or  by  compassion  for  the 
kind  maiden  who  had  been  instrumental  in 
doing  him  that  service,  projected,  from  her 
information,  a  scheme  marked  by  coward- 
ice and  cruelty,  whereby  he  might  get  rid 
of  his  servant,  Richard  Forster,  and  put 


416 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


an  end  to  him  and  tlie  sscrets  with  which 
he  had  entrusted  him,  at  the  same  moment. 
He  resolved,  and  true  to  the  character  he 
bore — a  combination  of  cruelty  and  fri- 
volity— he  resolved,  amidst  the  blandish- 
ments of  meretricious  affection,  and  the 
•imbecile  badinage  and  persiflage  of  a 
strumpefs  conversation,  to  send  Richard 
down  the  Canon<rate  in  the  evenins;,  wrap- 
ped  up  in  his  cloak,  and  wearing  his  hat 
and  white  plume,  by  which  he  had  become 
so  remarkable.  The  project  was  execut- 
ed as  it  was  planned ;  and  the  deed  was 
done  with  which  Edinburgh,  and  indeed 
Scotland,  rang  for  many  a  day.  Richard 
Forster,  wearing  the  cloak  and  plumed  hat 
of  his  master,  was  shot  dead  in  the  Can- 
ongate,  opposite  to  the  house  of  Widow 
Hutchison,  by  the  unerring  hand  of  Adam 
Hunter,  who  seeing  his  supposed  victim 
fall,  fled  in  the  direction  of  the  Calton 
Hill  leaving  the  gun,  with  which  he  had 
done  the  deed,  lying  in  a  hedge,  which  at 
that  time  skirted  a  part  of  the  north  back 
of  the  Canongate. 

A  hue  and  cry  was  soon  raised  against 
Adam  Hunter,  who,  about  a  week  after 
the  crime  was  committed,  was  laid  hold  of 
by  the  ofl[icers  of  the  law,  and  lodged  in 
prison.  Sufiicient  evidence  having,  in  the 
epinion  of  the  crown  authorities,  been  pro- 
cured for  a  conviction,  the  unfortunate 
man,  was  m  due  course  of  time,  brou<Tht 
to  trial  before  the  Hioh  Court  of  Justici- 
ary.  The  court  met  on  the  15th  day  of 
November  ;  and  Adam  Hunter,  guarded 
on  each  side  by  members  of  the  City 
Guard,  sat,  with  the  stoical  indifierence 
which  marked  his  character,  to  hear  the 
evidence  to  be  brought  forward  against  him, 
and,  in  all  probability,  to  receive  sentence 
of  death.  The  august  appearance  of  the 
judges,  sitting  in  their  black  robes,  the 
venerable  and  even  dignified  aspect  of  the 
■unfortunate  culprit,  and  the  strange  and 
mysterious  crime  with  which  he  stood 
charged,  joined  with  the  fate  of  the  well- 
known  Canongate  beauty,  with  which  that 
crime  was  unaccountably  associated,  pro- 


duced a  sensation  in  the  J-usticiary  Court 
which  had  not  been  experienced  for  many 
years.  The  deepest  silence  prevailed 
when  the  indictment  was  read  ;  and  the 
Lord  Justice-Clerk,  having  put  the  ordi- 
nary question  to  the  pannel  of  guilty  or 
not  guilty,  Adam  Hunter  rose  with  firm- 
ness, and  calmly  and  respectfully  answer- 
ed— "  Not  guilty,  my  Lord,  of  the  murder 
of  Richard  Forster. ' '  The  trial  proceeded, 
and  the    crown  advocate  spoke  : — 

"  My  Lords,  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
this  is  a  case  of  murder,  whereto,  so  far  as 
I  can  see,  no  defence  or  plea  of  justifica- 
tion, or  even  palliation,  can  be  set  up  by 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  unless  it  be  that 
which  is  indeed  an  aggravation,  that  he 
did  intend  to  kill  one  man  against  whom 
he  entertained  malice  prepense^  and  slew 
another  against  whom  he  had  no  cause  of 
quarrel.  On  the  day  preceding  the  com- 
mission of  this  murder,  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar  was,  in  consequence  of  his  outrageous 
and  brutal  conduct  in  the  House  of  Gor- 
don, occupied  at  present  by  Sir  Willoughby 
Somerset  kicked  t^y  that  honorable  knight 
out  of  doors,  whereby  being  fiercely  en- 
raged, he  impiously  vowed  a  desperate  re- 
venge, the  which,  though  he  had  taken  it 
instanter  and  killed  his  enemy,  percitus 
rixa,  would  still,  by  the  just  laws  of  this 
land,  which  make  no  distinction  between 
forethought,  felony,  and  chaiid  mella^  have 
been  murder,  and  sufficient  to  subject  the 
prisoner  to  the  penal  consequences  of  that 
heinous  crime.  But,  my  Lords, the  prisoner 
cannot  even  plead  homicidiuvi  in  rixa  ;  for 
he  went  home  and  meditated  upon  his 
crime ;  settled  deliberately  the  modus 
trucidandi  in  cool  blood — or,  as  we  say, 
sanguine  frigida ;  and  on  the  following 
day,  watched,  sanguinem  sitiens^  for  liis 
victim  ;  and  more  like  a  blood-hound, 
cajiis  vestigator^  than  a  human  being,  de- 
prived him,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  his 
victim,  of  life.  But  revenge  is  known  to 
be  blind,  and  instead  of  his  enemy,  the 
prisoner  murdered,  by  shooting  him 
through  the  body,  a  person  who  was  not 


THE  HEROINE. 


417 


in  any  degree  guilty  of  having  offended 
him  ;  hut  who  was  going  about  his  private 
affairs,  as  any  of  us  might  have  been,  un- 
conscious of  meriting,  standing  in  no  fear 
of  receiving,  and  knowing  no  reason  for 
expecting  such  an  awful  fate  as  that 
which  awaited  him.  This,  I  say,  is  an 
aiTfrravation  of  the  crime  of  murder,  in  so 
far  as,  while  in  the  ordinary  case  there 
may,  in  man's  estim.ation,  be  some  pallia- 
tion in  consequence  of  the  infliction  of  an 
injury — in  this  there  can  be  none." 

The  witnesses  for  the  crown  were  then 
called.  The  death  of  Richard  Forstor, 
caused  by  a  shot  from  a  gun,  was  proved. 
It  was  also  proved,  that  the  gun  found  in 
the  hed2;e  was  Adam  Hunter's.  The 
quarrel  with  Sir  Willoughby  Somerset  was 
next  established,  as  also  the  fact  that  the 


deceased    wore,     on    that 


the 


dress  of  his  master.  The  macer  of  court 
then  called  out  the  name  o  the  next  wit- 
ness, which  was  that  of  Margaret  William- 
son ;  but  before  she  had  time  to  make  her 
appearance,  Adam  Hunter  rose  from  his 
seat  and  addressed  the  court  in  the  follow- 
ing terms : — ■ 

"  My  Lords,  it  doesna  appear  to  me, 
that  in  the  eve  o'  God,  or  even  in  that  o' 
man,  it  can  abide  the  twitch  o'  natural 
reason  that  a  puir  bairn  should,  in  ignor- 
ance o'  the  relation  whilk  she  bears  to 
hira  against  whom  she  is  to  swear,  be  en- 
trapped by  cunning  men  o'  the  law,  to  gie 
evidence  against  the  life  o'  him  wha  gave 
her  life.  The  veins  o'  Margaret  William- 
son are  filled  wi'  my  bluid,  albeit  her  heart 
mayna  beat  in  unison  wi'  the  ordinary 
feelings  o'  a  bairn  to  a  father ;  for  she, 
puir  thing,  has  nae  knowledge  that  Adam 
Hunter  is  her  parent,  whom  she  is  bound 
to  love  and  respect,  and  therefore  she  may 
this  day,  in  that  unseemly  ignorance  whilk 
I  and  my  wife  Janet  have  imposed  upon 
her,  say  what  at  some  future  time  she  may 
repent  wi'  tears  o'  bitterness,  whilk  winna 
recall  to  her  the  parent  she  has  slain.  I 
canna  think,  therefore,  my  Lords,  that  ye 
can  consider  it  unreasonable   in   a   par- 

voL.  ir.  6* 


ent — a  character  whilk  maybe  some  o' 
yoursels  bear,  and,  if  ye  do,  oh,  think, 
what  it  is  to  be  doom.ed  by  your  ain 
bairn  ! — that  this  puir  lassie  be  tauld,  be- 
fore she  be  examined,  that  she  is  bane  o' 
the  bane,  and  flesh  o'  the  flesh,  o'  him 
whom  she  is  about  to  arraign  o'  murder." 

As  soon  as  Adam  Hunter  had  finished  his 
speech,  which,  delivered  with  great  empha- 
sis, produced  a  great  sensation  in  all  the 
persons  present,  who  never  understood  that 
Margaret  W^illiamson  was  in  any  way  relat- 
ed to  him,  the  crown  counsel  stood  up  and 
said — 

"  My  Lords,  this  is  an  ingenious  device, 
on  the  part  of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  to 
deprive  the  law  of  its  evidence.  This  girl, 
who  is  about  to  be  broug-ht  forward  as  a 
witness,  has  been  held  out  to  the  world  as 
an  orphan — a  fact  that  may  be  testified  by 
hundreds  of  persons,  and  is,  indeed,  ad- 
mitted by  the  culprit  himself.  The  story 
now  fabricated  by  the  prisoner  is,  indeed, 
improbable — as  what  father  would  deny 
his  child  ?  I  cannot,  therefore,  consent  to 
allow  any  communication  to  be  made  to 
the  witness,  whereby  the  fountain  of  evi- 
dence may  be  contaminated  by  prejudice, 
and  truth  itself  sacrificed  to  the  false  feel- 
ings and  hysterical  emotions  of  a  relation- 
ship which,  in  my  opinion,  has  no  founda- 
tion in  fact." 

The  judges,  having  disbelieved  the 
statement  of  Adam  Hunter,  refused  to 
comply  with  his  request.  Margaret  Wil- 
liamson was,  accordingly,  brought  in  and 
placed  in  the  witnesses'  box.  Upon  being 
examined,  she  gave,  in  evidence,  the  sub- 
stance of  the  conversation  which  took 
place  between  Adam  Hunter  and  Simon 
Frazer  on  that  night  when  the  death  of 
Sir  Willoughby  Somerset  was  resolved 
upon.  She  was  then  asked  whether  she  had, 
between  that  period  and  the  death  of 
Richard  Forster,  any  communication  with 
Sir  Willoughby  ;  but  to  this  question  she 
refused  to  give  any  answer,  or  rather  she,, 
by  the  effect  of  her  simplicity — in  this  in- 
stance,   however,    made   subservient    to 


418 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


something  approacbing  to  cunning — so 
completely  baffled  the  men  of  law  that 
they  were  obliged  to  give  up  the  question 
in  despair. 

On  the  part  of  Adam  Hunter,  an  at- 
tempt was  mads  to  prove  an  alibi  ;  but 
that  having  failed,  the  jury,  on  the  charge 
of  the  judge,  who  considered  the  crime 
proved,  returned  a  verdict  of  guilty,  and 
Adam  Hunter  received  sentence  of  death. 
The  speech  which  Adam  Hunter  had 
made  on  the  occasion  of  his  trial,  as  al- 
ready said,  excited  much  sensation ;  and 
the  truth  of  the  fact  stated  by  him  was 
subjected  to  investigation.  It  was  found 
to  be  perfectly  true,  though  no  notice  is 
taken  of  it  in  the  books  of  adjournal. 
Margaret  Williamson  was  the  illegitimate 
child  of  Adam  Hunter,  by  the  daughter 
of  Elspet  Craig,  who  died  in  giving  birth 
to  the  infant ;  and  it  was  to  gratify  the 
prejudices  of  Janet  Hunter,  who  refused 
to  bring  up  the  child  on  any  other  condi- 
tion, that  the  parentage  had  been  so  in- 
dustriously concealed. 

The  unfortunate  Adam  Hunter  was  exe- 
cuted according  to  his  sentence.  At  the 
time  of  his  execution,  considerable  uproar 
was  observed  among  the  populace,  who, 
displaying  the  usual  shrewdness  of  the 
lower  orders  in  Scotland,  perceived  that, 
although  Adam  could  not  be  justified,  he 
was  only  one  of  the  actors  in  the  tragedy ; 
and  that,  while  their  unfortunate  country- 
man was  expiating  his  crime  by  an  igno- 
minious death,  the  English  knight,  whose 
enmity  toward  Richard  Forster,  and  shame- 
ful conduct  toward  Adam's  daughter,  were 
now  generally  known,  was  allowed  to  es- 
cape. 

The  rumors  thus  (;^rculated  by  the 
crowd  at  the  execution  of  Adam  Hunter 
were  not  unknown  to  the  crown  officers, 
who  felt  the  force  of  the  extraordinary 
circumstance,  that  Richard  Forster  should, 
on  that  fatal  night,  have  worn  the  clothes 
of  his  master.  That  fact  was,  moreover, 
in  a  considerable  degree,  explained  by 
another,  which  had  been  elicited  from  one  I 


of  Sir  Willoughby's  servants,  of  the  name 
of  William  Evans,  viz.,  that  Sir  Willough- 
by  and  Richard  had  had  a  quarrel,  which 
produced  high  words  between  the  par- 
tics,  and  some  threats  on  the  part 
of  the  knight.  The  crown  officers  were, 
besides,  moved  by  the  curious  circum- 
stance, that  Margaret  Williamson  had  so 
artfully  evaded  the  question  put  to  her  on 
the  occasion  of  the  trial  of  Adam  Hunter  ; 
while  it  was  almost  impossible  to  believe 
that  she  would  not  have  communicated  to 
Sir  Willoughby  the  plot  that  was  laid  for 
his  life,  notwithstanding  the  injury  she 
had  received  by  being  made  the  victim  of 
his  seduction. 

A  warrant  was  accordingly  issued  for 
the  apprehension  of  Sir  Willoughby  Som- 
erset. Ho  was  found  by  the  officers  in 
the  company  of  Lady  Arabella  Winford, 
torn  from  her  arms,  and  lodged  in  jail. 
The  charge  against  him  was  the  murder  of 
Richard  Forster,  perpetrated  by  his  hav- 
ing, sciens  et  prudens^  sent  him  where 
death  awaited  him.  Application  was  in 
the  meantime,  again  made  by  the  crown 
officers  to  Margaret  Williamson,  for  infor- 
mation as  to  whether  she  had  had  any 
communication  with  Sir  Willoughby  on 
the  day  on  which  Richard  Forster  was 
slain.  Margaret's  answers  were  still  of  an 
evasive  character,  and  her  examinators  left 
her,  stating  that  they  would  visit  her 
again,  and  use  some  other  means  of  extort- 
ing the  truth.  Before  this  threat  was  put 
in  execution,  the  knight,  having  heard 
that  Margaret  was  in  the  hands  of  the  ex- 
aminators, overcome  by  fear  and  coward- 
ice, and  indulging  the  mean  and  despicable 
hope  of  being  able  to  persuade  his  victim 
to  save  his  life  a  second  time,  still  without 
rendering  her  justice,  sent  for  her  to  visit 
him  in  prison — a  request  with  which  she 
instantly  complied. 

"  My  fair  Margaret,"  commenced  the 
knight,  '*  I  have  sent  for  thee  to  know 
what  are  still  thy  feelings  towards  one  who 
loves  thee,  and  now  requires  some  aid  and 
consolation,  such  as  only  thou  canst  ren- 


THE   HEROINE. 


419 


der  him.  I  flatter  myself  that,  at  one 
time,  1  was  not  indifferent  to  thee  ;  and, 
if  my  present  peril  were  past  (and  thou 
art  the  arbiter  of  my  fate),  I  may  find  a 
suitable  opportunity  of  showing  thee  that 
I  still  love  thee  as  fervently  as  I  did 
when  1  used  to  meet  thee,  by  the  light  of 
the  moon,  at  the  Hunter's  Rest.  I  under- 
stand that  my  persecutors  have  been  with 
thee,  and  it  is  my  pleasure  to  be  informed, 
from  thy  own  fair  lips,  that  it  is  not  thy 
intention  to  communicate  to  them  what 
passed  between  thee  and  me  in  my  garden, 
on  the  day  of  the  death  of  my  worthless 
servant." 

"  I  didna  think,"  replied  Margaret, 
with  calmness  and  dignity,  "  that  Sir 
Willoughby  Somerset  could  hae  sae  far 
mistaken  the  heart  of  Maro-aret  William- 
son  as  to  hae  found,  in  the  compass  o'  his 
ain,  any  doubt  sufficient  to  cause  him  to 
put  that  question  to  her.  Aince  already 
hae  I  saved  your  life,  and  I  would  be  laith 
to  throw  that  awa  now  which  I  had  before 
sae  meikle  pains — though,  wae's  my  heart ! 
sae  little  thanks  or  reward — to  preserve. 
Na,  na ;  let  the  officers  of  the  law  tak' 
their  course — mine  has  been  lang  fixed  ; 
and  a'  the  hand-screws  and  stocks  o'  Scot- 
land, and  even  the  black  wuddy  itseP, 
winna  wrest  frae  me  sae  meikle  as  would 
injure  a  single  hair  o'  your  head.  It  may 
be  that  I  only  preserve  ye  for  the  love  o' 
anither ;  but  I  will  at  least  hae  that  satis- 
faction— and  it  is  better  to  the  broken 
heart  than  a  fause  love  that  has  now  nae 
power  to  bind  it — that  I  hae  rendered,  as 
our  holy  religion  inculcates,  good  for 
evil." 

These  sentiments  only  interested  or 
concerned  Sir  Willoughby  in  so  far  as 
they  told  him  that  the  fair  maiden  would 
not  betray  him.  He  mistook  entirely  the 
Scotch  character  generally  ;  and  he  had 
not  himself  any  of  those  high-minded 
qualities  which  could  enable  him  to  appre- 
ciate Margaret's.  Betrayed,  by  her  de- 
termination to  do  justice  to  her  own 
standard  of  female  duty,  into  an  idea  that 


the  sacrifices  she  had  thrown,  and  was 
again  to  throw,  on  the  shrine  of  that  duty 
which  she  had,  in  her  fervid  imagination 
deified,  were  mere  indications  of  a  wish  to 
oblige  and  conciliate  him.  Sir  Willoughby 
thought  he  might  safely  go  a  step  farther, 
and  endeavor  to  wring  out  of  her  the  writ- 
ten promise  of  marriage  he  had  so  un- 
guardedly given  her.  He  began  by  using 
some  more  of  the  bland  language  by  which 
he  had  originally  beguiled  her  ;  but  he 
had  scarcely  approached  the  subject  on 
which  her  mind  was  fixed,  when  Margaret 
with  the  perspicacity  of  her  sex  in  these 
tender  points,  interrupted  him  ;  and,  raising 
herself  to  the  utmost  extent  of  her  heio-ht. 
while  the  fire  flashed  from  her  dark  blue 
eye,  said — 

"  If  ye  can  tak'  frae  me  the  burden  o' 
shame  I  hae  carried  for  six  moons  under 
my  broken  heart,    and  restore  to  me  my 
lost  repute,  aince   pure  as   the  snaw  that 
the  winds  o'  heaven  hae  driven  o'er  muir 
and   mountain,   and   tear    from   my   puir 
crazy  brain  the  image  I  hae   made  an  idol 
o',  and  on  whose  unholy  altar  I  hae  sacri- 
ficed my  maiden  virtue — and  maybe  that 
eternal  life  that  hasna  been  promised  to 
the  trafficker  in  sin — then.  Sir  Willough- 
by, ye  may  ask  me  for   that  whilk  stands 
to  me  in  the  place  of  ane  haly  covenant, 
and  is  the  only  solace  left  to  bind  up  my 
broken  spirit,  and  be  a  sign  and  a  token 
to  your  bairn  whom  I  hae  yet  to  bear,  that 
its  puir  mother,  though  doubtless  guilty 
o'  a  great  sin  was  the  victim  o'  a  knight's 
broken  troth,  and  maybe  entitled  to  a  drap 
o'  mercy  in  her  burning   cup.     Tell  me. 
Sir,  to  keep  frae  the  officers  of  the  law 
the  secret  that  would  bring  ye  to  a  shame- 
fu'  death,  and  1   will  part  wi'  it  as  sune 
as  I  will  part  wi'  the   written  testimonial 
of  what  a  merciful  God,  and  the  less  mer- 
ciful laws  o'  my  countrie,  may,  peradven- 
ture,  deal  wi'  as  ane  haly  bond  o'  matri- 
mony." 

With  these  words,  Margaret  abruptly 
left  the  prison,  and  Sir  Willoughby,  con- 
cerned only  for  his  liberation,   denied  ac- 


420 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


cess  to  his  heart  to  the  sentiments  which 
reflected  !^o  much  honor  on  the  feelings  of 
his  victim,  from  whom  he  was  entitled  to 
expect  nothing  hut  revenge. 

Margaret  was  soon  again  visited  hy  the 
officers  of  the  law  ;  hut  she  remained  firm 
to  her  resolution,  not  to  say  anything  tend- 
ino"  to  implicate  Sir  Willoughby.  Re- 
course was  therefore  had,  according  to  the 
usages  of  that  period,  to  the  ordinary  mode 
of  dealins:  with  an  unwillintr  witness.  She 
was  now  told,  that,  as  a  person  refractory 
and  disobedient  to  the  laws  of  her  country, 
she  must  go  to  prison,  where  the  means  of 
extorting  her  withholden  testimony  would 
be  more  in  the  power  of  the  crown  offi- 
cials. She  was,  accordingly,  conveyed  to 
the  prison  in  which  Sir  Willoughby  was 
confined,  and  intimation  was  solemnly 
made  to  her,  that,  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, she  would  be  subjected  to  the  rack  of 
the  thumbikins.  The  threat  was  fulfilled 
with  fidelity  and  vigor.  On  the  first  ap- 
plication of  this  cruel  instrument,  the  poor 
girl  screamed  with  agony ;  but  the  unsta- 
bility  of  her  frame,  attenuated  and  weak- 
ened by  her  previous  sufferings,  and  her 
pregnancy,  loosened,  under  the  cfi'ect  of 
the  torture,  that  connexion  between  ago- 
ny and  resolution,  without  which  all  tor- 
tured methods  of  extorting  testimony  must 
be  unavailing.  Every  increased  pressure 
produced  an  agonized  scream,  succeeded 
by  a  state  of  insensibility,  or  faint,  which 
these  deluded  searchers  for  truth  had  as 
much  difficulty  in  bringing  her  out  of,  as 
they  had  in  producing.  The  torture  con- 
tinued to  be  applied,  at  stated  intervals, 
for  days,  and  the  screams  of  the  unfortu- 
nate maiden  could  not  fail  to  find  their 
way  to  the  ears,  if  not  to  the  heart,  of  the 
wretch  by  whom  her  sufl"erings  had  been 
occasioned.  Little  impression,  however, 
"was  produced  on  Margaret's  resolution  to 
die  with  her  secret ;  and,  upon  the  occa- 
sion of  one  application  of  the  instrument, 
the  syncope  produced  had  so  long  a  peri- 
od of  duration,  that  the  medical  man  who 
was  present  declared  that  it  could  not  be 


applied  again  without  danger  of  producing 
death. 

The  officers  were  now  inclined  to  allow 
the  period  of  JNIargaret's  pregnancy  to  pass 
before  they  again  applied  the  instrument 
— a  circumstance  of  rather  an  anomalous 
nature  in  the  proceedings  of  these  lovers 
of  truth  ;  for  a  true  medical  philalothes 
would  naturally  have  conceived,  that  the- 
wcaker  the  habit  of  the  patient,  the  more 
certain  was  the  chance  of  a  recovery.  In 
the  meantime,  however,  a  circumstance 
came  to  the  ears  of  the  king's  prosecutor, 
which  induced  him  to  relax  his  energies 
in  the  prosecution  of  Sir  Willoughby. 
Several  of  his  servants  now  declared  (no 
doubt  bv  the  aid  of  concealed  briberv), 
that  Richard  Forster  was  in  the  habit  of 
attiring  himself  in  his  master's  garments, 
and  personating  him  in  the  prosecution  of 
amours.  In  addition  to  this,  Janet  Hun- 
ter, though  called  upon,  could  not  swear 
Margaret  Williamson  had  stirred  from  the 
house  on  the  day  of  the  murder.  Unable 
to  force  Margaret  to  speak,  and  influenced 
by  the  testimony  of  these  witnesses,  the 
public  prosecutor  came  to  the  resolution 
of  liberating  Sir  Willoughby,  and  the 
knight  was  accordingly  let  out  of  gaol. 

Within  a  few  hours  after  his  liberation, 
he  was  on  his  way  to  England,  in  compa- 
ny with  Lady  Arabella.  He  had  devoted 
the  whole  period  of  his  imprisonment  to 
writinir  letters  to  her,  and  ventiucr  curses 
against  Scotland.  ^Margaret  Williamson 
was  forgotten,  in  the  hope  of  finding 
in  the  arms  of  Lady  Arabella  a  panacea 
for  his  "wi'ongs,  and  a  solace  of  his  suffer- 
ings— for  it  is  as  true  as  it  is  remarkable, 
that  the  truly  wicked  arc  the  most  queru- 
lous of  justice,  and  the  most  impatient  of 
her  retribution.^. 

Nothing  was,  for  a  long  time,  heard  of 
Sir  Willoughby  ;  but  she  whom  he  had 
ruined  and  deserted,  remained  to  the  in- 
habitants of  Edinburgh  as  an  object  of 
their  pity,  and  an  example  to  their  chil- 
dren. Margaret  bore  a  son,  and  Janet 
Hunter  soon  died  of  a  broken  heart,  for 


THE   HEROINE. 


421 


the  loss  of  Adam.  Margaret  was  thus 
left  to  the  charity  of  a  world,  which  is 
often  moved  to  pity  only  through  the  sel- 
fish conceit  of  a  comparison  between  the 
alms-giver  and  the  alms-rcccivcr,  and 
begged  her  bread  from  the  doors  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Edinburgh. 

Five  years  after  the  transactions  now 
detailed,  and  when  King  James  had  been 
nearly  as  long  seated  on  the  throne  of 
England,  Lionel  Apsley,  a  gentleman  in 
the  confidence  of  the  king,  arrived  in 
Edinburgh.  He  was  observed  to  make 
inquiries  after  a  person  of  the  name  of 
Margaret  or  Peggy  Williamson,  who,  he 
was  informed,  resided  in  a  small  ground 
room  in  the  White  Horse  Close,  in  the 
Cannongate  of  Edinburgh.  A  man  who 
was  standing  at  the  top  of  Leith  Wynd 
took  him  to  Margaret's  residence.  Upon 
entering  the  humble  abode,  he  found  the 
object  of  his  search  making  ponidge  for 
the  son  of  the  Eno;lish  kni^iiht.  Lionel 
entered  into  conversation  with  Marf>;aret, 
and  endeavored  to  draw  her  into  a  recital 
of  the  story  of  her  life  ;  but  she  evaded, 
though  in  the  gentlest  manner,  his  efforts, 
stating,  that  her  griefs  and  her  secrets 
were  her  own,  and  that  the  making  the  one 
known  would  not  make  the  other  unfelt. 
She  had  been  much  annoyed,  she  said,  by 
the  impertinent  interrogations  of  gossiping 
people,  who  often  insulted  her  by  with- 
holding their  charity  when  they  found  their 
love  of  gossip  ungratified. 

Lionel  made  many  visits  to  Margaret, 
and,  by  degrees,  succeeded  in  breaking 
down  her  reluctance  to  speak  of  herself. 
He  told  her,  that  he  had  been  commis- 
sioned to  visit  her,  and  had  come  down  to 
Scotland  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeing 
and  serving  her,  and  pledged  his  honor, 
as  a  gentleman,  that  the  only  use  he  would 
make  of  her  information  would  be  in  turn- 
ing it  to  her  advantage.  He  was  evidently 
already  well  acquainted  with  many  parts 
of  her  story  ;  but  the  chief  object  of  his 
inquiry  related  to  the  written  promise  of 
marriage  which,  he  had  been  given  to  un- 


derstand, she  had  got  from  Sir  Willough- 
by.  Margaret,  at  first,  would  not  admit 
that  any  such  document  existed,  and  ap- 
peared to  feel  acute  pain  from  Lionel's 
urgent  solicitation  to  see  it.  Overcome, 
at  last,  by  his  importunity,  she  went  to  a 
little  chest,  which  was  secreted  in  a  recess 
dug  into  the  wall  of  her  apartment,  and 
having  drawn  it  out,  and  opened  it  with 
trembling  hands,  she  took  from  it  the 
small,  but  curiously  folded  piece  of  paper, 
still  retaining  the  fragrance  with  which 
Sir  Willoughby's  gallantry  had  invested 
it.  With  convulsive  sobs,  Margaret  look- 
ed at  the  paper,  and  handed  it  to  the  stran- 
ger. Lionel  read  it,  and  found  it  to  con- 
tain the  following  words,  written  in  a 
small  affected  character,  which  bore  evi- 
dent traces  of  having  been  penned  by  the 
writer  when  in  a  state  borderins;  at  least 
on  intoxication.  "  Sir  Willoughby  Somer- 
set, of  Somerset  Hall,  knight  of  the  noble 
order  of — (here  there  was  drawn  a  rude 
image  of  George  and  the  dragon) — doth, 
by  these  lines,  declare  that  he  doth  truly 
intend  to  wed  Margaret  Williamson  ;  and 
this  he  promises  to  do  on  the  faith  of  a 
kniijht  of  the  order  to  which  he  belongs. 
Given  at  the  Hunter's  Rest,  this  26th  day 
of  April,  in  the  year  of  the  succession  of 
King  James  to  the  throne  of  England." 

This  document  Lionel  copied,  and  hav- 
ing returned  the  original  to  Margaret,  he 
asked  her  if  she  would  accompany  him  to 
London. 

"  If  it  be  to  meet  Sir  Willoughby  Som- 
erset," answered  she,  "  I  will  sooner  walk 
to  the  grave  o'  Sir  Patrick  Spence  and 
the  Scottish  lords  wha  lie  between  Leith 
and  Aberdour." 

"  It  is  not  to  meet  Sir  Willoughby,  my 
fair  maiden,"  said  Sh-  Lionel ;  "  and  if 
thou  wilt  trust  to  the  honor  of  one  who  is 
not  a  knight,  1  promise  thee  thou  shalt 
not  have  cause  to  regi-et  thy  journe3^" 

After  much  solicitation,  Margaret 
agreed  to  go  to  London,  and  take  her 
child  with  her  ;  and  Lionel  having  got  her 
equipped  her  in  a  manner  so  as  to  escape 


422 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


observation,  they  departed  for  London, 
where  they  arrived  after  ten  days'  travel- 
ling. On  their  arrival,  Margaret  and  her 
child  were  taken  to  respectable  lodgings, 
where  she  was  requested  to  remain  till 
Lionel  called  for  her. 

After  some  days,  a  coach  drove  up  to 
the  door,  and  a  lady  carrying  a  bundle, 
came  out,  and  asked  to  be  shown  to  the 
apartment  occupied  by  the  Scotch  lady. 
This  was  the  wife  of  Lionel,  who  brought 
with  her  a  number  of  specimens  of  tartan, 
which  she  exhibited  to  Margaret,  request- 
ing her  to  point  out  the  kind  she  wore 
when  she  lived  with  Adam  Hunter.  This 
Margaret  did  ;  and  the  next  request  made 
by  the  lady  was,  that  Margaret  should  de- 
scribe to  her  the  shape  of  the  garment, 
and  the  manner  in  which  she  wore  it  ;  all 
of  which  Margaret  complied  with,  and  the 
lady  departed. 

In  two  days  more,  the  same  lady  called 
with  the  garment  made,  and  requested 
Margaret  to  put  it  on,  and,  with  the  child, 
accompany  her  to  the  place  where  she  was 
going.  Margaret  complied,  and  they  de- 
parted together  in  the  coach.  After 
driving  for  some  little  time,  the  coach 
stopped  at  a  large  house,  into  which  they 
entered.  The  lady  led  Margaret  and  her 
child  up  a  great  many  stairs,  and  round 
winding  passages,  until  they  came  to  a 
room,  where  she  was  requested  to  remain. 
After  waiting  about  ten  minutes,  a  gentle- 
man of  a  fair  complexion  entered,  and 
shook  her  kindly  by  the  hand,  launching, 
at  the  same  time,  and  without  any  expla- 
nation, into  a  quick-spoken  and  confused 
speech,  which  formed  a  part  of  his  saluta- 
lion. 

*'  Why,  woman,  didna  ye  mak'  some 
legal  use  o'  the  bit  paper  ye  got  frae  your 
braw  lover,  Sir  VVilloughby  Somerset  ? 
Can  it  be  possible  that  ye  dinna  ken,  that, 
by  the  law  o'  your  country,  a  promise  o' 
marriage,  coupled  wi'  a — a — hem  !  hem  ! 
— a  bairn,  is,  to  a'  intents  and  purposes, 
as  gude  a  marriage  as  if  it  were  celebrated 
wi'  a'  the  solemnities  o'  haly  kirk  ?  By  my 


royal  troth,  ye  hae  been  a  blate  and  silly 
lassie,  whatever  folk  may  say  o'  ye,  prais- 
ing ye  for  the  hich  and  michtie  honor  ye 
made  sae  meikle  fashion  o',  to  save  the 
life  of  a  ne'er-do-weel  villain,  wha  ruined 
ye,  and  slew  his  servant,  and  cheated  the 
wuddy  o'  my  countrie,  though  made  o' 
gude  aik,  a  mair  suitable  wife  to  him,  God 
wot,  than  the  like  o'  ye.  But  lat  that 
alane — tempus  reparahit — ha  !  ha  !  ye 
ye  ken  naething  o'  Latin,  I  fancy,  but  I 
meant  only  by  that  flicht  to  tell  ye  that 
ye  will  be  revenged." 

While  in  the  act  of  delivering  this 
strange  speech,  the  gentleman  began  to 
drag  Margaret,  somewhat  rudely,  out  of 
the  room  where  they  were,  into  another  ; 
his  speech  and  the  dragging  operation 
going  on  at  the  same  time.  She  now 
found  herself  in  a  large  hall,  where  she 
saw  an  elevated  chair,  overshadowed  by  a 
canopy  of  crimson  velvet,  on  the  top  of 
which  was  a  crown.  The  gentleman,  still 
in  the  same  confused  manner — speaking 
sometimes  to  himself,  and  sometimes  to 
her — shoved  her  behind  a  small  screen, 
apparently  placed  there  for  the  purpose  of 
concealing  some  one,  telling  her  to  remain 
there  until  she  was  called  for. 

The  folding-doors  of  the  apartment  now 
opened,  and  Margaret  heard  the  voices  of 
heralds,  and  saw  a  great  number  of  high- 
dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen  come  in,  and 
stand  round  the  elevated  chair.  Anions: 
these,  she  observed  Sir  W^illoughby  So- 
merset, and  a  lady  (the  same  she  had 
seen  in  the  garden  of  the  House  of  Gor- 
don) leaning  upon  his  arm.  "  Come 
forth,  Margaret  Williamson,"  cried  the 
gentleman  who  had  first  spoken  to  her  ; 
and  Margaret,  with  her  tartan  plaid  around 
her,  and  her  child  at  her  foot,  stood  be- 
fore King  James.  Opposite  to  her,  stood 
Sir  Willoughby  Somerset  and  his  lady, 
dressed  in  the  most  gorgeous  style,  and 
forming  a  stransie  and  strikina;  contrast 
with  the  plaided  stranger. 

"  I  am  right  glad,"  said  James,  "  to  see 
my  auld  subjects  o'  my  native  kingdom ; 


THE  HEROINE. 


423 


and  I  greet  ye  weel,  Peggy  Williamson, 
and  wish  ye  and  your  bairn  mony  braw 
days.  I  also  greet  ye  wecl,  Sir  Willough- 
by  Somersetj  Knight,  and  your  braw  led- 
die,  wha  is,  nevertheless,  only  your  wife, 
in  sae  meikle  as  she  is  nearest  your  heart, 
in  the  fashion  o'  the  connexion  whilk 
exists  between  our  auld  Scotch  wuddy 
and  the  heart  o'  Mid-Loudon.  But  awa' 
wi'  this — Et  nunc  labor es  exallare — 
whilk  means,  to  wark,  to  wark.  Ken  ye 
this  Scotch  lassie,  Sir  Willoughby  Somer- 
set?" 

"  No,  Sire,"  answered  the  Knight,  in 
evident  confusion,  but  still  retaiiling  a 
portion  of  his  natural  impudence. 

"  It's  fause,  Sir,"  answered  the  King, 
whose  choler  now  rose  to  the  boiling  point 
of  his  royal  fervor — "  It's  fause.  Sir  ;  ye 
ken  her  as  weel  as  did  our  royal  faither  our 
royal  mither,  or  as  Hamman  did  his  wud- 
dy, whilk  was  made  o'  sweet-smelling  ce- 
dar, as  is  clearly  made  out  by  the  learn- 
ed Chrysostom.  I  canna  believe  you  ;  for 
our  royal  brither  Solomon  hath  said,  that 
if  a  ruler  hearken  to  lies,  all  his  servants 
shall  be  wicked.  But,  maybe,  ye  may 
ken  your  ain  handwriting,  better  than  ye 
do  the  lassie.  Look  at  that,  man;  do  ye 
ken  that  .^" 

Sir  Willoughby  was  silent. 

"  I  will  take  your  silence,  man,  for  an 
ill-favored  confession  ;  and  now.  Sir,  let 
it  be  understood  by  ye,  that  that  bit  writ- 
ino;  and  that  bit  callant — wha  doesna  ken 
ye  sae  weel  as  ye  ken  his  mither — maks  a 
gude  marriage  by  the  law  o'  Scotland. 
I  dinna  mean.  Sir,  in  the  presence  o'  this 
assembly,  to  disgrace   ye,  mair  than  will 


serve  the  purposes  o'  justice  ;  and  I  leave 
ye  to  reflect,  if  ye  hae  sic  a  thing  about 
ye  as  reflection,  how  ye  treated  this  puir 
lassie,  wham  ye  ruined,  and  wha,  though 
fire,  and  famine,  and  death,  and  scorpions, 
are  given,  as  Ecclesiasticus  says,  for  ven- 
geance, sat  quietly  and  sucked,  wi'  her 
honied  lips  ( seeking  nae mair  satisfaction), 
the  poison  which  your  shaft  carried  to  her 
broken  heart ;  and  wha,  though  exposed 
to  terrible  and  racking  tortures,  saved,  on 
twa  occasions,  your  life,  regardless  o'  her 
ain.  Now,  Sir,  though  the  lassie  can 
claim  ye  as  her  husband,  she  alone  has 
the  power  o'  severing  that  connexion,  on 
the  ground  o'  your  cohabitation  wi'  that 
leddie,  wham  ye  call  your  wife  ;  whilk 
power,  by  my  advice,  she  will  doubtless 
exercise.  But,  Sir,  there  maun  here  be 
a  solatium  ;  and  I  ask  you  if  ye  are  will- 
ing to  sign  that  paper  whilk  Lionel  Aps- 
ley  is  ready  to  shaw  ye  .'^" 

Sir  Willoughby  took  the  document, 
which  purported  to  be  a  conveyance  to 
Margaret  Williamson,  in  liferent,  and  her 
son,  in  foe,  of  one-half  of  the  domain  of 
Somerset  Hall,  calculated  to  amount  to 
iB5,000  a-year  ;  and,  having  read  it,  he 
seemed  to  hesitate  to  sign  it.  During  his 
hesitation,  James  whispered  in  his  ear, 
the  name  of  Richard  Forster.  His  man- 
ner changed,  and  he  signed  the  deed. 

Margaret  Williamson  received  the  deed 
from  the  King,  giving,  in  return,  one  of 
her  best  curtsies.  She  came  down  to 
Scotland,  prosecuted  a  divorce  against 
Sir  Willoughby  Somerset,  and  lived  a 
much  honored  and  respected  lady,  in 
Edinburgh,  for  many  years. 


42^i 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


JOHNNY  BEOTHERTON'S  FIVE  SUNNY  DAYS. 


I  HAVE  experienced  many  days  both  of 
sorrow  and  of  sadness,  in  the  course  of  my 
life  and  experience  (said  old  John  Bro- 
therton  of  Peebles)  ;  but  with  me  by-past 
sorrows  were  always  like  an  auld  almanac 
— a  book  that  I  never  opened.  Yet  weel 
do  I  remember  the  five  sunniest  days  of  my 
existence.  They  were  days  of  brightness 
and  of  joy,  without  a  spot  to  cloud  them. 
They  took  place,  also,  at  very  various  pe- 
riods of  my  existence.  I  no  doubt  have 
had,  independent  of  them,  many  pleasant, 
warm,  bonny  days — days  wherein  I  was 
both  pleased  and  happy.  But  they  passed 
away  like  any  other  fine  day,  and  they 
werena  remembered  for  a  week.  But  very 
different  from  the  like  of  these  ordinary 
fine  days,  were  those  which  I  allude  to  as 
the  five  sunny  days  of  my  existence.  They 
were  days  of  pure,  unadulterated,  uncloy- 
ed,  almost  insupportable  delight.  They 
were  days,  the  remembered  sunshine  of 
which  will  not  set  in  my  breast,  until  my 
life  set  in  the  grave.  But  1  will  give  you 
an  account  of  them. 

The  first  occurred  when  I  was  about 
twenty  years  of  age.  It  was  a  delightful 
evening  in  the  month  of  September,  on 
the  second  day  of  the  month,  and  just 
about  five  minutes  past  six  o'clock.  I  had 
just  dropped  work — for  I  was  a  souter,  or 
more  appropriately  a  cordwainer — and  had 
thrown  off"  my  apron  and  washed  my  face, 
and  I  was  taking  a  saunter  up  off  the 
Tweed  abit,  on  the  road  leading  down  to 
Innerleithen.  I  cannot  say  that  I  had  any 
object  in  view,  beyond  just  the  healthful 
recreation  of  a  walk  in  the  fields,  after 
the  labors  of  the  day.  The  sun  seemed 
to  be  maybe  about  a  dozen  of  yards  aboon 
the  hill  top  ;  but  there  wasna  a  cloud  in 
the  whole  sky,  save  ae  wee  bit  yellow  one, 
hardly  broader  than  the  brim  of  a  Qua- 


ker's hat,  that  was  keekincr  owre  the  hill, 
as  if  to  kep  the  sun.  Oh,  it  was  a  glori- 
ous evening  !  I  daresay  it  never  was 
equalled  at  the  season  of  the  year.  I  am 
sure  the  leaves,  poor  things,  that  were 
falling  here  and  there  from  the  trees  and 
hedges,  if  they  could  have  thought,  would 
hae  been  vexed  to  fall  frae  their  branches, 
while  a'  nature  was  basking  in  such  sun- 
niness. 

I  met  several  shearers,  wi'  their  hooks 
owre  their  arms,  just  as  I  was  gaun  out  o' 
the  town,  and  I  spoke  to  them,  and  they 
spoke  to  me ;  but  some  o'  them  nodded 
and  laughed  at  me,  and  said — "  She's 
coming,  Johnny." 

"  Wha's  coming  ?"  said  I. 

And  they  laughed  again,  and  said — 
"  Gang  forward  and  see." 

So  I  went  forward,  and  sure  enough, 
who  should  I  see  standing  beside  a  yctt, 
with  her  hook  owre  her  shouther,  and 
picking  the  prickles  of  a  day-nettle  out  of 
her  hand,  but  bonny  Kate  Lowrie — not 
only  the  comeliest  lass  in  the  burgh  of 
Peebles,  but  in  all  the  wide  county.  I 
had  long  been  desperately  in  love  with 
Katie,  but  I  had  never  ventured  to  say  as 
meikle  to  her ;  though  I  was  aware  that 
she  was  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feel- 
in2:s.  We  had  often  walked  toirether  on 
an  evening,  and  I  had  gien  her  her  fairing, 
and  the  like  of  that,  but  I  never  could  get 
the  length  of  talking  about  love  or  mar- 
riasre  ;  and  scores  of  times  had  her  and  me 
walked  by  the  side  of  each  other,  for  half 
an  hour  at  a  time,  without  either  of  us 
speaking  a  word,  beyond  saying  — "  Eh, 
but  this  is  a  fine  nio-ht !"  half  a  dozen  times 
owre — so  ye  may  guess  that  we  were  a 
bashfu'  couple. 

But  on  the  night  referred  to,  as  I  have 
said,  I  saw  her  standing  at  a  yett,  taking  a 


JOHNNY  BROTHERTON^S  FIVE  SUNNY  DAYS, 


423 


thorn  of  some  kind  out  of  her  hand ;  and 
I  stepped  forward  and  said  to  her — "  What 
has  got  into  your  hand,  Katie  ?" 

"  It's  a  jaggy  frae  a  day-nettle,  I  think, 
John,"  said  she. 

"Let  me  try  if  I  can  tak  it  oot,"  said  I. 
She  blushed,  and  the  setting  sun  just 
streamed  across  her  face.  I'll  declure  I 
never  saw  a  woman  look  so  beautiful  in 
my  born  days.  Ye  might  have  lighted  a 
candle  at  my  heart  at  the  moment,  I  am 
certain.  But  I  did  get  her  bonny  soft 
hand  in  mine ;  and  as  I  held  it,  I  am  cer- 
tain I  would  not  have  exchansced  that  hand 
to  have  held  the  sceptre  of  the  king  that 
sits  upon  the  throne.  I  soon  got  out  the 
prickles — but  I  was  so  overjoyed  at  having 
her  hand  in  mine  that  when  they  were  out, 
I  still  held  it  in  my  left  hand;  while, 
whether  it  was  by  accident  or  how,  I  can- 
na  tell,  but  I  slipped  my  hand  round  her 
waist ;  and  in  this  fashion  we  sauntered 
away.  But  instead  of  going  straight  to 
the  town,  we  daundered  away  down  to 
Tweedside. 

Weel  do  I  remember  of  pressing  her  to 
my  breast  in  more  than  mortal  joy,  and  of 
saying  to  her — "  O  Katie,  Katie,  woman, 
will  ye  be  mine  ? — will  ye  marry  me,  and 
mak  mc  the  happiest  man  that  ever  put 
his  foot  in  a  shoe  on  the  face  of  this  ha- 
bitable o-lobe  .?" 

She  hung  her  head,  and,  poor  thing ! 
her  bosom  heaved  like  a  frighted  bird's. 
But,  oh  !  what  ecstasy  it  was  to  feel  its 
heaving !  For  a  good  hour  did  I  stand 
pressing  her  breast  to  mine,  and  saying — 
"  Will  ye,  Katie  ?  Oh,  will  ye,  woman  .^" 
At  last,  with  a  great  effort,  and  her  very 
heart  bursting  with  pure  affection,  she 
flung  her  arms  owrc  my  sliouthers,  and 
said— "I  will,  John!" 

Oh  !  of  all  the  words  that  ever  a  human 
beinsc  heard,  nothino;  could  match  the  mu- 
sic  of  those  three  words  to  me.  It  was 
sweeter  than  the  harp  of  a  fairy  soughing 
owre  a  moonlight  sea,  when  the  winds  of 
heaven  are  sleeping. 

"  Oh,    bless   ye  !    bless   ye  !— for   ever 


bless  ye  !"  cried  I — "  Katie,  ye  hae  made 
me  the  happiest  man  in  a'  Peebles,  an'  I 
trust  I  shall  mak  ye  the  happiest  wife." 

I  absolutely  danced  wi'  joy,  and  clapped 
my  hands  aboon  my  head.  If  ever  there 
was  a  man  intoxicated  wi'  joy,  it  was  me 
that  night ;  and  I  atn  certain  that  her  joy 
was  nothing  less  than  mine,  though  she 
did  not  express  it  so  extravagantly. 

Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  us 
heard  the  town  clock  chap  nine.  Three 
hours  flew  owre  our  heads  as  if  they  hadna 
been  three  minutes.  1  set  her  to  her  fai- 
ther's  door,  and  just  as  she  was  putting 
her  hand  upon  the  sneck — "  Eh,  John  !" 
whispered  she,  "  where  can  I  hae  left  my 
hook.?" 

"  That's  weel  minded,"  said  I ;  "I  re- 
member I  took  it  off  yer  shouther,  an'  put 
it  owre  the  yett,  when  I  was  takin'  the 
prickles  oot  o'  yer  finger." 

Ye  may  think  of  what  baith  of  us  had 
been  thinking  about,  when  neither  of  us 
missed  the  hook,  or  remembered  leaving; 
it  till  that  moment.  We  went  to  seek  it, 
with  her  arm  through  mine  (and  close  to 
my  side  I  pressed  it),  and  there,  accord- 
ingly, did  wo  find  the  hook  upon  the  yett 
where  I  had  placed  it. 

She  was  rather  feared  to  gang  into  the 
house,  on  account  of  her  beins:  out  so  late, 
for  her  faither  and  mother  were  strict  sort 
0'  folk.  Therefore,  I  volunteered  to  go 
in  wi'  her,  and  explain  at  once  how  mat- 
ters stood.  For,  bashful  as  I  was  before 
telling  my  mind  to  her,  I  had  broken  the 
ice  now,  and  was  as  bold  as  brass. 

vShe  hesitated  for  some  time ;  but  I 
urged  the  thing,  and  she  consented,  and 
into  her  faither's  I  v/ent  wi'  her.  I  wasna 
long  in  making  the  auld  man  acquainted 
wi'  the  nature  of  my  visit,  and  frankly 
asked  him,  if  he  had  any  sort  of  objection 
to  taking  me  for  a  son-in-law. 

"  I  watua,"  said  he,  "  but  I  daresay  no 
I  dinna  see  ony  reasonable  objection  that 
I  ought  to  hae.    What  do  ye  say,  Tibbie .?" 
added  he  to  his  wife, 

"Me!"  added  she;  "what  would  ye 


426 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


hacmetoGay?  Johnny  is  a  decent  lad 
and  a  guid  tradesman ;  and  if  lie  likes 
Katie,  and  Katie  likes  him,  I  dinna  see 
that  you  or  I  can  do  onything  in  the  mat- 
ter, but  just  leave  it  to  their  twa  sells." 

"  Weel,  John,"  said  her  faither  to  me, 
"  as  Tibbie  says,  I  suppose  it  will  just 
have  to  rest  between  yoursels.  If  ye  are 
baith  agreeable,  we  are  agreeable." 

I  wonder  I  didna  jump  through  the  roof 
of  the  house.  Joy  almost  deprived  me  of 
my  specific  gravity.  Never,  since  I  was 
born,  had  I  experienced  such  sensations 
of  ecstasy  before. 

Now,  this  was  what  I  call  my  first  real 
sunny  day.  It  was  a  day  of  memorable 
joy — and  joy,  too,  of  a  particular  descrip- 
tion, and  which  a  man  can  feel  but  once 
in  the  course  of  his  existence. 

I  can  say,  without  vanity,  that  I  had 
always  been  a  saving  lad,  and,  therefore, 
in  the  course  of  two  or  three  weeks,  I  took 
a  house,  which  1  furnished  very  respecta- 
bly. And  my  second  sunny  day,  was  that 
on-  which  Katie,  and  her  faither,  and  her 
mother,  and  a  lass  that  was  an  intimate 
acquaintance  of  hers,  came  a'  to  my  new 
house  together — Katie  never  to  leave  it 
ao-ain — for  the  minister  just  came  in  after 
them.  Oh!  when  I  heard  the  minister 
pronounce  us  one,  and  gie  us  his  benedic- 
tion as  man  and  wife — and,  aboon  all, 
when  I  thought  she  was  now  mine — nwie 
for  ever — that  nothing  upon  earth  could 
separate  us — I  almost  wondered  that  poor 
sinful  mortals  such  as  we  are,  should  be 
permitted  to  enjoy  such  unspeakable  hap- 
piness on  this  side  of  time.  The  very  tears 
stood  in  my  eyes  wi'  perfect  ecstasy,  and 
I  could  not  forbear,  before  the  minister 
and  them  a',  of  squeezing  her  hand,  and 
saying — "  IMy  am  Katie  !'' 

It  was  October,  but  a  very  mild  day, 
and  a  vO.ry  sunny  day — indeed  it  might, 
in  all  respects,  have  passed  for  a  day  in 
xVugust.  After  dinner,  the  room  became 
rather  warm,  and  the  window  was  drawn 
down  from  the  top.  There  was  a  lark 
singing  its   autumn  song  right  aboon  the 


house,  and  its  loud  sweet  notes  came  pour- 
ing in  by  the  window. 

''Poor  thing,"  thought  I,  "  your  joys 
arc  ending,  and  mine  are  only  beginninof ; 
but  I  trust,  in  the  autumn  of  my  days,  to 
sing  as  blithely  as  ye  do  now." 

I  gied  another  glance  at  my  ain  Katie, 
and  as  I  contemplated  her  lovely  counte- 
nance, I  felt  as  a  man  that  was  never  to 
know  sorrow ;  for  I  didna  see  how  it  was 
possible  for  sorrow  to  be  where  such  an- 
gel sweetness  existed. 

That  was  my  second  sunny  day ;  and 
my  third    followed    after   in    the    natural 
course  of  time  ;  for  the  event  that  rendered 
it  memorable  was   neither  more   nor   less 
than  the  birth  of  my  first-born — my  only 
son.     I  was  walking  out  in  the  fields  when 
the  tidings  were  brought  to  me  ;  and  when 
I  found  that   I  had  cause  to  ofier  thanks 
for  a  living  mother  and  a  living  child,  wi' 
perfect  joy  the  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks 
I  silently  prayed  for   my  Katie   and  for 
"  my  bairn.''''   When  I  thought  that  a  man- 
son  was  born  unto  me,  and  that  I  was  in- 
deed a  faither,  the  pride  and  the  joy  of  my 
heart  were   almost  too   great  for  me  to   , 
bear.     I  would  not  have  exchansied  the 
natural  and  honorable  title  of  faither ,  to   ^ 
have  been  made   Emperor  of  Russia  and   i 
King  of  Madagascar. 

It  was  a  glorious  day  in  the  height  of 
summer,  and  as  I  hurried  home  to  see,  to 
kiss,  my  bairn  and  its  mother,  I  believe 
the  very  flowers  by  the  roadside  were  con- 
scious that  it  was  a  faither,  a  new-made 
faither,  that  trampled  on  them,  I  did  it  so 
quickly  and  so  lightly.  But  great  as  my 
joy  then  was,  it  was  nothing  to  be  com- 
pared with  what  I  felt  when  I  saw  my 
Katie  and  our  bairn,  and  when  my  lips 
touched  theirs.  O  man  !  I  then  did  feel 
the  full,  the  overflowing  ecstasy  of  a  fai- 
ther's  heart.  Never  shall  I  forget  it. 
That  was  the  third  of  my  five  sunny  days. 
The  fourth  was  of  a  diflferent  descrip- 
tion, but  gied  me  unmingled  satisfaction, 
and  perhaps  I  may  say,  was  in  some  sort 
the  foundation  of  the  one  which  succeeded. 


JOHNNY  BROTHERTON'S  FIVE  SUNNY  DAYS. 


A2: 


Now,  I  must  make  you  sensible  that 
Katie  made  a  very  notable  wife.  In  her 
household  affairs,  she  set  an  example  that 
was  worthy  of  imitation  by  every  wife  in 
Peebles.  There  was  naething  wasted  in 
her  house,  and  the  shadow  of  ony thing 
extravagant  was  never  seen  within  her 
door. 

One  night,  about  six  weeks  after  our 
marriage,  she  and  I  were  sitting  at  the 
fireside,  by  our  twa  sells  (for  we  never 
made  our  house  a  howff  for  neighbors  and 
their  clashes),  when  she  said  to  me  very 
seriously — "  John,  I've  often  heard  it  said, 
that  the  first  hundred  pounds  is  worse  to 
make  than  the  next  five  hundred.  Do  ye 
no  think  it  possible  for  you  and  mc  to  save 
a  hundred .'"' 

"  I  watna,  my  dear,"  said  I ;  "  though 
I  say  it  myself,  there  are  none  belonging 
to  the  craft  that  can  make  better  wages 
than  I  can,  and  if  it  is  your  desire  to  make 
the  endeavor — wi'  all  my  heart,  say  I." 

So  the  thing  was  agreed  upon,  and  we  set 
about  it  the  very  next  day.  I  got  a  strong 
wooden  box  made,  wi'  a  hole  on  the  top, 
just  about  long  enough  and  broad  enough 
to  let  in  a  penny-piece  edgeways  ;  and  I 
caused  a  bit  leather,  like  a  tongue,  to  be 
nailed  owre  the  inside  of  the  hole,  so  that 
whatever  was  put  in,  coudna  be  taken  out 
again  till  the  box  was  broken  open. 

For  many  a  day,  both  her  and  me 
wrought  hard,  both  late  and  early,  to  ac- 
complish it.  We  neither  allowed  the  back 
to  gang  bare  or  shabby,  nor  did  we  scrimp 
our  coggie,  during  our  endeavors ;  but  we 
avoided  every  sixpence,  every  farthing  of 
unnecessary  expense. 

At  length  Katie  says  to  me  one  day,  just 
after  denner-time — "  John,  I  daresay  we 
will  have  the  hundred  pounds  now.  If  ye 
have  nae  objection  we  will  open  the  box 
and  see." 

It  was  the  very  thing  which  I  had  been 
wishing  her  to  propose  for  months ;  and 
up  I  banged  upon  the  kist,  and  put  my 
hand  on  the  head  of  the  bed,  where  the 
box  was  kept.     It  was  torribij  heavy,  and 


it  required  both  of  my  hands  to  lift  it 
down. 

I  forced  up  the  lid,  and  having  locked 
the  door,  I  placed  the  box  upon  the  table. 
The  sun  was  streaming  in  at  the  window 
sae  bright  that  ye  would  have  said  it  was 
aware  of  the  satisfaction  of  Katie  and  my- 
seP,  as  we  saw  it  streaming  upon  the  heap 
of  treasure  which  our  own  industry  had 
gathered  together.  It  took  us  from  two 
in  the  afternoon  until  six  at  night  to  count 
it;  for  it  consisted  of  gold,  silver,  and 
copper ;  and  we  counted  it  thrice  over, 
before  we  made  it  come  twice  to  the  same 
sum.  At  last  we  were  satisfied  that  it 
amounted  to  one  hundred  and  fifteen 
pounds,  seven  shillings  and  eightpence 
half-penny. 

When  I  ascertained  that  the  object  of 
my  desire,  and  of  my  late  and  early  sav- 
ings, was  accomplished,  1  was  that  happy 
that  I  almost  knocked  owre  the  table 
where  it  was  all  spread  out,  counted  into 
parcels  of  twenty  shillings.  I  threw  my 
arms  round  Katie,  wi'  as  meikle  rapture 
as  I  did  on  my  first  sunny  day,  when  she 
said — "  I  will,  John  ;"  for  the  object  was 
of  her  proposing,  and  she  had  the  entire 
merit  of  the  transaction.  It  was  a  grand 
sight  to  see  the  sinking  sun  throwing  the 
shadow  of  the  hundred  and  odd  twenty- 
shilling  towers  across  the  table,  and  to  the 
far  side  of  the  fioor.  Folk  talk  of  the 
beauty  of  rainbows  ;  but  there  never  was  a 
rainbow  to  be  compared  wi'  the  appearance 
of  our  floor  that  evening,  wi'  a'  the  sha- 
dows of  the  piles  of  siller  running  across 
it.     That  was  my  fourth  sunny  day. 

Finding  that  I  was  now  a  man  of  capi- 
tal, I  took  a  shop  in  the  front  street,  and 
commenced  business  as  a  maister  boot  and 
shoe-maker.  Katie  was  remarkably  civil 
in  the  shop,  and  I  always  tried  to  put  good 
stuff  into  the  hands  of  customers,  so  that 
in  a  very  short  time  I  carried  on  a  very 
prosperous  concern.  I  also  rose  very  high 
in  the  opinion  of  my  fellow-craftsmen  ; 
and,  wonderful  to  relate  I  I  heard  that  it 
was  their  determination  to  elect  me  to  the 


423 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


high  and  honorable  office  of  deacon  of  the 
corporation  of  our  ancient  and  respectable 
trade,  in  the  ancient  burgh  of  Peebles. 

This  was  a  height  to  which  my  ambi- 
tion never  could  have  aspired,  and  when  I 
heard  of  the  intention  of  the  brethren,  it 
really  made  me  that  I  couldna  sleep.  It 
made  me  not  only  dream  that  I  was  a  dea- 
con, but  a  king,  a  prince,  a  bashaw — a  dear 
kens  what — but  anything  but  plain  John 
Brotherton.  I  thought  it  was  a  hoax  that 
some  of  the  craft  were  wishing  to  play  off 
on  me ;  therefore,  I  spoke  of  the  subject 
with  great  caution.  But  when  it  was  put 
into  my  head,  there  was  nothing  on  the 
earth  that  I  so  much  desired.  I  thought 
what  an  honor  it  would  be,  when  I  was 
dead  and  gone,  for  my  son  to  be  able  to 
say — "  Pvly  father  was  deacon  of  the  an- 
cient company  of  cordwainers  in  Peebles  !" 

"  What  a  sound  that  will  have !" 
thouo-ht  I.  On  the  morning  of  the  elec- 
tion I  awoke  fearing,  believing,  hoping, 
trembling.  I  could  hardly  put  on  my 
clothes.  However,  the  choosing  of  office- 
bearers began,  and  I  was  declared  duly 
elected  deacon  of  the  company  of  cord- 
wainers. It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  re- 
fraiiaed  from   clapping  my  hands    in  the 


court,  and  I  am  positive  I  would  not  have 
been  able  to  do  it,  had  it  not  been  that 
the  brethren  came  crowding  round  me  to 
shake  hands  wi'  me. 

1  went  home  in  very  high  glee,  as  ye 
may  well  suppose,  and  Katie  met  me  wi' 
great  joy  in  her  looks.  When  the  supper 
was  set  upon  the  table — "  Katie,  my 
dear,"  said  I,  "  send  out  for  a  bottle  of 
strong  ale." 

"  A  bottle  of  strong  ale,  John  !"  quoth  ' 
she,  in  surprise  ;  "  remember  that  though 
ye  hae  been  appointed  deacon  o'  the  shoe- 
makers ye  are  but  a  mortal  man  !  Re- 
member, John,  that,  it  was  by  drinking 
wholesome  water,  wi'  pickles  of  oatmeal  in 
it,  that  enabled  you  to  save  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  so  to  become  deacon  of  the 
trade.  But  had  ye  sent  for  bottles  of 
strong  ale  to  your  supper,  ye  would  neither 
have  saved  the  one,  nor  been  made  the 
other.  Na,  na,  John,  think  nae  mair 
about  ale." 

"  Weel,  weel,"  said  I,  "  ye  are  right, 
Katie — I  canna  deny  it." 

That  was  what  I  call  my  fifth  sunny  day 
— a  remarkable  day  in  my  existence, 
standing  out  from  amongst  the  rest,  and 
crowned  wi'  happiness. 


THE     RES  TO  II  ED     SON. 


•On  the  banks  of  the  Esk,  in  the  county 
of  Dumfries,  stood,  some  years  since,  a 
handsome,  substantial -looking  mansion, 
bearing  all  the  marks  of  plenty  and  com- 
fort ;  while  the  neat  ^nd  elegant  arrange- 
ment of  the  grounds  around,  bore  evidence 
to  the  refined  and  chaste  taste  of  its  pro- 
prietor, Gavin  Douglas.  He  was  a  gentle- 
man by  birth,  and,  "  if  m3rit  gave  titles, 
he  might  be  a  Lord,"  for  a  more  kind- 
•hearted,  amiable  Christian  never  existed. 


He  had  succeeded  to  his  father's  property, 
nearly   thirty  years    before    the    time    of 
which  we  write,  and  had  constantly  resided 
upon  it  ever  since,  growing  daily  in  the 
love  and   respect  of  all   who  knew  him. 
His    appearance    and  address    were    par- 
ticularly prepossessing  ;  he    was   tall    and 
;  upright  in  his  person  ;  his  manners  were 
j  bland  and  gentleman-like ;    and   his  fine 
j  expanded  forehead    and  mild  expressive 
'  eye  told  of  a  warm  and  benevolent  heart. 


THE  RESTORED  SON- 


429 


He  Tvas  a  widower ;  and  his  family  were 
at  a  distance — the  sons  in  the  pursuit  of 
their  respective  professions,  and  the 
daughters  all  happily  and  comfortably 
married,  with  the  exception  of  the  eldest, 
who  resided  under  his  roof  with  her  three 
fatherless  children.  His  eldest  son,  Ed- 
ward, had  been  for  some  years  settled  in 
a  mercantile  house  in  Calcutta,  where  he 
had  lately  married,  and  had  been  admitted 
as  one  of  the  partners  of  the  firm.  Gavin 
Douglas  well  supplied  the  place  of  a  father 
to  his  little  grandchildren ;  his  whole  aim 
seemed  to  be,  to  study  their  happiness, 
and  to  soothe  the  sorrow  of  their  bereaved 
parent. 

One  summer  evening,  the  family  party 
at  Eskhall  were  seated  in  their  comfort- 
able drawing-room,  engaged  in  that  cheer- 
ful, affectionate  conversation  which  forms 
the  peculiar  charm  of  a  well-educated, 
well-regulated  family  circle.  The  day  had 
been  one  of  the  most  sultry  and  op- 
pressive of  the  season  ;  but  the  clouds, 
which  gathered  round  the  setting  sun  in 
dark  and  gloomy  masses,  seemed  as  if 
waiting  in  sullen  silence  for  his  disappear- 
ance, to  pour  their  fury  upon  the  scenes  to 
which  his  rays  had  given  beautj^  Nor 
did  they  threaten  in  vain  ;  all  the  wrath- 
ful energies  of  nature  seemed  to  have 
awakened  at  the  very  hour  when  man  and 
beast  were  about  to  saek  repose.  The 
rain  descended  in  torrents,  and  poured 
forth,  more  like  a  continued  stream  than 
a  collection  of  single  drops.  The  vivid, 
forked  lightning,  appeared,  in  its  ragged 
and  eccentric  course,  to  tear  asunder  the 
veil  of  darkness,  only  to  render  it  doubly 
visible,  while,  glancing  ten  thousand  re- 
flections from  the  falling  rain-drops,  it 
flashed  across  the  eyes  of  the  family  party, 
startling  and  dazzling  them  with  its  sudden 
and  excessive  brilliancy.  The  children 
clung  to  their  grandfather  in  mute  and 
breathless  awe,  and  the  whole  party  sat  in 
silence,  uninterrupted,  save  by  involuntary 
ejaculations,  which  escaped  them  at  each 
successive  flash.     Not   a  breath  of  wind 


was  stirring,  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard, 
but  the  dull,  monotonous,  incessant  pat- 
tering of  the  rain,  and  the  loud,  clear, 
crackling  burst  of  the  thunder,  as  it  rolled, 
peal  after  peal,  over  their  heads,  and  appa- 
rently in  dangerous  p^oximit3^  At  length, 
the  rain  beo;an  to  relax  in  its  violence,  the 
flashes  of  licrhtninor  became  less  and  less 
vivid,  and  the  thunder  died  away  in  faint 
and  distant  murmurings. 

"  Grandfather  !"  said  little  Gavin,  leav- 
ing his  stronghold  between  Douglas'  knees, 
"  was  not  that  an  awful  storm  .'" 

"  Yes,  my  boy,"  replied  the  old  man; 
"  awful,  indeed  !  and  thankful  ought  we 
to  be  to  the  good  Providence  which  has 
blessed  us  with  a  roof  to  shelter  us,  while 
many  an  uncovered  head  has  been  exposed 
to  its  violence.  Such  a  night  as  this, 
oufrht  to  awaken  in  us  a  spirit  of  gratitude 
for  the  blessings  we  ourselves  enjoy,  and 
of  charity  towards  the  vrants  and  sorrows 
of  others." 

"  Did  you  hear  that  strange  noise  dur- 
ing the  storm,  grandfather  .^"  said  little 
Emma  :  "  it  sounded  like  the  bleatina;  of 
a  lamb  close  by  ;  but  1  was  so  much 
frightened  by  the  lightning  at  the  time, 

that  I  did  not  mention  it  to  you,  and 

there  it  is  an-ain  !"' 

A  low,  wailing,  stifled  kind  of  cry  was 
heard,  which  almost  immediately  ceased, 
and  the  whole  party  started  up,  with  looks 
of  surprise  and  alarm,  and  gazed  at  each 
other,  as  if  mutely  inquiring  from  whence 
the  strange  sound  could  j^roceed.  Again 
the  cry  was  heard  ;  and  iMr.  Douglas, 
seizing  one  of  the  candles,  rushed  to  the 
front  door,  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  their 
alarm.  Great  was  his  surj)rise  to  find, 
under  the  porch,  a  small  wicker  basket, 
covered  with  a  coarse  ragged  shawl,  on  re- 
moving which,  he  started  to  behold  the  lit- 
tle chubby  features  of  an  infant,  which 
stretched  out  his  little  arms,  and  crowed 
with  delight  at  the  sight  of  the  candle. 
jMr.  Douglas''  first  unpulse  was  to  hurry 
into  the  parlor,  where  our  little  hero  was 
safely  deposited  on  a  sofa,  and  exposed  to 


430 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


the  curious  and  inquiring  gaze  of  the   as- 
sembled party. 

"  O  grandpapa  !''  shouted  little  Gavin, 
clapping  his  hands,  and  dancing  round  the 
baby,  "  I  have  often  heard  you  say,  '  It  is 
an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good' — and 
now  see  what  a  nice  little  brother  the  thun- 
der storm  has  blown  us." 

"  Inhuman  wretches  !"  exclaimed  Doug- 
las, "  to  expose  such  a  sweet  infant,  in  a 
night  like  this  !  But  they  cannot  be  far 
off!"  And,  ringing  the  bell  violently,  he 
went  out  with  some  of  the  servants  in  pur- 
suit of  the  supposed  fugitives  ;  but  vain 
was  their  search  ;  every  nook  and  corner 
of  the  grounds  were  examined,  but  no 
traces  of  any  such  could  be  discovered  ; 
and  Douglas  returned,  fatigued  and  disap- 
pointed, to  the  parlor.  On  examining  the 
basket  in  which  the  child  had  been  laid,  a 
crumpled  and  dirty  piece  of  paper  was 
discovered,  on  which  was  written,  in  a 
tremblinf;  and  almost  illen-ible  hand,  "  Be 
kind  to  the  boy  ! — he  comes  of  a  good 
family.  His  name  is  Philip  F.  May 
heaven  prosper  you,  as  you  behave  to 
him  !"  There  was  likewise  a  signet  ring, 
with  a  few  Persian  characters  engraved 
upon  it.  The  clothes  in  which  the  infant 
was  dressed,  were  formed  of  the  best  ma- 
terials, neatly  and  plainly  made,  but  bore 
evident  tokens  of  neglect  and  dirt. 

*'  Poor  boy  I"  muttered  Gavin ;  "  since 
your  own  unnatural  father  has  deserted 
you,  I  will  be  a  father  to  you.  Here,  Jane, 
my  love,"  addressing  his  daughter,  "  I 
commit  this  stray  lamb  to  your  charge  for 
the  present ;  see  that  he  is  comfortably 
settled  in  the  little  crib  in  your  room." 

Years  passed  on ;  the  little  foundling 
had  become  a  tall,  handsome  stripling  of 
thirteen,  as  much  beloved  for  his  kind  and 
amiable  disposition  as  he  was  admired  for 
his  handsome  form  and  bold  and  manly 
spirit,  when  Gavin  Douglas  received  a  let- 
ter from  his  son  Edward,  in  Calcutta,  in- 
forming him  that  by  the  next  ship  he  in- 
tended to  send  his  eldest  daughter,  who 
was  now  seven  years  old,  home  to  his  cai-e. 


The  ship  by  which  this  letter  had  been 
forwarded,  having  met  with  a  succession 
of  light  and  baffling  winds,   had  made  so 
long  a  passage  that  the  little  stranger  whose 
approach  it  announced  might  be  now  daily 
expected.     At  length  the  newspapers  gave 
notice  of  the  arrival  off  the  Start  of  the 
ship  Cornwallis  ;  and  Gavin  Douglas  pre- 
pared to  hasten  up  to  town  to  receive  his 
granddaughter.     Philip,  who  was  at  home 
for  his  school  holidays,  and  who  was  now 
as  dear  to  Douglas  as  if  he  had  been  his 
own  flesh  and  blood,  entreated  and  obtain- 
ed permission  to  accompany  him.     Owing 
to  a  long   continuance   of  easterly  winds, 
the  Cornwallis  made  a  tedious  passage  up 
the  Channel,  and  our  travellers  were  de- 
tained for  some  days  at  Gravesend,  await- 
ing her  arrival.      To  Philip  this  delay  was 
most  welcome  ;  the  bustling  scenes  around 
him  seemed   to  arouse  the  latent  energies 
of  his  nature.     Accustomed  to  the  quiet 
and  peaceful  monotony  of  a  country  life, 
he  felt  as  if  a  new  sphere  of  existence  was 
opened  to  him  ;  and  everything  he  beheld, 
bore,  in  his  eyes,   the   stamp   of  novelty 
and  excitement.     His  great  delight  was 
to  loiter  for  hours  at  the    stairs   (Graves- 
end  did  not  then  boast  of  the  handsome 
jetty  which  now  adorns  it),  and  to  gaze  at 
the  numerous  craft  floatins;  on  the  bosom 
of  the  majestic  Thames  ;    some  lying  at 
anchor,   and  others   taking    advantage  of 
the   tide  to   hasten  towards  their  various 
destinations.   Frank  and  open  in  his  man- 
ner, eager  and  anxious  in  his  thirst  for  in- 
formation, the  watermen,  who  were  always 
lounffinfr  in  numbers  about  the  stairs,  felt 
a  pleasure  in  gratifying  his  curiosity,  and 
in   initiating  him  into  all  the  mysteries  of 
river  seamanship  ;  and  he  soon  learned  to 
distiuo-uish  the   different  '•  risers"  of  the 
passing  vessels,  from   the  lowly  "  peter- 
boat"  to  the  majestic  ship.    One  morning 
there  was   a  dead   calm  ;    the  river   was 
gliding  past  unruffled  by  the  slightest  air  ; 
the  cheerful    "  yo,  heave,   oh !"    of   the 
sailors,  and  the  loud  clanking  of  the  wind- 
lass "  pauls,"  were  heard  distinctly  from 


THE  RESTORED   SON. 


431 


some  of  the  distant  colliers,  shortening  in 
cable  preparatory  to  making  a  start ;  while 
the  rattling  clattering  sounds  of  the  chains 
were  heard  from  others,  which  were  just 
"  bringing  up" — for  it  was  high  water,  and 
the  upward-bound  vessels  were  obliged  to 
come  to  anchor.  Philip  had  been  at  his 
usual  post  for  some  time,  when  his  atten- 
tion was  attracted  by  the  heavy  sluggish 
cloud  of  smoke  which  hung  in  the  wake  of 
two  steamers,  whose  low  painted  chimneys 
were  seen  over  the  land,  which  they  flitted 
past  with  great  rapidity,  while  the  tall, 
naked  spars  of  a  large  ship  towered  far 
above  them.  At  length  their  hulls  became 
distinctly  visible. 

"  Hand  here  the  glass,  Jem,"  said  a 
waterman,  who  was  anxiously  observing 
them,  to  his  comrade  ;  "let  me  have  a 
squint  at  her.  Ah!  I'd  swear  to  her  among 
a  thousand  !  That's  the  old  Cornwallis  ! 
Jump  into  the  boat,  Jem,  and  let's  push  out 
into  the  stream." 

Away  flew  our  friend  Philip  to  the  inn, 
to  tell  his  father,  as  he  called  him,  the 
welcome  news.  The  old  gentleman  hur- 
ried down  to  the  stairs,  and  the  Cornwallis 
had  hardly  let  go  her  anchor  in  Gravesend 
Reach,  before  he  and  Philip  were  on  her 
quarterdeck,  inquiring  for  Catherine  Doug- 
las. Captain  M'Dougai  of  the  Cornwallis 
received  them  with  the  greatest  politeness, 
and,  upon  Gavin  Douglas  informing  him 
of  the  cause  of  his  visit,  he  was  immedi- 
ately ushered  into  one  of  the  round-house 
cabins,  where  a  little  dark-eyed  girl  was 
playing  with  her  ayah. 

"  Catherine,  my  dear,"  said  Captain 
IM'Dougall,  "  here  is  your  grandpapa  come 
to  visit  you." 

Little  Catherine,  as  we  said  before,  was 
seven  years  old,  and,  like  most  Indian 
children,  quick  and  clever  beyond  her 
years.  She  was  a  brunette  in  complexion 
— so  much  so  indeed,  that  she  might  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  descendant  from  pa- 
rentage of  the  climate  in  which  she  had 
been  reared.  Her  eyes  were  dark,  lively, 
and  brilliant,  and  a  profusion  of  rich  black 


hair  fell  in  clusters  upon  her  shoulders. 
The  moment  she  heard  Captain  M'Dou- 
gall's  announcement,  she  dropped  the  toy 
with  which  she  was  playing,  and  ran  eager- 
ly up  to  Douglas : — 

"  Are  you  really  Grandpapa  Gavin  .^" 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
almost  smothering  her  with  kisses. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure .?"  said  she : 
"  then,"  looking  smilingly  up  in  his  face, 
"  I  think  I  love  you  very  much.  Grand- 
papa." 

Philip  was  now  introduced,  and,  in  five 
minutes  time,  the  two  young  people  were 
I  sworn  friends.  Catherine  had  shown 
Philip  all  her  rich  store  of  toys,  and  had 
answered  all  his  eager  questions  about  the 
voyage,  the  ship,  the  uses  of  various  things 
in  the  cabin,  &c.  Be  not  impatient,  gen- 
tle reader,  at  the  details  of  this  childish 
meeting ;  the  happiness  or  misery  of  life 
often  depends  upon  trifles  light  as  air,  and 
our  friend  Philip's  future  destiny  took  its 
hue  from  the  consequences  of  that  inti- 
macy of  which  we  have  just  been  describing 
the  commencement.  In  the  course  of  a 
fortnight,  the  travellers  with  their  young 
charge  returned  to  Eskhall,  where  the  lit- 
tle stranger  met  with  the  most  affectionate 
welcome.  The  banks  of  the  Esk  were 
beautiful  as  ever  ;  but,  to  Philip's  eyes, 
they  had  lost  great  part  of  their  attraction  ; 
he  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  scenes  of  ac- 
tive life,  and  he  was  eager  to  engage  in 
them.  The  country  sports  in  which  he 
used  to  take  such  delight,  began  to  lose 
their  relish  ;  and  his  principal  amusement 
now  was  to  wander  in  the  green  fields  with 
little  Catherine,  and  to  listen  to  the  tales 
she  told  of  her  recollections  of  the  distant 
lands  she  had  left.  His  curiosity  was  ex- 
cited, and  he  burned  with  impatience  to 
visit  them,  and  to  judge  for  himself ;  and 
he  expressed  to  Gavin  Douglas  his  predi- 
lection for  a  sailor's  life,  and  his  eager 
wish  to  commence  his  career  as  soon  as 
circumstances  would  allow.  Gavin's  heart 
yearned  towards  the  handsome  and  spirit- 
ed boy,  whose   eye  sparkled,  and  whose 


4Z2 


TALES  OF  THE  B0R1>ERS. 


tonguG  bccaiiic  eloq.uGnt  as  lie  urged  his 
suit ;  and  he  felt  that  {lie  time  was  come, 
•which  he  had  Ions;  looked  forward  to  with 
pain,  when  this  young  and  ardent  spirit 
must  leave  his  guardian  care,  and  be  in- 
trusted to  its  own  impulses.  He  talked 
seriously  and  affectionately  to  the  boy,  on 
the  subject  of  his  wishes  ;  told  him,  what 
had  hitherto  been  kept  a  secret  from  him 
— the  history  of  his  first  appearance  at 
Eskhall  ;  assured  him  that  he  always 
would  bo,  as  he  liitherto  had  been,  in  the 
place  of  a  father  to  him  ;  and  concluded 
with  saying — "  Reflect  seriously  upon 
what  I  have  pointed  out  to  you,  my  dear 
boy ;  I  have  laid  before  you,  as  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  all  the  advaDtagcs  and 
disadvantages  of  the  profession  which  you 
wish  to  adopt ;  weigh  the  matter  carefully 
in  your  thoughts ;  and  if,  at  the  end  of  a 
week,  you  continue  in  the  same  mind,  I 
will  do  ail  in  my  power  to  promote  your 
wishes." 

Poor  Philip's  astonishment  and  dis- 
tress were  unbounded,  when  Gavin  inform- 
ed him  of  the  mystery  that  hung  over  bis 
birth.  He  had  always  hitherto  been  known 
by  the  name  of  Douglas,  and  had  been 
accustomed  to  consider  himself  as  Gavin's 
grandson  ;  and  the  truth  burst  upon  with 
the  astounding  effect  of  a  thunderbolt. 
Pale  as  ashes,  with  the  tears  streaming 
down  his  cheeks,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Not  your  grandson,  sir  ?  Then  who 
am  I  ?  Good  heavens  !  have  I  been  living 
from  my  earliest  years  a  poor  dependant 
upcn  your  bounty  ?  O  my  generous  bene- 
factor !  my  more  than  father  !  how  can  I 
ever  prove  my  gratitude  to  you  for  your  i 
imvaricd  affection  and  kindness  ?" 

"  You  have  already  proved  it  Philip, 
by  repaying  affection  with  affection  ;  by 
your  steady  obedience,  and  constant  at- 
tention to  my  slightest  wish.  1  have  a 
father's  love  for  you,  Philip  ;  and,  poor, 
and  unknown,  and  alien  as  you  are,  3'ou 
have  made  yourself  as  dear  to  me  as  if  you 
were  my  own  flcsb  and  blood.  I  feared 
that  this  disclosure  would  fall  like  a  blight 


upon  your  young  spirit ;  but,  painful  as  it 
is,  it  vvas  necessary  that  it  should  be  made. 
Cheer  up,  my  boy  !  brighter  days  will 
come.  I  feel  a  conviction  that  the  secret 
of  your  birth  will  be  one  day  discovered, 
and  that  you  will  have  no  reason  to  blush 
for  your  parentage." 

'•  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  so,  sir  !  but 
I  dare  not  hope.  If  I  had  not  been,  a 
cause  of  shame  to  my  parents,  would  they 
have  deserted  me  .-" 

Douglas  shook  his  head,  and  said — 

"  Time  will  show.  At  all  events,  my 
dear  Philip,  look  upon  me  as  your  father 
until  you  find  a  better." 

"  That  can  never  be,  my  dear,  dear 
gr benefactor." 

The  week  of  reflection  passed  away ; 
but  not  so  Philip's  resolution,  which  was 
now  confirmed  and  strengthened  by  his 
eager  desire  to  relieve  Mr.  Douglas  from 
the  burden  of  his  support,  and  by  the 
hope  that  he  might  by  some  fortunate 
chance  be  guided  to  the  discovery  of  his 
true  parents.  On  his  making  known  his 
decision,  Gavin  Douglas  immediatelj^ 
wrote  to  a  friend  in  town,  through  whoso 
interest  he  obtained  for  him  an  appoint- 
ment as  midshipman  on  board  an  Indiaman 
which  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  for  Ben- 
gal and  China,  and  which  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  ''  join"  immediately.  Before 
he  left  Eskhall,  Gavin  delivered  into  his 
hands  the  ring  and  other  articles  that  had 
been  found  in  the  basket  in  which  he  was 
exposed  when  an  infant,  that  he  minht 
have  some  clue  whereby  to  endeavor  to 
trace  out  his  parents.  Delighted  as  Philip 
was  at  the  prospect  of  entering  upon  his 
new  profession,  he  felt  the  greatest  sorrow 
at  parting  from  his  kind  and  liberal  bene- 
factor, and  from  those  whom  he  had  been 
so  long  accustomed  to  look  upon  as  near 
and  dear  relations  ;  but  still  more  deeply 
was  he  affected  at  leaving  his  beloved  little 
playmate,  Catherine.  Her  grief  on  the 
occasion  was  excessive.  Philip  had  been 
her  constant  companion  in  all  her  little 
rambles,  and  her  resource  and  comfort  in 


THE   RESTORED   SON. 


433 


all  her  childish  difficulties  and  sorrows. 
He  had  scarcely  ever  left  her  side  ;  and 
now  she  was  to  part  with  him — perhaps  for 
ever  !  Poor  Philip  himself  was  obliged  to 
escrt  all  the  pride  of  precocious  manhood, 
to  resist  the  contagious  example  of  her 
tears  ;  but  he  did  all  in  his  power  to  com- 
fort the  little  mourner,  and  at  last  partially 
succeeded,  by  reminding  her  that  in  a  few 
months  the  voyage  would  be  over. 

"  And  then^  dear  Phil,  will  you  come 
back  again  r" 

"  That  I  will." 

"  Oh  !  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  you 
again  !  And  she  jumped  about,  clapping 
har  little  hands  for  joy,  till  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  long  separation  that  must  in- 
tervene called  forth  a  fresh  torrent  of 
tears. 

At  length  the  parting  scene  was  over  ; 
and,  freighted  with  the  blessings  and  good 
wishes  of  all  who  knew  him,  Philip  was 
fairly  launched  into  the  rough  ocean  of 
life,  to  be  exposed  to  all  its  storms  and 
quicksands,  from  which  he  had  been 
hitherto  safely  sheltered  in  the  calm  haven 
of  domestic  peace.  The  first  voyage 
passed  safely  and  happily  ;  and  some  years 
flew  by  in  the  same  routine  of  leave-takings 
and  glad  meetings.  Philip  loved  his  pro- 
fession enthusiastically;  but,  at  every 
successive  parting,  he  felt  more  and  more 
unwilling;  to  tear  himself  from  Eskhall 
and  its  beloved  inmates.  Catherine  was  now 
a  lovely,  elegant  girl  of  eighteen ;  her  child- 
ish perference  for  Philip  had  been  gradually 
and  imperceptibly  gaining  strength,  till  it 
had  become  the  ruling  passion  of  her 
heart.  He  loved  her  fondly  and  tenderly  ; 
but  his  fears  were  excited  by  her  constant- 
ly increasing  reserve  towards  him  ;  there 
was  such  apparent  inconsistency  between 
the  attentive  kindness  of  her  actions,  and 
the  distance  and  almost  coldness  of  her 
manner,  that  ho  was  puzzled,  as  well  as 
surprised.  But  the  eyes  of  Gavin  Douglas' 
experience  were  open  ;  and  he  had  for 
some  time  read — in  the  changing  complex- 
ion of  Catherine,  whenever  Philip  approach- 


ed her,  in  the  embarrassment  of  her  man- 
ner whenever  she  addressed  him,  and  in 
the  suppressed  eagerness  of  her  interest 
in  whatever  concerned  him — that  secret 
which  she  shrunk  from  confessing  even  to 
her  own  heart.  Though  he  dreaded  the 
consequence  of  an  attachment  which  he 
thought  might  be  productive  of  only  mis- 
ery and  disappointment,  yet  he  had  too 
much  confidence  in  Philip's  honor  and 
discretion  to  fear  any  clandestine  avowal 
of  love  on  his  part.  He  wrote  to  his  son 
Edward  in  Calcutta,  informing  him  of  his 
suspicions  and  fears  as  to  the  state  of 
Catherine's  affections — telling  him  all  the 
particulars  of  Philip's  history,  and  leaving 
it  to  his  own  judgment  to  act  as  he  thought 
circumstances  required. 

"  In  the  meantime,"  wrote  he, ''  I  can- 
not openly  interfere,  lest,  by  striving  to 
remedy,  I  should  only  increase  the  evil ; 
but  I  will  endeavor,  quietly  and  unobtru- 
sively, to  keep  the  3'oung  people  apart 
until  I  hear  your  decision.  My  opinion 
is,  that  a  final  separation  will  be  the  only 
means  of  weaning  them  from  each  other. 
Catherine  has  a  father's  home  to  receive 
her — when  poor  Philip  leaves  me  he  leaves 
his  only  earthly  protector  ;  and,  even  for 
my  granddaughter's  sake,  I  cannot  part 
with  one  whose  amiable  and  affectionate 
dispositions  have  rendered  him  dear  to  me 
as  a  son." 

The  result  of  this  communication  was  a 
letter  to  Catherine,  from  her  father,  tell- 
ing her  that  he  was  obliged  to  visit  Eno-- 
land  for  a  few  months,  on  business,  and 
begging  her  to  hold  herself  in  readiness  to 
accompany  him  on  his  return  to  Calcutta. 
Philip  had  just  arrived  from  abroad  when 
he  received  this  news  ;  and,  as  is  often  the 
case,  it  was  not  till  he  feared  he  was  goino- 
to  part  with  Catherine  for  ever,  that  he 
felt  how  deeply  and  fondly  he  loved  her. 
He  became  restless  and  unhappy ;  and 
wandered  away,  day  after  day,  alone,  un- 
der pretence  of  seeking  amusement  in 
rural  sports,  but  in  reality  for  the  sake  of 
indulging   the   sorrow  that  was   preying 


ff 


VOL.  ir. 


65 


434 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


upon  his  mind.  He  shunned  all  society, 
even  that  of  her  whose  image  was  ever 
present  to  him,  and  absented  himself  as 
much  as  he  possibly  could,  from  the  family 
meetings  at  meals.  His  dejection  began 
to  have  an  evident  effect  upon  his  health, 
and  the  kind-hearted  Gavin  grieved  to  see 
his  young  favorite  pining  under  the  in- 
fluence of  his  hidden  sorrow. 

"  Philip,  my  son,"  said  he  to  him  one 
day,  "  why  have  you  not  confided  in  me, 
your  oldest  and  dearest  friend  ?  I  have 
penetrated  your  secret,  Philip,  and  I  honor 
you  for  endeavoring  to  confine  it  to  your 
own  bosom ;  but  you  must  rouse  all  your 
energies  to  shake  off  the  tyranny  of  a 
passion,  which  your  high  sense  of  princi- 
ple must  tell  you  cannot  safely  be  indulged 
in,  and  is  only  likely  to  be  productive  of 
sorrow  and  disappointment.''  He  then 
proceeded  to  remind  him  delicately  of  the 
cloud  that  hung  over  his  birth,  of  his  want 
of  means  to  maintain  the  woman  of  his 
choice  in  comfort,  and  of  the  absolute 
necessity  for  his  strenuous  exertions  to  rise 
in  his  profession,  as  the  only  chance  of 
bettering  his  condition  in  life  ;  "  for 
though,"  added  the  generous  man,  "  it  is 
my  intention  to  make  some  provision  for 
you  in  my  will,  yet  there  are  so  many 
claims  of  relationship  upon  me,  that  your 
proportion  will,  I  fear,  be  but  small." 

Philip's  heart  swelled,  and  his  eye 
glistened,  as  he  pressed  the  old  man's 
hand,  in  mute  acknowledgment  of  his 
kindness ;  and  some  moments  elapsed  ere 
he  could  sufficiently  command  his  feelings, 
to  give  expression  to  them  in  words.  At 
length,  in  broken  and  hurried  accents,  he 
expressed  his  heartfelt  gratitude  ;  he  con- 
fessed that  he  had  long  loved  Catherine, 
but  said  that  he  had  never  "  told  his  love," 
hoping  that  his  prospects  might  brighten, 
and  that  he  might  then  be  enabled  to 
prove  himself  worthy  of  the  happiness  he 
sought.  He  acknowledged  the  justice  and 
propriety  of  all  Mr.  Douglas  had  said ; 
and  expressed  his  conviction  that  it  was 
his  duty,  however  painful  it  might  be  to 


his  feelings,  to  tear  himself  from  the  so- 
ciety of  one  whose  presence  was  so  danger- 
ous to  his  peace,  and  to  endeavor,  however 
vain  that  endeavor  might  be,  for  her  sake 
as  well  as  for  his  own,  to  conceal,  though 
he   could    not    stifle,    the    passion  which 
reigned  in  his  heart.      It  was  agreed  upon, 
between    the    two    friends,    that    Philip 
should  employ  his  time  while  on  shore  in 
travelling,  till  his  ship  was  again  ready  for 
sea,  and   that  he  should  then  join   her, 
without  taking  leave  a  second  time  of  his 
friends,  except  by   letter.     Poor    Philip 
could  hardly  command  his  feelings,  when 
taking  what  he  considered  to  be  his  final 
farewell    of     Catherine.     He   knew   that 
when  he  next    returned   home,    Eskhall 
would  have  lost  its  principal  charm  in  his 
eyes — that  she  would  no  longer  be  there, 
and  that,  in  all  human  probability,  they 
might  never  meet  again.     Catherine  only 
felt,  or  appeared  to  feel,  the  uneasiness 
attending   a  temporary  parting  ;  but  her 
voice  trembled  slightly  as,  with  a  pale  but 
steady  countenance,  she  bade  him  adieu  ; 
and  leaving  the  room  with  a  calm  thouirh 
melancholy  manner,  she   hurried   to   her 
chamber,  and,  securing  the  door,  gave  way 
to  the  sorrow  which  in  his  presence  she 
had  successfully   endeavored  to  restrain. 
Time  passed  slowly  and  heavily  with  Philip 
durins;  a  ramblino;  tour  which  he   made 
through  different  parts  of    England  and 
Wales.     He  fought  manfully  against  the 
sorrow  that  oppressed  him,  and  endeavor- 
ed, by  rapidity  of  motion,  and  constant 
variation  of  scene,  to  turn  his  thoughts 
into  another   channel ;  but  in  vain — the 
arrow  was  fixed  too  deeply  in  his  heart. 
He  hurried  from  place  to  place,  and  from 
change  to   change ;  but  he  could  not  fly 
from  himself.     In  vain  did  Nature  present 
varied  beauties  to  his  eyes  ;  he  gazed  list- 
lessly and  vacantly  upon  all  he  beheld — 
he  looked  as  though  he  saw  not,  for  his 
heart  was  elsewhere,  and  he  felt  that  for 
him  the  charm  of  existence  was  over.     In 
the   meantime,    Catherine's    father   had 
arrived  at  Eskhall,  and  had  been  informed 


THE  RESTORED  SON. 


435 


by  Gaviu  Douglas  of  Philip's  noble  struggle 
with  his  unfortunately  placed  passion,  and 
of  the  anguish  of  uiind  which  his  resolu- 
tion had  cost  him 

"  Generous  young  man  !"  exclaimed 
Edward  Douglas  ;  "  he  deserves  a  happier 
fate.  Would  tliat  I  could  favor  his  suit ; 
but,  poor,  unknown,  and  perhaps  basely 
born  as  he  is,  it  is  my  duty  as  a  father  to 
oppose  it." 

Shortly  before  Philip's  ship  came  afloat. 
Edward  Douirlas  was  oblio;ed  to  eo  to 
London  on  business  ;  and  there  he  found 
out,  and  introduced  himsef  to  our  young 
friend.  Few  young  men  of  his  age  pos- 
sessed greater  powers  of  pleasing  than 
Philip  ;  there  was  a  frank  ingenuousness 
in  his  manner  and  address,  which,  second- 
ed by  his  remarkable  beauty  of  features, 
immediately  made  a  favorable  impression 
upon  a  stranger — an  impression  which  a 
further  intimacy  seldom  failed  to  strength- 
en into  affection  and  esteem.  Such  was 
the  effect  of  his  introduction  to  Edward 
Douglas.  They  were  mutually  pleased 
with  each  other,  and  every  hour  that  Philip 
could  spare  from  professional  duties,  was 
devoted  to  his  new  friends,  rendered 
doubly  dear  to  him  by  his  near  connexion 
with  her  whose  name  he  dared  not  to  men- 
tion, though  ever  in  his  thouo-hts. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Douglas  to  him 
one  day,  "  I  am  aware  of  the  sacrifice  you 
have  made  of  feeling  to  principle,  and  I 
honor  and  esteem  you  for  it.  Would  to 
heaven  your  circumstances  and  my  own 
were  different !  Situated  as  you  are,  with- 
out the  means  of  supporting  even  yourself, 
I  think  I  know  you  too  well  already  to 
imagine  that  you  would  willingly  expose 
her  you  love,  to  poverty  and  humiliation. 
Were  my  circumstances  such  as  to  enable 
me  to  enrich  my  daughter,  and  to  follow  the 
inclinations  of  my  own  heart,  I  know  no 
one  for  whom  I  would  more  willingly  use 
a  father's  influence  than  yourself." 

Philip's  heart  was  too  full  for  words  ; 
yet,  though  he  felt  the  hardship,  he  ac- 
knowledged the  justice,  of  Edward  Dou- 


glas' objections,  and  felt  greatly  affected 
by  his  kind  expressions  of  friendly  feeling 
toward  him.  They  parted  with  mutual 
regret ;  Edward  to  return  to  Eskhall,  and 
Philip  to  join  his  ship  at  Gravesend. 

"  Ah  !"  said  Gavin  Douglas,  one  morn- 
ing, about  a  fortnight  after  the  above 
parting,  as  the  family  were  seated  round 
the  breakfast-table,  "  there  is  the  post-bag  ! 
Bring  it  here,  James" — (to  the  servant.) 
"  It  looks  too  thin  to  contain  anythino-,  I 
am  afraid.  Yes  !  here  is  a  letter  from 
dear  Phil." 

"  When  is  he  to  return,  grandfather  ?" 
asked  Emma,  now  a  full-grown  woman. 
Catherine  was  seized  with  a  sudden  curi- 
osity to  look  at  a  pamphlet  which  lay 
upon  the  table,  and  which  she  held  very 
close  to  her  eyes. 

"Return,  my  love!"  said  Gavin; 
"  when  his  voyage  is  over,  I  hope  ;  this 
letter  was  sent  on  shore  by  the  pilot,  and 
is  dated  ^  Off  Scilly.'  But,  mercy  upon 
us  !  what  is  the  matter  with  Catherine  .'" 

The  pamphlet  had  fallen  from  her  hand  ; 
the  cheek  which  had  flushed  to  crimson  at 
the  mention  of  Philip's  name,  was  now  of 
death-like  paleness  ;  and  she  was  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  with  her  eyes  closed, 
and  panting  for  breath. 

"  Thoughtless  blockhead  that  I  was  !" 
muttered  Gavin  Douglas.  And  he  then 
set  himself  to  repair  the  mischief  he  had 
done,  by  bustling  about  to  procure  the 
necessary  remedies,  which  at  last  succeed- 
ed in  restoring  Catherine  to  conscious- 
ness. 

"  It  was  a  sudden  spasm,"  said  she  ; 
"  I  shall  soon  recover  from  it.'' 

"  Poor  girl !"  thought  Gavin,  "  I  fear 
not ;  the  evil  is  more  deeply  rooted  than 
I  imagined." 

From  this  period,  Catherine  became 
quite  an  altered  character.  A  settled 
melancholy  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her 
heart ;  she  was  mild,  gentle,  and  affection- 
ate as  ever,  but  the  buoyancy  of  her  spirit 
was  gone,  and  the  smile  which  now  but 
seldom  brightened  her  countenance,  was 


436 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


evidently  but  grief  in  disguise.  Her 
friends,  with  delicate  consideration,  avoid- 
ed all  allusion  to  the  cause  of  her  sorrow, 
which  was  but  too  well  known  to  them  all  ; 
and  her  fond  and  grieving  father  hoped 
that  time,  and  absence,  and  the  novel 
scenes  she  was  about  to  enter  into,  might 
work,  imperceptibly  to  herself,  a  gradual 
cure. 

Nearly  nine  months  had  elapsed  since 
Philip's   departure  ;  Catherine,  half  bro- 
ken-hearted, had  accompanied  her  father 
on  shipboard,   and  was  far  on  her  way  to 
the    East ;    and  the    Recovery,    Philip's 
ship,  was  on  her  homeward  voyage.     One 
fine  ni^ht   in  March,  the   Recovery   was 
running  along  the  Lagullas  Bank,   taking 
the  advantage  of  the  current  which  sweeps 
round  the  Cape   of  Good   Hope   to  the 
eastward.     The  wind  was  light,  but  steady 
from  the  S.E.,  and  the  night  cloudy,  when 
the  look-out  man  on  the  forecastle  called 
out — "  A  light  on  the  larboard  bow,  sir  !" 
A  small  glimmering  light  was  seen  on  the 
horizon  to  windward,  which  gradually  en- 
larged  to   a    broad  flame,   wavering  and 
flickering  in  the  breeze  ;  and,  almost  im- 
mediately, the  dull  sound  of  a  gun  came 
faintly  moaning  over  the  waters,  and  a 
long  train  of  arrowy  light  went  rushing  up 
into  the  sky,  where  it  hung  for  a  moment, 
and  then  burst  into  separate  flashes,  which 
gradually  died  away,  as  they  descended. 
The  officer  of  the  deck  ran  to  the  captain 
immediately — "  I  am  afraid,  sir,  there  is 
a  ship  on  fire  to  the  windward.     There  is 
a  strong  light  on  our  weather  beam,  and  I 
heard  the  report  of  a  gun,  and  saw  the 
flash  of  a  rocket." 

"  Indeed !  Tell  the  gunner  to  clear 
away  one  of  the  guns.  Call  the  hands 
out.     I  will  be  out  in  a  minute." 

The  light  in  the  meantime,  was  gradu- 
ally increasing  in  size,  and  it  was  evident, 
from  the  wavering  outline  which  it  present- 
ed, that  the  first  conjecture  respecting  its 
origin  was  a  correct  one  ;  and  gun  after 
gun  confirmed  it.  The  captain  speedily 
made  his  appearance  on  deck,  and,  after  a 


moment's  glance  to  windward,  called  to 
the  chief  mate.  "  Run  the  stunsails 
in,  Mr.  Waring  I  Brace  sharp  up,  and 
bring  the  ship  to  the  wind  !  Are  you  all 
ready  with  that  gun,  Mr.  Wad .''' 
"  All  ready,  sir  !" 

"  Then,  fire  !     Bear  a  hand,  clear  awa}'- 
another  gun  !" 

The  Recovery  was  now  hauled  close  to 
the  wind,  and  was  slipping  rapidly  through 
the  water  in   the   direction  of  the  light  ; 
all  hands  were  on   deck,   and,  after    the 
bustle  of  taking  in   and  stowing  the  stud- 
dingsails  had  subsided,  the  eyes  of  all  were 
directed  with  the  greatest  anxiety  towards 
the  horizon  on  the  weather  bow,  where  the 
flame  was  now  distinctly  seen,  sometimes 
barely  visible  above  the   water,  and  then 
bursting  upward  in  broad  and  vivid  jets, 
waving  fitfully  in  the  breeze.     All  at  once 
it  disappeared,  and  half  suppressed  iiiur- 
murs  and  ejaculations  burst  from  the  ex- 
cited crew  of  the  Recovery. 

"I  fear  we  are  too  late,  sir!"  said 
Waring,  the  mate ;  "  the  light  has  disap- 
peared." 

"  Very  strange  !''  replied  the  captain, 
straining  his  eyes  through  the  night-glass. 
"  I  hope  not !  Oh,  no  !  I  see  how  it  is  : 
don't  you  observe  that  the  red  fiery  haze 
still  hangs  round  the  spot .' — and  hark ' 
there  is  another  gun  !  She  is  on  fire  abaft, 
and  is  running  down  before  the  wind.  She 
has  heard  our  signals.  Fire  another 
!" 
The  vessel  to  windward  still  continued 
firing  minute  guns,  by  the  louder  report  of 
which  it  was  evident  she  was  rapidly  ap- 
proaching ;  and,  in  a  short  time,  the  dark 
mass  of  her  canvass  was  distinctly  visible, 
standing  out  in  bold  relief  from  its  fiery 
back-ground. 

"  Have  the  quarter  cutters  clear  for 
lowering,  Mr.  Waring,"  said  the  captain. 
"  Away  aloft  there,  topmen  ;  send  down 
whips  for  the  yard  tackles,  and  have  the 
large  cutter  all  clear  for  tossing  out." 

These  orders  were  instantly  and  actively 
obeyed  ;  the  crew  seemed  to  vie  with  each 


gun 


THE   RESTORED  SON. 


437 


other  in  tlieir  exertions,  and  strained  every 
nerve  in  their  eager  emulation.  They 
could  now  clearly  discern  the  dark  hull  of 
the  ship,  the  sails  forward  hiding  the  body 
of  the  flame,  broad  masses  of  which  were 
seen,  with  every  roll  she  took,  flaring  out 
from  each  side,  alternately,  of  the  dark 
screen  of  canvass. 

"  Man  the  gear  of  the  courses  ! — up 
courses  ! — in  royals  and  topgallantsails  ! — 
back  the  mainyard!" — were  the  orders 
which  now  rapidly  succeeded  each  other  ; 
and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  Recovery  lay 
as  motionless  as  a  log  on  the  water. 

*'  Call  the  hands — out  boats  !" 

The  large  cutter  was  quickly  hoisted 
out,  the  quarter-boats  were  lowered  and 
manned,  and  kept  alongside,  in  readiness 
to  push  off  at  a  moment's  warning.  The 
burning  ship  was  rapidly  approaching,  and 
was  now  within  two  miles  of  the  Recovery. 

''  Fire  a  gun  to  windward,  and  burn  a 
blue  light,"  exclaimed  the  Captain  ;  "  she 
is  quite  near  enough." 

The  stranger  now  came  slowly  and  gra- 
dually up  to  the  wind,  and  hove-to,  with 
her  maintopsail  to  the  mast,  about  a  mile 
a-head,  and  to  windward  of  the  Recovery. 
An  involuntary  shout  of  horror  and  ad- 
miration burst  from  the  crew  of  that  ship, 
when  the  changed  position  of  the  stranger 
revealed  to  them  the  terrific  extent  of  her 
danger — of  horror  for  the  imminent  peril 
of  her  crew,  and  of  irrepressible  admira- 
tion of  the  splendid  scene  so  suddenly 
unveiled  to  them.  Broad  masses  of  flame 
were  bursting  apparently  from  her  gun- 
room, and  waving  over  her  quarter  ;  while 
thick  clouds  of  smoke,  glittering  with 
sparks,  shot  upwards,  and  were  borne  far 
off  to  leeward  by  the  breeze.  Every  rope 
in  the  ship  was  as  distinctly  traceable  by 
the  glare  of  the  flame,  as  if  it  had  been 
broad  daylight.  Her  mainsail  was  hauled 
close  up  ;  and  her  crew,  seeming  to  have 
been  aware  that  their  only  chance  of  res- 
cue was  in  flight,  had  been  actively  em- 
ployed in  keeping  her  hoadsails  wet  with 
streams  of  water  from  the  fire-engine,  for 


it  was  very  evident  that  no  earthly  power 
could  check  the  progress  of  the  flames 
abaft. 

The  dark  forms  of  the  crew  were  seen 
hurrying  about  her  decks,  apparently  em- 
ployed in  clearing  away  the  boats,  one  of 
which  soon  pushed  off  from  her,  loaded 
till  her  gunnels  were  within  a  few  inches 
of  the  water,  and  pulled  slowly  towards 
them. 

"  Shove  off  in  the  boats,"  shouted  the 
captain  of  the  Recovery,  "  and  give  way, 
my  hearties,  with  a  will." 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose  :  a 
spark  caught  the  maintopsail ;  the  can- 
vass, as  dry  as  tinder  with  the  excessive 
heat,  was  in  a  blaze  in  a  moment ;  and, 
with  lightning-like  rapidity,  sail  after  sail 
on  the  mainmast  caught  fire,  and,  blazing 
for  a  moment  with  a  broad  and  brilliant 
glare,  shrivelled  up,  and  flew  in  burning 
tatters  to  leeward.  It  was  an  awful  sight, 
that  pyramid  of  flame,  rising  as  it  were 
from  the  bosom  of  the  deep.  Not  a  sound 
was  to  be  heard,  but  that  of  the  rapidly- 
moving  oars,  and  the  rushing,  moaning, 
and  crackling  sound  of  the  flame.  The 
men  tugged  at  their  oars  in  the  silence  of 
desperate  energy ;  life  and  death  depended 
upon  their  exertions,  and  their  voices 
seemed  to  be  hushed  by  the  extremity  of 
the  danger.  In  the  meantime,  sail  was 
made  upon  the  Recovery,  and  the  breeze 
having  partially  died  away,  she  crawled 
slowly  up  on  the  weather-quarter  of  the 
stranger,  and  again  hove-to.  Boat  after 
boat  soon  joined  her,  and,  having  deposited 
their  freight,  hastened  back  to  the  scene 
of  danger  for  more.  The  greater  part  of 
the  crew  of  the  burning  ship  were  soon 
safely  bestowed  on  board  of  the  Recovery, 
when  Philip,  who  had  already  made  two 
trips  to  the  stranger  with  the  boat  under 
his  command,  pulled  towards  her  again,  to 
bring  off  the  remainder  of  her  men.  He 
was  fast  approaching  her  when  he  was 
hailed  by  the  officer  of  one  of  the  other 
boats,  who  told  him  that  he  had  taken  off 
the  last  of  the  crew.     He  was  just  on  the 


438 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


point  of  returning  to  his  ship,  when  he 
heard  sounds  of  remonstrance  and  entreaty 
from  another  boat  which  was  slowly  ap- 
proaching, the  crew  seeming  undecided 
whether  to  proceed  or  return  ;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  he  observed  by  the  light  of  the 
fire  the  ofiicer  of  the  boat  struggling  with 
a  man  in  the  stern-sheets,  who  was  appa- 
rently endeavoring  to  jump  overboard. 

*'  It  would  be  madness,  downright  mad- 
ness to  return,"  exclaimed  the  officer;  ^'  I 
will  not  risk  the  lives  of  my  men — she  will 
blow  up  immediately." 

"  Let  me  go  !"  shouted  the  stranger  ; 
"  if  I  cannot  save  her,  let  me  die  with 
her."  At  this  moment  the  stranger's  eye 
caught  sight  of  Philip,  who  was  standing 
up  in  the  boat,  and,  with  a  loud  and  start- 
ling cry,  he  shouted,  "  Philip,  Philip,  save 
her!  Save  Catharine  !"  It  was  Edward 
Douglas  !  At  the  same  time  a  shrill 
scream  came  over  the  water,  and  a  female 
form  was  seen  at  the  gangway,  waving  her 
hands  over  her  head,  and  wringing  them 
in  all  the  anguish  of  despair.  For  a  mo- 
ment Philip  was  paralyzed ;  it  was  but  for 
a  moment. 

"  We  will  save  her  or  perish  !"  shouted 
he;    "what    say    you,   my    lads.?"     The 
men  answered  him  with  a  cheer  as  the  boat 
sprung  through  the  water  under   the   im- 
pulse  of   their  bending   oars ;  and  a  few 
vigorous  strokes  brought  them  alongside 
the  blazing  ship.     It  was  but  the  work  of 
a  moment,  for  Philip  and  one  of  the  boat's 
crew  to  spring  np  the  ship's  side,  and  to 
lower  the  fainting  Catherine  into  the  arms 
of  the  men  below.     With  careful   haste 
she  was  laid  down  in  the  stern-sheets,  and 
the  water  foamed  beneath  the  bows  of  the 
boat  as  her  gallant  crew  bent  desperately 
to  their  oars.     A  handful  of  water  sprink- 
led on  Catharine's  face  revived  her  for  a 
moment ;  she  opened  her  eyes  upon  her 
deliverer,    and,     murmuring    "Philip!" 
closed  them  again  with  a  shudder,  and  re- 
lapsed into  unconsciousness.   The  moment 
the  boat  reached  the  Recovery,  the  ship's 
mainyard  was  filled,  the  lower  tacks  were 


hauled  on  board,  the  small  sails  set,  and 
she  stood  to  windward,  to  widen  her  dis- 
tance. The  precaution,  however,  was 
scarcely  necessary,  as  the  blazing  wreck 
was  drifting  fast  to  leeward.  Almost  im- 
mediately after  the  boat  had  left  her,  she 
had  paid  off  before  the  wind,  the  sails  on 
the  foremast  caught  fire,  and  in  a  very 
short  time  the  blazing  wreck  of  spars  fell 
forward  over  the  bows.  All  eyes  were 
now  eagerly  directed  towards  her,  to 
watch  the  finale  of  the  catastrophe.  They 
were  not  kept  long  in  suspense :  a  dense 
cloud  of  smoke  burst  from  the  fore-hatch- 
way, followed  by  a  rush  of  bright  flame, 
and  a  loud  and  deafening  explosion,  and 
then  all  was  darkness — the  hull  had  dis- 
appeared, and  not  a  vestige  of  the  unfor- 
tunate vessel  remained,  except  the  frag- 
ments of  the  wreck,  which  fell  far  and 
wide,  pattering  and  hissing  in  the  water. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  breathless  awe 
and  silent  thanksgiving  that  the  rescued 
crew  gazed  upon  the  scene  ;  and  many  a 
cheek  among-  them  was  blanched  with 
shudderinjr  horror  at  the  thought  of  the 
miserable  fate  they  had  so  providentially 
and  narrowly  escaped.  The  most  daring 
and  reckless  among  them  were  sobered  for 
a  time,  and  many  a  half-suppressed  ex- 
pression of  thankfulness  to  an  overruling 
Providence,  burst  from  lips  to  which  oaths 
and  curses  had  been  but  too  familiar.  As 
soon  as  all  was  over,  sail  was  made  on  the 
Recovery,  the  watch  was  called  out,  and 
arrangements  were  made  for  the  accom- 
modation of  the  unexpected  addition  to 
her  crew.  The  name  of  the  unfortunate 
ship  was  the  Victory — a  fine  vessel  of  six 
hundred  tons.  The  fire  had  been  occa- 
sioned by  the  negligence  of  the  steward, 
who,  while  unpacking  a  case  of  wine,  had 
left  a  light  burning  in  the  after  orlop, 
which  had  set  fire  to  the  loose  straw,  from 
whence  the  flame  was  soon  communicated 
to  the  spirit-room. 

"  All  that  men  could  do,  we  did,"  said 
the  captain,  when  telling  the  story  ;  "  but, 
from  the  first,  I  had  no  hope  of  saving  the 


THE   RESTORED   SON. 


439 


ship,  and  slight  was  our  chance  of  escape 
in  the  boats.  When  the  sound  of  your 
gun  reached  us,  it  was  as  a  messenger  of 
hope — a  promisa  of  rescue  ;  and  three 
cheers  burst  from  our  crew,  as  we  put  our 
helm  up,  and  stood  away  to  join  you.  My 
men  behaved  nobly  ;  with  death  staring 
them  in  the  face,  they  never  for  a  moment 
failed  in  their  duty,  or  flinched  from  the 
danger,  and  exerted  themselves  to  the  ut- 
most to  keep  the  fire  under,  and  to  pre- 
vent its  communicating  to  the  sails. — 
Thanks  to  a  merciful  Providence,  and  to 
you,  its  gallant  agents,  we  have  been  res- 
cued from  a  dreadful  doom  !" 

In  the  meantime,  our  friend  Philip  had 
hastened  to  the  cabin  which  had  been  ap- 
propriated to  Edward  Douglas,  and, 
knocking  at  the  door,  was  immediately 
admitted, 

"  Philip  !"  exclaimed  Edward,  grasp- 
ing his  hand,  while  the  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes,  and  his  voice  trembled  with  emo- 
tion ;  "  my  dear,  my  gallant  deliverer  ! — 
what  an  awful  fate  have  you  saved  us 
from  !  If  I  had  lost  my  child,  how  value- 
less would  have  been  my  own  preservation  ! 
To  you,  under  Heaven,  I  owe  both  :  how 
can  I  express  my  gratitude  .'"' 

"  Oh,  speak  not  thus  to  me,  dear  sir  ; 
— I  but  did  my  duty,  and  am  I  not  al- 
ready more  than  repaid  ?  But  how  is 
Miss  Douglas  ?" 

"  Miss  Douglas  !"  said  Edward  ;  "  cold 
and  formal  indeed  !  Why  not  Catherine  ? 
— your  Catherine  ?  Have  you  not  earned 
a  right  to  call  her  yours  .?'' 

Philip  trembled,  and  turned  pale  ;  and 
then,  when  the  warm  blood,  rushing  to  his 
cheeks  again,  flushed  them  with  emotion, 
he  exclaimed — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Douglas  !  My  v/hole  eflbrts, 
since  we  parted,  have  been  to  smother 
feelings  and  wishes  which  your  words  have 
ajjain  called  into  life." 

"  And  long  may  they  live,  my  dear 
Philip  ! — my  dear  son  I  hope  soon  to  call 
you.  I  will  no  longer  strive  against  fate. 
You  have  saved  Catherine's  life  ;  and,  if 


you  still  retain  her  love,  you  have  a  grate- 
ful father's  full  and  free  permission  to 
avail  yourself  of  it.  For  the  rest,  we  will 
trust  to  Providence,  and  to  the  exertions 
of  your  own  active  and  energetic  spirit." 

"  Mr.  Douglas,"  said  Philip,  "  your 
kindness  overpowers  me.  I  would  risk  a 
thousand  lives,  if  I  had  them,  for  such  a 
recompense  ;  but  I  must  not  take  advan- 
tage of  your  excited  feelings  to  obtain  a 
boon,  however  dear  to  me,  which  your 
prudence  would  deny.  The  same  obsta- 
cles remain  which  at  first  existed.  I  am 
still  poor  and  friendless  ;  the  obscurity  of 
my  birth  has  not  been  cleared  up  ;  and, 
circumstanced  as  I  am  at  present,  ought  I 
to  avail  myself  of  an  accidental  advantage, 
and  of  your  too  generous  appreciation  of 
it,  to  fetter  the  free  choice  of  your  daugh- 
ter, who  probably  may  now  see  those  ob- 
stacles with  far  difierent  eyes  than  in  her 
early  days  .'" 

"  Better  times  may  come,  Philip  ;  and, 
in  the  meanwhile,  my  daughter's  dowry 
will  be  sufiicient  to  afford  you  both  all  the 
comforts,  though  not  the  luxuries  of  life ; 
your  own  energy  and  industry  must  do  the 
rest.  But  you  must  consult  Catherine  on 
the  subject — gain  her  consent ;  mine  you 
have,  without  further  condition,  already." 

After  a  consultation  with  his  officers, 
the  captain  of  the  Recovery  deemed  it 
expedient  to  put  into  the  Cape ;  and  the 
ship's  course  was  accordingly  altered. 
The  wind  continuing  fair  and  steady,  on 
the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  from  the 
disaster  she  was  close  in  with  the  coast ; 
and  the  breeze  dying  away,  and  a  thick 
fog  coming  on,  she  was  hove  to  for  the 
nio-ht.  The  next  morning  the  fos  still 
continued — nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  the 
land,  though  every  eye  was  strained  to 
penetrate  the  gloom,  till  at  last  the  glad 
cry  was  heard  from  the  mast-head — "  High 
land  ahead,  sir  !  Close  aboard  of  us  !" 
All  e}*es  were  now  turned  upwards  ;  and 
there,  frowning  above  the  bank  of  fog, 
appeared  the  dark  outline  of  the  Table- 
land.    The  fog  soon  cleared  off;  and,  in 


440 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


an  hour  or  two,  the  ship  rounded  Green 
Point,  and  came  to  an  anchor  in  Table 
Bay.  After  Edward  Douglas  and  the  rest 
of  the  passengers  were  landed  at  Cape 
Town,  Philip,  being  second  officer  and 
idler,  obtained  leave  of  absence  for  a 
couple  of  days,  and  went  on  shore  to  join 
his  friends.  The  boarding-houses  were  all 
crowded  ;  for  there  were  several  ships  in 
the  roads,  one  of  which,  full  of  passengers 
from  Bengal,  had  arrived  the  day  after  the 
Recovery  ;  but  Edward  Douglas  had  con- 
trived to  secure  accommodation  for  Philip 
in  the  same  house  with  himself.  Several 
passengers  by  the  newly  arrived  ship,  had 
taken  up  their  quarters  there  ;  and,  among 
them,  a  fine-looking,  elderly  man,  a  Ge- 
neral Fortescue  of  the  Bengal  army.  This 
gentleman  happened,  on  his  first  arrival, 
to  be  shown  into  the  room  where  Philip 
and  Edward  Douglas  were  conversing  to- 
gether. They  both  rose  at  his  entrance, 
and  he  returned  the  salutation  of  the  lat- 
ter with  the  free  and  unembarrassed  air 
of  a  man  of  the  world  ;  but,  when  he 
turned  to  Philip,  he  started,  and  gazed  at 
him,  for  some  moments,  with  a  look  so 
fixed  and  earnest  as  to  call  the  color  into 
his  cheek. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,*'  said  he,  at  length — 
"  excuse  my  involuntary  rudeness.  Your 
features  awakened  recollections  of  other 
times,  and  of  long-lost  and  dearly-loved 
friends ;  and,  for  the  moment,  my  thoughts 
wandered  into  forgetfulness  of  the  courtesy 
due  to  a  stranger." 

"  I  hope,  at  least,  sir,  that  the  recol- 
lections I  recalled  were  not  unpleasing 
ones  ?"' 

"  When  you  have  lived  to  my  age, 
young  sir,  bitter  experience  will  have 
taught  you  that  the  '  thread  of  life  is  wo- 
ven of  mingled  yarn  ;'  and  that  shades  of 
sorrow  and  disappointment  may  darken 
the  brightest  pictures  in  memory's  retro- 
spect. Few,  very  few,  can  look  back  to 
the  past  years  of  life  with  unraingled  plea- 
sure, or  forward  to  the  future  with  un- 
mixed hope." 


Both    Edward    Douglas     and     Philip 
became    greatly    interested   in    this    new   i 
acquaintance,  especially  the  latter  who  in    ■ 
turn  seemed  to  be  the  object  of  the  Ge- 
neral's  almost   exclusive    attention.     He    ; 
seemed  to  watch  Philip's  every  movement    ' 
with  eager  interest,  often  cast  upon  him    j 
earnest   and  inquiring  looks,  and  would    ; 
then,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  withdraw  his  gaze, 
as  if  his  features  had  recalled  some  faint    , 
and  shadowy  image  of  the  past,  which  his 
memory  was  in  vain  endeavoring  to  realize.    } 
A  party  was  formed  to  visit  the  far-famed 
farm  of  Constantia,   on  which  the  well- 
known  choice  wine  of  that  name  is  manu- 
factured ;  and   the    three    friends  set  off 
together    on    horseback,  after    breakfast, 
next  morning.      General  Fortescue,  not- 
withstanding the  habitual  shade  of  melan- 
choly   which    clouded    his     countenance, 
proved  himself  to  be  an  animated  and  most 
agreeable    companion.       His    mind    was 
stored  with  varied  knowledge,  and  his  con- 
versation was  enlivened  with  anecdotes  of 
events    and    characters   which  had   come 
under  the  personal  observation  of  a  keen 
and  penetrating  mind, 

"  I  know  not  how  it  is,  Mr.  Douglas," 
said  he,  "  but  I  have  not  felt  for  years 
such  a  springiness  of  spirit  as  I  experience 
to-day.  I  suppose  it  is  because  this  beau- 
ful  country  recalls  to  my  recollection  our 
own  dear  England.  Suppose  we  dismount, 
and  ramble  for  a  while  among  the  trees  ; 
with  our  feet  upon  the  soft  grass,  and 
under  the  cooling  shade,  our  recollections 
of  our  distant  home,  and  reminiscences  of 
past  years,  will  return  with  greater  warmth 
and  freshness." 

This  proposal  was  gladly  acceded  to  by 
his  companions  ;  and,  having  given  their 
horses  to  the  care  of  their  attendant,  they 
wandered  about  for  some  time,  and  at  last 
finding  a  grassy  spot  sheltered  from  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  they  seated  themselves, 
and  entered  into  an  animated  and  cheer- 
ful conversation. 

'•-  Pray,  Mr.   Douglas,"    said    General 
Fortescue,   addressing  himiself  to  Philip, 


THE  RESTORED   SON. 


441 


"  is  your  father  a  Scotchman  ?     I  should 
think  so  from  the  name." 

Philip  colored  painfully ;  and  the 
General,  perceiving  his  confusion,  added, 
"  Excuse  the  liberty  I  have  taken  in  ask- 
ing the  question — it  did  not  arise  from 
idle  curiosity.  The  dearest  friend  of  my 
early  days  was  a  Douglas,  and  the  name 
is  connected  in  my  remembrance  with 
scenes  in  which  I  spent  many  of  my  hap- 
piest days,  when  hope  gilded  my  visions 
of  the  future,  alas  !  only  to  deceive  me. 
Yes,  if  Gavin  Douglas  still  survives,  I 
must  find  him  out." 

Gavin  Douglas  !"    said   Edward,  in 


surprise  ;    "  was  he   a  Douglas  of   Esk- 
hall .?" 

"  The  same,"  replied  he. 

''  My  father  !"  said  Edward. 

"Is  it  possible  !  And  are  you  really 
the  son  of  my  dearest  and  earliest  friend  ? 
Wonderful  are  the  mysterious  sympathies 
of  nature  !  How  strangely  was  I  attract- 
ed towards  you  both,  but  more  especially 
towards  your  friend,  whom  I  presume  to 
be  your  younger  brother  .''" 

"  No,  he  is  not  even  a  connexion, 
though  I  hope  he  soon  will  be  one." 

*'  Then  whose  son  is  he  .?" 

Philip,  with  cheeks  glowing,  and  eyes 
flashing  with  vainly  resisted  emotion, 
answered,  in  rapid  and  passionate  ac- 
cents— 

"  The  son  of  one  who  was  ashamed  to 
own  him  ;  who  deserted  him  in  his  infancy, 
and  cast  him  shelterless  upon  the  casual 
bounty  of  strangers ;  the  nameless  son  of 
a  nameless  father  ;  perhaps  " — and  his 
eye  fell,  and  his  voice  trembled — "  the 
offspring  of  shame,  as  of  misfortune." 

"  Never,  Philip  !"  said  Edward  ;  ^'  the 
pure  stream  rises  from  the  pure  spring. 
Whoever  your  father  may  be,  were  he 
the  hio-hest  in  the  land,  did  he  know  his 
son,  he  would  be  proud,  not  ashamed,  to 
own  him  as  such.  But,  as  we  have  ex- 
cited the  General's  curiosity,  have  you 
any  objection  to  my  gratifying  it  by  re- 
citing the  history  of  your  life  .^" 


Philip  made  a  movement  of  assent  ; 
and  Edward  proceeded  to  give  a  rapid 
sketch  of  the  events  which  we  have  al- 
ready narrated,  from  the  time  of  Philip's 
desertion  down  to  liis  gallant  conduct  on 
board  the  Recovery. 

The  General  had  listened  to  his  narra- 
tive with  breathless  interest ;  and,  when 
it  was  concluded,  asked,  in  a  hurried  and 
agitated  manner — 

"  Was  there  no  clue  by  which  to  trace 
his  parentage  r  No  writing,  or  other 
notice  of  his  birth  V 

"  Yes— a  paper,  stating  his  name  to  be 
Philip,  and  that  he  was  born  of  good  fa- 
mily ;  and  a  ring." 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Philip,  producing  it. 
The  moment  the  General's  eyes  glanced 
upon  it,  his  cheek  turned  deadly  pale,  he 
leaned  for  a  moment  backward  against  a 
tree,  and  then,  with  an  eager  and  trem- 
bling hand,  he  touched  a  spring  at  the 
back  of  the  seal^  and  the  shield  flying  open 
the  initials  "  P.  &  M.  F."  appeared  en- 
graved behind. 

"  My  son  !"  exclaimed  the  General,  em- 
bracing Philip,  while  the  tears  poured  down 
his  cheeks—"  my  long-lost  Philip  !  Mer- 
ciful heaven  !  I  thank  thee  !  How  blind 
I  was,  not  to  trace  before,  the  resemblance 
to  your  sainted  mother  !  The  very  eyes 
and  forehead  of  my  beloved  Mary  !  My 
son,  my  son  !  This  hour  repays  me  for 
years  saddened  by  the  misery  of  uncer- 
tainty !" 

Philip,  with  tears  of  grateful  joy,  warm- 
ly returned  the   embraces   of  his   newly- 
found  parent,  and,  even  in  that  moment 
of  agitation,  his  thoughts  gladly  reverted   I 
I  to  the  removal  of  that  which  had  been  the   I 
principal  obstacle  to  Catherine,   the  mys- 
tery of  his  birth.     Edward  Douglas,  much   | 
aff"ected    by  the  unexpected    recognition, 
had  retired  to  some  little  distance,  to  leave 
the  father  and  son  to   the  free    expression 
of  their  mutual  feelings  ;  but  he  was  soon 
recalled  to  his  former  station  by  the  Gene- 
ral, who,  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand, 
said — 


442 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


"  Son  of  my  dearest  friend,  1  owe  it  to 
myself  and  to  my  boy  to  narrate  to  you 
the  history  of  my  past  life,  and  to  ac- 
count to  you  both,  for  what  must  appear 
my  culpable  and  unpardonable  neglect  of 
him  whose  uncertain  fate  has  caused  me 
so  many  bitter  moments." 

The  tale  which  followed  we  give  in  our 
own  words,  as  our  space  will  not  allow  us 
to  be  so  diifuse  as  was  the  excited  narrator. 

The  father  of  General  Fortescue  was  a 
man  of  high  family  and  extensive  landed 
property  in  Ireland  ;  proud  of  his  only 
son,  but  prouder  still  of  the  ancient  name 
and  large  possessions  which  he  fondly 
hoped  that  son  was  destined  to  inherit. 
His  mother  had  died  in  his  early  child- 
hood, and  his  education  was  prosecuted 
under  the  superintendence  of  a  worthy 
and  excellent  tutor,  a  Scotchman  of  the 
name  of  Campbell.  The  elder  Fortescue, 
who  had  himself  been  brought  up  at  Eton, 
and  who  had  a  strong  prejudice  in  favor  of 
public  education,  sent  his  boy,  when  he 
was  sufficiently  old,  to  finish  his  educa- 
tion at  that  college.  There  it  was  his 
good  fortune  to  be  associated  with  Gavin 
Douglas,  who  was  two  years  his  senior, 
and  immeasurably  his  superior  in  talent 
and  character.  Mild  and  gentle  in  de- 
meanor, but  firm  and  uncompromising  in 
principle,  Gavin  was  generally  respected 
and  beloved  ;  his  society  was  courted  by 
all  his  fellow-students — but  he  distinguish- 
ed young  Fortescue  with  his  particular 
friendship  ;  and  to  the  influence  of  that 
friendship,  the  latter  was  indebted  for  all 
the  better  traits  that  adorned  his  charac- 
ter. PhiUp,  in  his  letters,  had  often  writ- 
ten in  the  most  glowing  terms  of  youthful 
.enthusiasm,  of  his  talented  and  estimable 
friend  ;  and  his  father,  ever  anxious  to 
administer  to  his  gratification,  invited 
Gavin,  whose  parents  were  at  the  time  on 
the  Continent,  to  spend  his  vacation  at 
Mount  Fortescue,  where  he  spent  some 
weeks,  delighted  with  his  hospitable  recep- 
tion, but  surprised  at  the  luxury  and  pro- 
fusion   that    surrounded    him.       But  the 


•   and,  with 
saved   from 


scene  was  soon  to  change.  Fortescue 
had  been  for  years  living  in  a  style  of 
splendid  and  careless  hospitality,  which 
had  from  time  to  time  called  forth  ineffec- 
tual remonstrances  from  his  faithful  stew- 
ard, and  at  last,  affairs  were  brought  to  a 
crisis  by  the  villuny  of  one  for  whom  he 
had  become  security  to  a  very  consider- 
able amount.  To  meet  the  demands  of  his 
creditors,  his  estates  were  sold 
about  ten  thousand  pounds 
their  wreck,  he  retired  to  a  small  town  on 
the  shores  of  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  and, 
having  procured  a  cadetship  for  his  boy, 
sent  him  out  to  Bengal.  This  was  a  se- 
vere trial  to  old  Fortescue.  The  loss  of 
his  estates  he  could  have  borne  with  com- 
parative firmness,  as  far  as  his  own  com- 
forts were  concerned  ;  but  his  pride  as 
well  as  his  affection  was  wounded,  when 
he  thought  that  his  son  would  be  obliged 
to  seek  in  a  foreign  land  that  fortune, 
which,  but  for  his  careless  negligence  and 
profusion,  he  would  have  inherited  in  his 
own.  Philip,  full  of  the  energy  of  youth- 
ful hope,  was  but  little  affected  by  the 
ehano-e  in  his  father's  circumstances,  for 
the  future  was  to  him  bright  of  promise  \ 
but  he  was  greatly  grieved  at  parting  with 
his  father,  whose  many  excellent  qualities 
had  endeared  him  to  his  son's  affection, 
and  whose  chief  weakness  was  his  high  aris- 
tocratic pride.  After  ten  years'  residence 
in  India,  young  Fortescue  returned  home 
on  furlough,  with  the  rank  of  Captain,  and 
found  his  father  much  altered  in  person, 
but  equally  unchanged  in  affection  towards 
him,  and  in  that  pride  of  birth  which  had 
ever  been  his  besetting  sin — one  of  the 
fruits  of  which  was,  frequent  invectives 
ao-ainst  ill-assorted  marviao;es  between 
those  whose  rank  in  life  was  unequal. 
After  staying  with  his  father  for  a  short 
time.  Captain  Fortescue  hastened  to  pay 
a  long  promised  visit  to  his  friend  Gavin 
Douglas,  whose  wife  had  lately  died,  and 
who  was  now  living  with  his  family  at  Esk- 
hall.  On  his  return,  Gavin  accompanied 
him,  and  remained  for  several  weeks  at 


THE  RESTORED  SON. 


443 


Mr.  Fortescue's.     During   one    of  their 
rambles  in    tlie   neighborhood,  they  dis- 
covered, accidentally,  that  a  daughter  of 
Mr.   Campbell,  Fortescue's  former  tutor, 
was  living  near  them,  under  the  protection 
of  a  maternal  aunt.    The  young  men  soon 
sought  and   obtained  an  introduction  to 
these   ladies,   by  whom  they  were   most 
cordially  received,   as  friends  of  the   de- 
parted Campbell.      Mary  Campbell  was  a 
beautiful,    highly-accomplished     girl     of 
eighteen,  perfectly  natural  and  unaffected, 
and   unconscious    of    the   power    of    her 
charms.     Not  so  young  Fortescue.      In 
vain  did  his  more  quick-sighted  and  pru- 
dent friend,   Douglas,   warn    him   of  his 
danger  ;  in  vain  did  he  remind  him  of  the 
obstacle  which  his   father's  pride  would 
offer  to  the  prosperous  indulgence  of  his 
growing  passion  :    he  renewed    his   visits 
day  after  day  ;  and,  though  he  had  not 
spoken  of  love,  his  heart  was  no  longer 
his  own.     She  who  was    ever  present  to 
his  thoughts,  became  naturally    the   fre- 
quent theme  of  his  conversation,  until  his 
father  remarked  it,  and  scornfully  and  bit- 
terly taunted  him  with  his  love  for  one  so 
much  his  inferior  in  rank. 

"  Think  no  more  of  her,  Philip,"  said 
he  ;  "  for  with  my  consent,  you  shall 
never  degrade  yourself  by  marrying  one 
so  much  beneath  you." 

It  was  easier,  however,  for  the  father  to 
command  than  for  the  son  to  obey  ;  love 
prevailed  over  duty,  and  the  young  people 
were  privately  married  ;  the  only  persons 
in  the  secret  being  the  minister  who  offi- 
ciated, and  Mrs.  Morgan,  Mary's  mater- 
nal aunt.  When  the  time  of  Mary's  con- 
finement approached,  she  removed  with 
her  aunt  to  an  obscure  villao;e  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  country,  where  she  died  in 
giving  birth  to  the  hero  of  our  tale.  Her 
husband  was  inconsolable,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  bear  to  look  upon  the 
innocent  cause  of  his  bereavement.  After 
performing  the  last  duties  to  his  wife,  and 
witnessing  the  baptism  of  the  infant, 
Philip,  whom  he  left  under  the  care  of  his 


grand-aunt,  Captain  Fortescue  went  over 
to  the  continent,  hoping  by  travel  to  dis- 
sipate his  grief.      For  a  few  months  he 
heard  regularly  of  his  boy's  welfare  from 
Mrs.  Morgan;  but   soon  her   correspon- 
dence ceased  :  and,  alarmed  by  her  long- 
continued  silence,  he  hastened  home,  to 
ascertain  the  cause.       On  his    arrival  in 
Scotland,   he  heard    of  the    sudden   and 
dangerous  illness  of  his  father.     H*  just 
reached  home  in  time  to  attend  his  death- 
bed ;  and,  by  his  unexpected  return  and 
filial  affections,  cheered  his  last  moments, 
and  received  his  dying  blessing.     But  an- 
other trial  awaited  him.  He  set  off  as  soon  as 
possible  to  the  village  where  Mrs.  Morgan 
resided,  little  dreaming  of  the  sad  intelli- 
gence that  awaited  him.     She  had  died 
about  six  weeks  before,  bequeathing  all 
her  small   property  to   little   Philip,  who 
had  always  been  considered  as  her  adopt- 
ed son,  and  the  orphan  child  of  a  distant 
relation.     The  morning  after  her  decease, 
it  was  discovered  that  the  nurse  and  child 
were  missing,  and  that  an  escritoire,  which 
was  known  to  have  contained  a  large  sum 
of  money,  had  been  broken  open  and  ran- 
sacked.    Active  search  had  been  imme- 
diately made  after  them  at  first ;  but  was 
discontinued   when    a    woman's    bonnet, 
known  to  have  belonged  to  the  nurse,  and 
part  of  a  child's  dress,  were  found  on  the 
banks  of  a  neighboring    swollen  stream. 
Poor   Fortescue   was    in  despair  ;  but  at 
length  a  gleam  of  hope  broke  upon  him. 
The  bodies  had  not  been  found ;  and  his 
child  might  still  be  in  existenc-e.     Adver- 
tisements were  inserted  in  all  the  papers, 
offering  a  large  reward  for  the  discovery 
of  the  infant ;  but  in  vain.     The   heart- 
broken father  lost  all  hope  ;  and,  settling 
his  affairs,  hastened  again  to  the  East.  As 
is  too  often  the  case.  Fortune   smiled  up- 
on one  who  had  ceased  to  value  her  fa- 
vors ;  and  he  rose  steadily  and  gradually 
to  the  highest  grades  of    his  profession. 
The   object   of   envy  to    others,   he  was 
miserable     in     himself.       His    thouo^hts 
brooded  over  the  past ;  and,  at  last,  after 


444 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


nearly  a  thirty  years'  residence  abroad, 
his  heart  yearned  to  revisit  before  his 
death  the  scene  of  his  past  joys  and  sor- 
rows ;  and  he  was  thus  far  on  his  voyage 
when  Providence  threw  in  his  way  his  long- 
lost  son. 

When  the  General  had  finished  his 
narrative,  the  day  was  too  far  advanced, 
and  the  feelings  of  the  party  were  too 
much  interested  otherwise,  to  allow  them 
to  prosecute  their  intended  visit  to  Con- 
stantia  ;  they  therefore  returned  to  Cape 
Town,  where  Catherine  was  anxiously 
expecting  their  return. 

"  Catherine,  my  love,"  said  her  father, 
"  I  expect  a  friend  to  visit  me  almost 
immediately.  He  is  a  young  man  of 
wealth  and  rank  ;  and  I  beg  you  will  give 
him  a  cordial  welcome,  as  you  must  look 
upon  him  as  your  future  husband,  and 
think  no  more  of  Philip  Douglas." 

"  Sir  !''  said  she,  with  the  color  fading 
in  her  cheek  ;  "  forget  Philip  !     Never  !" 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
a  servant  announced,  "  Mr  Fortescue." 
Great  was  Catherine's  surprise,  when  she 
raised  her  eyes,  and  beheld  Philip. 

''  Philip  !"  exclaimed  she  ;  then,  look- 
ing timidly  and  inquiringly  around,  she 
added—"  But  where  is  Mr.  Fortescue  ?" 


"  Here  he  stands,  my  dear  Catherine  ; 
no  longer  the  foundling  Philip  Douglas, 
but  Philip  Fortescue,  the  son  of  one  whom 
he  is  proud  to  call  father.  Next  to  the 
joy  of  discovering  him^  is  that  of  findino- 
that  you  have  bestowed  your  love  on  one 
whose  birth  will  cast  no  discredit  upon 
yours." 

"  The  heart  acknowledges  no  distinc- 
tions of  rank  or  fortune,"  replied  she, 
blushins!: ;  "  whether  Douglas  or  Fortes- 
cue,  you  would  still  be  my  own  dear  Philip 
— the  friend  of  my  childhood — the  pre- 
server of  my  life." 

"  Nobly  spoken,  my  fair  younor  friend," 
said  General  Fortescue,  who  had  entered 
unperceived.  "  Although  I  am  not  yet 
your  father,  allow  me  to  claim  a  father's 
privilege."  And  he  fondly  kissed  the 
blushino;  Catherine. 

But  we  must  hasten  to  the  conclusion 
of  our  voyage,  and  of  our  tale.  The  fol- 
lowing announcement  appeared  two  months 
afterwards  in  the  papers — "  Married,  at 
Eskhall,  in  Dumfriesshire,  on  the  13th 
inst.,  Philip,  eldest  son  of  General  Fortes- 
cue of  the  Bengal  army,  to  Catherine, 
daughter  of  Edward  Douglas,  Esq.,  of 
Calcutta," 


THE    FLOSHEND     INN. 


A:bout  the  middle  of  last  century,  and 
previous  to  it,  the  truly  national  trade  of 
carrying  the  pack  was,  as  doubtless  many 
•of  our  readers  know,  both  much  more  gene- 
ral and  respectable  than  it  now  is.  It  did 
not  then,  by  any  means,  occupy  the  low 
place  in  the  scale  of  traffic  to  which  modern 
pride,  and  perhaps  modern  improvement, 
have  reduced  it.  At  the  period  to  which 
we   allude,  those   engaged  in  this   trade 


were,  for  the  most  part,  men  of  good  sub- 
stance and  of  unimpeachable  character ; 
trustworthy,  and,  in  their  humble  sphere, 
highly  respectable — circumstances  which, 
doubtless,  imparted  to  their  calling  the 
consideration  which  it  then  enjoyed.  The 
reason  lies  on  the  surface  ;  the  trade  was 
then  both  a  more  extensive  and  a  more 
important  one  than  it  is  now,  and  required 
a  much  greater  capital ;  for  there  being 


THE   FLOSHEND   INN. 


445 


then  none  of  those  rapid  and  commodious 
conveyances  for  transporting  merchandize 
from  place  to  place  which  are  now  every- 
where to  be  met  with,  the  greater  part  of 
this  business  was  then  done  by  the  pack- 
men, who  combined  the  two  characters 
of  merchants  and  carriers  ;  and  in  this 
double  capacity  supplied  many  of  the  shops 
of  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow,  and  other  large 
towns,  with  English  manufactures.  Those 
therefore,  who  would  conceive  of  the 
packman  of  old,  an  indifferently-clad  and 
equivocal-looking  fellow,  with  a  wooden 
box  on  his  back,  and  containing  his  whole 
stock,  would  form  a  very  erroneous  idea 
of  the  peripatetic  merchant.  Their  con- 
ception would  not,  in  truth,  represent  the 
man  at  all.  The  packman  of  yore  kept 
two  or  three  horses,  and  these  he  loaded 
with  his  merchandize,  to  the  value  often 
of  several  thousand  pounds  ;  and  thus  he 
perambulated  the  country,  passing  between 
Scotland  and  England,  conveying  the 
goods  of  the  one  to  the  other  ;  and  thus 
maintaining  the  commercial  intercourse 
of  the  two  kingdoms. 

About  the  year  1746,  this  trade  had  ar- 
rived at  so  great  a  height,  that  the  high 
road  to  England  by  Gretna  Green  was 
thronged  with  those  engaged  in  it,  going 
to  and  returning  from  the  sister  kingdom 
with  their  loaded  ponies  ;  and  a  merry  and 
bustling  time  of  it  they  kept  at  the  Flosh- 
end  Inn.  This  hostelry,  now  extinct, 
was  long  a  favorite  resort  of  these  pack- 
men, or  pack-carriers,  as  they  were  more 
generally  or  more  properly  called.  It 
was  situated  on  the  Scotch  side  of  the 
Borders,  near  to  Gretna  Green,  and  was 
kept  by  a  very  civil  and  obliging  person, 
of  the  luminous  name  of  John  Gas — a  lit- 
tle, fat,  good-humored,  landlord-looking 
body,  with  a  countenance  strongly  expres- 
sive of  his  comfortable  condition — having 
a  capital  business,  and  being  very  much 
at  his  ease,  both  in  mind  and  body.  His 
house  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  pack- 
carriers — and  for  good  reasons.  It  was 
the  last  inn  of  any  note   on  the  Scotch 


side,  and  was,  of  consequence,  the  first 
they  came  to  on  re-entering  their  native 
country  from  their  expeditions  into  Eng- 
land. The  quarters,  besides,  were  in 
themselves  excellent ;  the  accommodations 
were  good  ;  and  the  fare  abundant,  rea- 
sonable, and  of  the  first  quality — espe- 
cially the  liquor,  that  great  sine  qua  non 
of  good  cheer.  In  addition  to  all  this, 
John  Gas  himself  was  the  very  pink  of 
landlords  ;  humorous,  kind,  attentive,  and 
obliging  ;  possessing  that  valuable  quality 
of  being  able  to  stand  almost  any  given 
quantity  of  drink,  which  enabled  him  to 
distribute  his  presence  and  his  company 
over  any  number  of  successive  guests .  Fresh 
as  a  bedewed  daisy,  and  steady  as  a  wave- 
beaten  rock,  he  was  always  forthcoming, 
whatever  mis;ht  have  been  the  amount  of 
previous  duty  he  had  performed ;  and 
what  might  remain  yet  to  do  he  always 
overtook,  and  executed  with  credit  to 
himself,  and  satisfaction  to  his  customers 
— no  instance  having  been  known  of  his 
having  been  placed  hors  de  combat^  either 
by  ale-cup  or  brandy-bottle.  With  such 
claims  on  public  patronage,  it  was  no  won- 
der that  his  house  secured  so  large  a  share 
of  the  custom  of  the  itinerant  merchants 
of  the  time  ;  who,  so  much  did  they  ap- 
preciate the  comforts  of  the  Fioshend  Inn, 
and  so  much  were  they  alive  to  the  merits 
of  its  host,  that  they  would  not  rest,  foul 
or  fair,  dark  or  light,  anywhere  within  ten 
miles  of  it.  A  dozen  of  them  were  thus 
frequently  assembled  together  at  the  same 
time  under  the  hospitable  roof;  and,  be- 
ing all  known  to  each  other,  they  formed, 
on  such  occasions,  a  merry  corps — spend- 
ing freely,  and  sitting  down  all  together  at 
the  same  table.  A  more  amusing  or  more 
entertaining  company  could,  perhaps,  no- 
where be  found  ;  for  they  were  all  shrewd, 
intelligent  men — their  profession  and  their 
wandering  lives  putting  them  in  possession 
of  a  vast  store  of  curious  adventure  and 
anecdote,  and  throwing  many  sights  in 
their  way  which  escape  the  local  fixtures 
of  the  human  race.     Naturally  of  a  gos- 


446 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


sipping  turn,  a  propensity  made  particu- 
larly evident  when  they  chanced  to  meet 
together  in  such  a  way  as  we  have  de- 
scribed, they  were  in  the  habit  of  amusing 
each  other  with  narratives  of  what  they  had 
seen  and  heard  that  was  strange,  and  en- 
livening the  evening  by  merry  tale  and 
jest. 

It  was  somewhere  about  the  month  of 
March  in  the  year  1750,  that  a  knot  of 
these  worthies,  consisting  of  seven  or 
eight,  was  assembled  in  the  cheerful  kit- 
chen  of  the  Floshend  Inn — an  apartment 
they  preferred  for  its  superior  comfort,  its 
blaziuof  fire,  and  its  freedom  from  all  re- 
straint.  Some  of  the  guests  present  on 
this  occasion  were  on  their  way  to  Eng- 
land ;  others  had  just  returned  from  it, 
with  packs  of  Manchester  goods  and  large 
bales  of  Kendal  leather.  These  last,  and 
all  other  descriptions  of  merchandize 
which  his  pack-carrier  customers  brought, 
were  stowed  in  a  large  room  in  the  inn, 
which  the  landlord  had  very  judiciously 
and  very  properly  appropriated  for  this 
purpose  ;  while  the  horses  that  bore  them 
were  comfortably  quartered  in  the  commo- 
dious and  well-ordered  stables.  They 
were  seated  on  either  side  of  the  fire,  with 
a  small  round  table  between  them  ;  on 
which  stood  a  circle  of  glasses  ;  in  the 
centre  a  smoking  jug,  whose  contents  may 
be  readily  guessed  ;  and  close  by  the  table 
was  the  landlord  doin2;  the  honors  of  the 
occasion  —  that  is,  making  the  brandy- 
toddy,  and  filling  the  glasses  of  his  guests. 
The  master  of  ceremonies  was  in  great 
glee,  being  precisely  in  his  element,  the 
situation  of  all  others  in  which  he  most  de- 
lighted— a  bowl  of  good  liquor  before  him, 
a  set  of  merry  good  friends  around  him, 
and  the  prospect  of  a  neat,  snug  reckon- 
ing in  perspective.  The  conversation 
amongst  the  guests  was  general ;  but  it 
might  have  been  observed  that  one  of  the 
party  had  got  the  ear  of  the  landlord,  and 
was  telling  him,  in  an  under-tone,  some 
curious  story  ;  for  the  latter,  with  head 
inclined  towards  the  facetious  narrator, 


was  chuckling  and  smirking  at  every  turn 
of  the  humorous  tale.  At  length  a  sud- 
den roar  of  laughter  at  once  announced  its 
consummation,  and  attracted  towards  him- 
self the  general  attention  of  the  company. 

"  What's  that,  mine  host?"  was  an  in- 
quiry put  by  three  or  four  at  once. 
"  Something  guid,  I  warrant  ;  for  that 
was  a  hearty  ane."  The  speaker  meant 
Mr.  Gas's  laugh.     "  What  was't  ?" 

"  It's  a  story,"  replied  he — the  tears 
still  standing  in  his  eyes — "  that  Andrew, 
here,  has  been  telling  me,  aboot  the  min- 
ister o'  Kirkfodden  and  his  servant  lass — 
and  a  very  guid  ane  it  is.  Andrew,  will  I 
tell  it  .^"  he  added,  turning  round  to  the 
person  who  had  told  him  the  story. 

"  Surely,    surely,"   replied    Andrew  ; 
^'  let  it  gang  to  the  general  guid." 

"Aweel,  friends,"  said  mine  host,  now 
confronting  his  auditors,  "  the  minister  o' 
Kirkfodden,  ye  maun  ken,  is,  though  a 
clergyman,  a  droll  sort  o'  body,  and  very 
fond  o'  a  curious  story,  and  still  fonder  o' 
a  guid  joke — and  no  a  whit  the  waur  is  he 
o'  that ;  for  he  is  a  guid,  worthy  man,  as 
I  mysel  ken.  The  minister  had  a  servant 
lass  they  ca'ed  Jenny  Waterstone — a 
young,  gu.id-lookin,  decent,  active  quean ; 
and  she  had  a  sweetheart  o'  the  name  o' 
David  Widrow — a  neighboring  ploughman 
lad,  a  very  decent  cheild  in  his  way — wha 
used  to  come  skulkin  aboot  the  manse  at 
nights,  to  get  a  sicht  and  a  word  o'  Jenny 
withoot  ony  objection  on  the  pairt  o'  the 
minister,  wha  believed  it  to  be,  as  it  really 
was,  an  honorable  courtship  on  baith  sides. 
Ae  nicht,  being  later  in  his  garden  than 
usual — indeed,  until  it  got  pretty  dark — 
the  minister's  attention  was  suddenly  at- 
tracted by  a  loud  whisperin  on  the  ither 
side  o'  the  garden  wa,'  just  opposite  to 
where  he  stood.  He  listened  a  moment, 
an'  soon  discovered  that  the  whisperers 
were  David  Widrow  an'  his  servant,  an' 
overheard,  as  the  nicht  was  uncommonly 
lown,  the  followins;  conversation  between 
the  lovin  pair  : — 

'  I  fear,  Jenny,'  said  David,  '  that  the 


THE  FLOSHEND  INN. 


447 


minister  winna  be  owre  weal  pleased  to 
see  me  comin  sae  often  aboot  the  boose.' 

^  I  dinna  think  he'll  be  ill  pleased/  re- 
plied Jenny.  '  He's  no  ane  o'  that 
kind.' 

'  Still,'  said  David,  '  I  had  better  let 
the  nicht  fa,'  noo  an'  then,  before  I  come ; 
and  then  he'll  no  see  me  mair  than  four 
times  a-week  or  sae.  He  canna  count 
that  bein  very  troublesome.' 

'  Just  as  yc  like,  David,'  said  she. 

'  But  hoo  am  I  to  let  ye  ken  I'm  here  .'' 
inquired  the  lover. 

'  Ye  can  just  gie  a  rap  at  the  kitchen 
windo,  an'  I'll  come  oot  to  ye,'  replied 
the  girl. 

^  Very  weel,'  said  David  ;  *  I'll  come 
and  rap  at  the  back  window  the  morn's 
nicht.' 

'  Do  sae,'  replied  she  ;  '  an',  if  I  canna 
get  oot  to  ye  at  the  moment,  just  step 
into  the  barn  till  I  come.  I'll  leave  the 
door  open  for  ye.' 

This  matter  arranged,  the  lovers  parted, 
little  suspecting  who  had  overheard  them  ; 
and  the  minister  went  into  the  house. 
On  the  following  evening,  a  little  after 
dark,  the  doctor,  closely  wrapped  up  in  a 
plaid  belonging  to  his  serving  man,  slip- 
ped oot,  an,'  stealin  up  behind  the  hoose 
till  he  -cam  to  the  kitchen  window,  gave 
the  preconcerted  signal,  by  gently  tapping 
on  it  with  his  fingers.  Jenny,  who  was 
employed  at  the  moment  in  bottlin  off  a 
sma'  cask  o'  choice  strong  ale  for  his  ain 
particular  use,  immediately  answered  the 
ca,'  raised  the  window,  an'  put  oot  her 
head. 

*  Is  that  you,  David  ?'  said  she. 

^  Yes,'  said  the  minister,  m  a  whisper 
so  gentle  as  to  prevent  her  recognising 
his  voice. 

'  I  canna  get  to  ye  at  present,'  said 
Jenny  ;  '  for  I'm  engaged  bottlin  some  ale, 
an'  maun  put  it  a'  past  before  I  gang  oot ; 
the  minister's  waitin  till  1  take  it  up  the 
stair  ;  but  love  maks  clever  hands,  as  they 
say,  an'  I'll  gie  ye  something  to  keep  ye 
frae  wearyin,  in  the  meantime,  till  I  come.' 


Sayin  this,  she  handed  him  oot  a  bottle  o' 
the  ale,  an'  a  basket,  containin  some 
cakes  an'  cheese.  '  Now,'  said  she,  '  tak 
thae  awa  to  the  barn  wi'  ye,  David,  an' 
tak  a  bite  an'  a  soup  till  1  come.'  And 
she  drew  down  the  window  and  resumed 
her  work.  The  minister,  without  saying 
a  word,  retired  wi'  his  booty,  and  placed 
it  in  a  dark  corner  at  a  little  distance.  In 
a  short  time  he  again  returned  to  the  win- 
dow, an'  again  rapped.  The  window  was 
promptly  thrown  up,  an'  Jenny's  head 
thrust  oot. 

'  Can  ye  gie's  anither  bottle,  Jenny  .?' 
said  the  minister,  speaking  as  low  as  bo- 
fore,  and  disguising  his  voice  as  well  as  he 
could. 

'  Anither  bottle,  David  !'  exclaimed 
Jenny,  in  surprise.  '  Gude  save  us  frae 
a'  evil  !  hae  ye  finished  a  hail  bottle  al- 
ready ?  My  troth,  that's  clever  wark  ! 
But  I  canna  gie  ye  anither  the  nicht, 
David.  It's  a'  put  past.  Besides,  ye  hae 
an  each  for  ae  nicht.' 

"  Weel,  weel,'  said  the  minister  ;  '  come 
oot  as  sune  as  ye  can,  Jenny.'  And  he 
again  slippit  awa. 

Thinkin,  noo,  that  he  couldna  carry  the 
joke  farther  wi'  safety,  as  there  was  great 
risk  o'  the  real  David  appearia,  the  min- 
ister slippit  into  the  house,  threw  off  his 
plaid,  and  went  to  a  little  back  window 
that  was  immediately  over  the  kitchen 
one,  from  which  he  could,  by  a  little  cau- 
tious management,  both  see  and  overhear, 
unobserved,  all  that  should  pass  between 
Jenny  and  her  lover,  when  he  came  on 
the  stage.  Nor  had  he  to  wait  lono-  for 
this.  In  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  tak- 
en his  station,  he  saw  David  come  round 
the  corner  of  the  house,  and  steal,  with 
cautious  steps,  towards  the  kitchen  win- 
dow. He  rapped.  The  window  was 
raised  ;  but  evidently  wi'  some  impa- 
tience. 

'  Gude  bless  mc,  Davie  !  are  ye  there 
again  already  P  said  Jenny,  somewhat 
testily.  '  Dear,  me,  man,  can  ye  no  hae 
patience  a  bit .''      I'll  come  to  ye  imme- 


448 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


diately.'  And,  without  waiting  for  any 
answer,  slie  again  banged  down  tlie  win- 
dow. 

David  was  confounded  at  tins  treat- 
ment ;  but,  as  Jeuny  bad  gien  bim  nae 
time  to  mak  ouy  remark  for  bcr  edifica- 
tion, be  made  one  or  two  for  bis  ain. 

'  Here  again  P  be  said,  muttering  to 
bimsolf— '  bore  already !  Can  I  no  bae 
patience  !'  Tben  after  a  pause — '  Wbat 
does  tbe  woman  mean  ?  Wbat  can  sbe 
mean  ?' 

Tbis  was  a  question,  bowever,  wbicb 
Jenny  berself  only  could  explain,  and  for 
tbis  explanation  David  bad  to  w^ait  witb 
wbat  patience  be  could  conveniently  spare. 
But  be  certainly  badna  to  tarry  lang ;  for, 
in  twa  or  tbree  minutes  after,  a  soft,  low 
voice  was  beard  saying — 
'  Wbar  are  ye,  David  .-' 
'  Here,'  quotb  David,  in  tbe  same  cau- 
tious voice. 

'  Dear  me,  man,'  said  Jenny,  '  wbat 
was  a'  yer  burry  }  I'm  sure  ae  rap  at  tbe 
window  was  as  guid  as  twenty.  Ye  micbt 
bae  been  sure  I  wad  come  to  ye  as  sune  as 
I  could.' 

'  Hurry,  Jenny  !  Wbat  do  ye  mean  ? 
I  was  only  ance  at  tbe  window,'  replied 
David.  '  Ye  surely  canna  ca'  tbat  impa- 
tience.' 

'  Ye're  fou,  Davie — tbat's  plain,'  said 
Jenny.  '  Tbe  bottle  o'  ale  bas  gane  to 
yer  bead,  and  ye've  forgotten.  Nae  won- 
der ;  it  wasna  sma  beer,  I  warrant  ye,  but 
real  double  stoot.  Catcli  tbe  minister 
drinkin  onytbing  else  !  Tbae  black-coats 
ken  wbat's  guid  for  tbem.'  And,  witbout 
waitin  for  ony  answer,  sbe  proceeded  : — 
^  But  wbar  bae  ye  left  tbe  basket,  Davie  r 
Is't  in  tbe  barn  .'' 

*  Jenny,'  said  David — now  perfectly  be- 
wildered by  all  tbis,  to  bim,  wbolly  incom- 
prebensible  raving — '  ye  say  Pm  fou  ;  but 
if  I'm  no  greatly  mistaen,  ye're  tbe  fouest 
o'  tbe  twa.'  And  be  peered  into  ber 
face,  to  see  bow  far  appearances  would 
confirm  bis  conjectures. 

'  Awa   wi'  ye,  ye    stupid   gowk  !'  said 


Jenny,  pushing  bim  good-naturedly  from 
ber.  '  Ye're  just  as  fou's  the  Baltic — 
that's  plain.  But  tell  me,  man,  wbar  ye 
put  the  basket ;  for  it  ma}"-  be  missed.  I 
boup  ye  baena  forgotten  tbat  too  r 

'  Jenny,'  replied  David,  now  somewhat 
mair  sincerely,  '  will  ye  tell  me  at  ance 
what  ye  mean .''  Wbat  bottles  o'  ale  and 
baskets  are  ye  speakin  aboot  ?' 

'  Ha  !  ha  I  Like  as  ye  dinna  ken  !'  said 
Jenny,  looking  archly,  and  giving  bcr  lover 
another  push.  '  That's  a  guid  ane  !  To 
drink  my  ale,  and  eat  my  bread  and 
cheese,  and  then  deny  it !''' 

I  leave  you,  guid  freends  (said  the  nar- 
rator here),  to  conjecture  wbat  were  Da- 
vid's feelings,  and  to  conceive  wbat  were 
bis  looks,  while  Jenny  was  thus  charging 
bim  witb  ingratitude.  I'll  no  attempt  a 
description  o'  tbem.  A'  tbis  time  tbe 
minister  was  lookin  owre  bis  window,  ricbt 
abune  the  lovers,  and  beard  every  word  o' 
wbat  they  said;  but  be  keepit  quiet  till 
tbe  argument  should  come  to  a  crisis.  In 
tbe  meantime  tbe  conversation  between 
tbe  lovers  proceeded. 

'  Jenny,'  said  David,  in  reply  to  her 
last  remark,  '  ye're  either  daft  or  fou — 
and  that's  tbe  end  o't.  Sae  let  ns  speak 
aboot  something  else  if  ye  can.' 

'  Do  ye  mean  to  say,  David,'  replied 
Jenny — now  getting  somewhat  serious  too, 
and  a  little  surprised  in  ber  turn,  at  seeing 
the  perfect  composure  of  ber  lover,  and 
tbe  utter  unconsciousness  expressed  on  bis 
countenance — '  do  ye  mean  to  say  tbat  I 
didna  gie  ye  a  bottle  o'  ale  and  a  basket 
o'  bread  and  cheese  oot  o'  the  window 
there,  aboot  a  quarter  o'  an  hour  syne  .'' 

'  Never  saw  tbem,  nor  beard  o'  tbem,' 
replied  David,  witb  great  coolness. 

'  Ta  !  nonsense,  man  !'  said  Jenny,  with 
impatient  credulity.  '  And  did  ye  no  come 
and  seek  anither .''  and  did  ye  no  come 
tbree  or  four  times  to  the  window .- ' 

'  Naetbing  o'  the  kind,'  replied  David, 
briefly,  but  with  tbe  same  calmness  and 
composure  as  before.  '  I  never  got  a  bot- 
tle o'  ale  an'  a  basket  o'  bread  frae  ye  oot 


THE  FLOSHEND  INN. 


449 


o'  that  window ;  I  never  sought  anither 
frae  ye  ;  and  1  hae  been  only  ance  at  that 
window  this  blessed  nicht.' 

There  was  nae  resisting  belief  to  a  dis- 
claimer sae  coolly,  sae  calmly,  and  sae 
pointedly  made  ;  and  Jenny  acknowledged 
this  by  immediately  exclaiming,  in  the  ut- 
most dismay  and  alarm — 

'  Lord  preserve  me,  then !  wha  was't 
that  got  them,  and  whar  are  they  ?' 

Her  queries  were  instantly  answered. 

'  It  was  me  that  got  them,  Jenny ;  and 
they're  owre  in  yon  corner  yonder,'  said 
the  minister,  in  a  loud  whisper,  and  now 
thrustins:  his  head  oot  o'  the  window. 

Jenny  looked  up  for  an  instant  in  hor- 
ror, uttered  a  loud  scream,  and  fled.  Da- 
vid looked  up,  too,  for  a  second,  and  then 
set  after  her  as  fast  as  he  could  birr ; 
leavin  the  facetious,  but  worthy  minister 
in  convulsions  o'  laughter. 

And  that,  my  freends  (here  said  the 
merry  landlord),  is  the  story  o'  the  minis- 
ter o'  Kirkfodden  and  his  sert^ant  lass  as 
tauld  to  me  by  my  guid  freen,  Andrew, 
here " — laying  his  hand  kindly  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  person  he  alluded  to.  The 
narrator  was  rewarded  for  his  story,  or  ra- 
ther for  his  manner  of  telling  it — for  in 
this  art  he  excelled — by  a  continued  roar 
of  laughter  from  his  auditory.  When  this 
had  subsided — 

"  Come  now,"  he  said,  "  put  in  yer 
glasses.  The  best  story's  no  the  waur  o' 
a  weetin.  It  looks  as  weel  again  through 
a  glass  o'  toddy." 

The  invitation  thus  humorously  given 
was  at  once  obeyed.  In  a  twinkling  a 
circle  of  empty  glasses,  like  a  garde  du 
corps.,  surrounded  the  bowl,  and  were  soon 
replenished,  with  a  dexterity  and  skill 
which  long  practice  alone  could  have  given 
the  artist.  His  well-practised  hand  and 
arm  skimmed  the  ponderous  vessel  as 
lightly  over  the  glasses  as  if  it  had  been  a 
cream-pot ;  filling  each  of  the  latter  as  it 
went  along  to  exactly  the  same  height — 
not  a  drop  in  or  over — with  a  precision 
that  was  truly  beautiful  to  behold. 

VOL.  II.  66 


The  glasses,  which  had  been  thus  sci- 
entifically filled,  having  been  again  emp- 
tied, the  landlord  suddenly  fixed  his  look 
on  another  of  his  guests,  who  was  sitting 
up  in  one  of  the  furthest  corners,  by  the 
fireside,  and  to  whom  his  attention  had 
been  directed  by  observing  him  musing 
and  smiling  at  intervals,  as  if  tickled  by 
the  suggestions  of  his  imagination.  He 
rightly  took  them  for  symptoms  of  a  story, 
and  acted  upon  this  impression. 

''  James,"  he  said,  addressing  the  per- 
son alluded  to,  who  was  at  the  moment 
gazing  abstractedly  on  the  fire,  "  if  I'm  no 
mistaen,  ye  hae  something  to  tell  that 
micht  amuse  us.  Ye're  lookin  like  it,  at 
ony  rate,  if  that  smirk  at  the  corner  o'  yer 
mouth  has  ony  intelligence  in't  " 

James  turned  round,  and,  with  a  smile 
that  was  gradually  acquiring  breadth,  said 
that  he  was  "  thinkin  aboot  Tam  Brodie 
and  the  kirn." 

"  I  was  sure  o't,"  exclaimed  the  land- 
lord, triumphantly.  "  What  aboot  Tam 
and  the  kirn,  James  .?" 

"  There's  little  in't,"  replied  the  other ; 
"  but  I'll  tell  it  for  the  guid  o'  the  com- 
pany." And  he  immediately  went  on. 
"  I  dare  say  the  maist  o'  ye  here  ken  Tam 
Brodie  o'  the  Broomhouse  ;  and  them  that 
dinna  may  noo  learn  that  he's  a  sma'  far- 
mer, as  weel  as  unco  sma'  man,  in  a  cer- 
tain part  o'  Annandale.  He  is  in  but  very 
indifierent  circumstances,  and  has,  on  the 
whole,  a  sair  struggle  wi'  the  world ;  but 
this  is  no  to  hinder  him,  as  hoo  should  it, 
frae  haein  a  maist  extraordinar  fondness 
for  cream  ;  but  it  ousfht  to  hinder  him  frae 
takin  every  opportunity,  which  he  docs, 
o'  his  wife's  bein  oot  o'  the  way,  to  steal 
frae  his  ain  kirn,  to  the  serious  detriment 
o'  his  ain  interest.  His  wife  entertains  the 
same  opinion ;  for  she's  obliged  to  watch 
him  like  a  cat ;  and  when  she  does  catch 
him  at  the  forbidden  vessel,  or  discovers 
that  he  has  been  there — which  she  often 
does,  by  the  ring  about  his  mouth,  when 
she  has  come  so  suddenly  on  him  as  no  to 
gie  him  time  to  remove  the  evidence — she 


450 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


does  pepper  him  sweetly  wi'  the  first  thing 
that  comes  to  her  haun  ;  for  she's  a  trim- 
mer, though  a  weel-behaved,  hard-working 
woman.  A'  her  watchfulness,  however, 
and  a'  the  wappins  she  could  gie  her  hus- 
band, could  neither  cure  him  o'  his  pro- 
pensit}^,  nor  prevent  him  indulging  it 
"whenever  he  thought  he  could  do  it  with- 
oot  bein  detected. 

It  happened  ae  day,  that  Mrs.  Brodie 
had  some  errand  to  a  neighboring  farm- 
house, which  she  behoved  to  execute  per- 
sonally. Having  dressed  herself  a  little 
better  than  ordinary  for  this  purpose,  she 
cam  to  her  husband,  who  was  at  the  mo- 
ment delvin  in  the  kailyard  behind  the 
house,  told  him  where  she  was  gaun,  and 
desired  him  to  look  after  the  weans  till 
her  return.  This  task,  Tam,  of  course, 
readily  undertook,  and  continued  to  delve 
awa  as  composedly  as  if  his  wife's  proposed 
absence  had  suggested  no  other  idea  to 
him.  He,  in  short,  looked  as  innocent  of 
a  sinister  purpose  as  a  man  could  do  ; 
although  at  that  very  moment  the  cunnin 
little  rascal's  mind  was  fu'  o'  the  idea  o' 
makin  a  dive  at  the  kirn,  the  moment  his 
wife's  back  was  turned.  And  he  soon  made 
these  evil  intentions  manifest  enouo-h. 
While  his  wife  was  speakin  to  him,  leavin 
the  bairns  in  his  charge,  Tam  never  raised 
his  head,  but  continued  delvin  awa  wi' 
great  assiduity.  He  was,  in  fact,  afraid 
to  lift  his  head,  for  fear  that  his  wife 
should  discover  his  joy  on  his  countenance, 
and  tak  some  means  o'  bafflin  his  designs. 
Although,  however,  he  didna  raise  his 
head  while  she  was  speakin  to  him,  he  did 
it  the  instant  she  left  him.  While  con- 
tinuin  bent  as  if  in  the  act  o'  workin,  he 
looked  after  her  till  she  disappeared  down 
a  brae,  at  the  distance  o'  aboot  a  hundred 
yards,  when  he  stood  erect,  stuck  his 
spade  in  the  ground,  and  went  wi'  delibe- 
rate step  into  the  hoose.  This  delibera- 
tion, however,  did  not  proceed  so  much 
from  a  consciousness  of  security,  as  to 
prevent  exciting  the  suspicion  o'  his  ain 
weans,  whom  he  did  not  wish  to  trust  with 


j  the  secret  o'  his  intended  depredations  on 
the  kirn,  for  fear  they  should  tell  their 
mother,  as,  had  they  known  it,  they  cer- 
tainly would — perhaps  not  deliberately, 
but  they  would  blab  it.  This  risk,  there- 
fore, he  resolved  not  to  run.  On  enterin^r 
the  kitchen  whar  the  weans  war,  to  the 
number  o'  three  or  four — 

*  What  keeps  ye  a'  in  the  hoose  sic  a 
nice  bonny  day  as  this  .''  said  he  ;  '  awa 
and  play  yersels  in  the  yard  for  a  wee  ; 
and,  as  I'm  wearied  and  gaun  to  rest  my- 
sel,  ye  can  come  and  tell  me  whan  ye  see 
yer  mither  comin.  Ye  can  see  her,  ye 
ken,  frae  the  tap  o'  the  yard  a  lang  way 
aff.  Noo,'  he  said,  addressin  the  last  o' 
the  urchins,  as  they  scampered  oot,  in 
obedience  to  their  father's  commands, 
'  noo,  mind  and  let  me  ken  the  momeiit 
your  mother  comes  in  sight.'  The  boy 
promised,  and  rushed  out  after  his  bro- 
thers and  sisters.  The  coast  was  now 
clear  ;  Tam's  progress  thus  far  was  tri- 
umphant. He  had  never  had  before  sae 
fair  a  field  for  operations,  and  he  felt  all 
the  satisfaction  that  his  happy  situation 
was  capable  of  affording. 

Havin  got  the  weans  oot,  he  advanced 
to  the  door,  shut  it,  and,  to  prevent  any 
unseasonable  intrusion,  locked  it — at  least 
he  thocht  he  had  done  so,  but  the  bolt 
had  missed.  Unaware  of  this  circum- 
stance, he  proceeded  to  his  operations  with 
a  feeling  of  perfect  security.  Having  gone 
into  the  room  where  the  kirn  was,  he  lift- 
ed the  large  stone  by  which  the  lid  was 
kept  down  and  placed  it  on  the  floor. 
This  done,  he  lifted  the  lid  itself,  and  next 
the  clean  white  cloth  which  is  usually 
thrown  first  on  the  mouth  of  the  vessel. 
These  all  removed,  the  glorious  substance 
appeared — thick,  rich,  and  yellow.  The 
glutton  gazed  on  it  a  moment  with  a  rap- 
turous eye  ;  but  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost.  He  had  provided  himself  with  a 
small  tin  jug.  This  he  now  dipped  into 
the  delicious  semi-fluid  mass,  raised  it  to 
his  lips,  and  quaffed  it  ofl"  as  fast  as  its 
consistency  would  admit.     Again  he  dip- 


THE  FLOSHEND  INN. 


451 


ped  and  again  lie  swilled ;  and,  to  make 
.  everything  as  comfortable  as  possible,  be 
next  drew  a  chair  to  the  kirn,  sat  down  on 
it,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  in  this  luxu- 
rious and   deliberate    attitude    proceeded 
with  his  debauch.      While  in  the  act  of 
pouring  down  his  throat  the  fifth  or  sixth 
jug,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  his  eye — 
though  half  closed,  from  an  overpowering 
sense  of  enjoyment — caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  castle  o'  cakes  and  a  plate  filled  wi'  rolls 
o'  fresh  butter,  that   stood  on  the   upper 
shelf  of  a  cupboard  fastened  high  upon  the 
wa'  in  ane  o'  the  corners  o'  the  apartment. 
The  sight  was  tempting ;   for  he  felt  at 
that  moment  somewhat  hungry,   and   ho 
thocht,    besides,    the    cakes    and   butter 
would  eat  delightfully  wi'  the  cream — and 
there  is  little   doot   they  would.     Filled 
wi'  this  new  idea,  he  rose  frae  his  chair, 
and  approached  the   cupboard  wi'  the  in- 
tention o'  sackin  it ;  but  it  was  owre  high 
for   him.      (He  was   a  very  little   man). 
This,  however,  he  was  perfectly  aware  o'. 
So  he  took  a  stool  in  his  hand,  placed  it, 
and  mounted  ;  but  was  still  several  inches 
from  the  mark.     Finding  this,  he  descend- 
ed, put  anotlier   stool   on  the   top  o'  the 
first,  and,  on  again  mounting,  found  him- 
self just  barely  within  reach  o'  the  prize. 
By  seizing,  however,  a  fast  hold  o'  ane  o' 
the  shelves  o'  the  cupboard  by  one  hand, 
he  found  he   could  raise   himsel  up  suffi- 
ciently high  to   accomplish  the  purposed 
robbery  wi'  the  ither.     Discovering  this, 
he  grasped  the  shelf,  and  was  just  in  the 
act  o'  raisin  himsel  up  by  its  means,  when 
the  stool  on  which  he  was  standin  (he  had 
stood  owre  near    the    end  o't)    suddenly 
canted  up  and  left  him  suspended  to  the 
cupboard  shelf;  for  he  held  on  like  grim 
death,  kickin   and   spurrin   awa  in  a  vain 
attempt  to  recover  his  footin.     This  was  a 
state  o'  things  that  couldna  continue  long ; 
either  he  must  come  doon  himsel,  or  the 
cupboard  must  come  doon  alang  wi'  him — 
and   the    latter  was  the  upshot.      Down 
came  the  cupboard ;  wi'  everything  that 
was  in  it— and  it  was  filled  wi'  cheeny  and 


crystal — smash  on  the  floor  wi'  a  dreadfu 
crash,  and  Tarn  below  it.  There  wasna  a 
hail  glass,  cup,  or  plate  left ;  and  the  rows 
o'  butter  were  rollin  in  a'  directions 
through  the  floor.  Here  was  a  pretty 
business  ;  and  the  puir  culprit  knew  it. 
Cantin  away  the  cupboard  frae  aboon  him, 
he  slowly  rose  (for  he  was  not  at  all  much 
hurt)  to  his  feet,  infinitely  mair  distressed 
wi'  fear  for  his  wife's  vengeance  than  wi' 
regret  for  his  ain  loss.  At  this  instant — 
that  is,  just  as  he  had  gained  his  feet  and 
was  lookin  ruefully  down  on  the  wreck  he 
had  occa-sioncd — ane  o'  his  bairns  cam 
runnin  to  the  door,  and  bawled  out  the 
delightful  intelligence — 

'  Faither,  my  mother's  comin  !' 
The  horrible  announcement  roused  him 
from  his  reverie  and  instantly  put  him  on 
the    alert.      He    had    presence    o'    mind 
eneuch  left  to  recollect  that  the  cupboard 
wasna  a'  he  had  to  answer  for.     There 
was  the  kirn,  which,  in  its  present  denud- 
ed state,   told  an  ugly  tale.     He   flew  to 
remedy  this.     He  snatched  up  the  towel, 
spread  it  over  the   mouth  o't,  lifted  the 
huge   stone  with  which  all  had  been  se- 
cured,  dashed  it  down — on  what  ?   on  the 
lid .?     No,  in  his  hurry  and  confusion  he 
forirot  the  lid.     On  the  towel — and  down 
went  towel   and  stone  into  the  kirn,  and 
the  latter  with  such  force  as  fairly  knock- 
ed out  the  bottom,  and  sent  the  whole 
contents  streamin  owre  the  floor.     At  this 
particularly  felicitous   moment,  his    wife 
entered   the   outer   door,   when   the   first 
thing  she  met  was  the  colly  dog  wi'  a  row 
o'  the  fresh  butter  in  his  mouth.     In  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  this  wad  hae  been  a 
provokin    aneuch    sicht    to    her,    but    a 
glimpse  at  the  same  instant  o'  the  dreadfu 
ruin  within  made  it  appear  but  a  sma' 
matter  indeed.     On  enterin  on  the  scene 
o'  devastation  she  fand  the  culprit  stand- 
m<y  almost  senseless   and  speechless   wi' 
terror  and  horror,  and  every  other  stupi- 
fyin  feeling  that  can  be  named,  in  the 
middle  o'  the  ruins  he  had  created,  and 
up  to  the  shoe-mouth  in  cream. 


L 


452 


TALES   OP  THE  BORDERS. 


*  An  awfii  business  this,  Maggj,'  he  said, 
in  a  sepulchral  voice.  It  was  a'  he  got 
leave  to  say ;  for,  in  the  next  moment,  he 
was  felled  wi'  the  stroke  o'  a  besom  ;  and 
when  he  resumed  his  feet,  which  he  did 
almost  instantly,  he  took  to  his  heels,  and 
didna  venture  hame  again  till  wife  and 
weans  were  a'  lang  in  their  beds.  Tarn 
neer  touched  the  kirn  after  this. 

''  And  hero,"  said  the  narrator,  "  ends 
my  story  o'  Tarn  Brodie  and  the  kirn." 

"  An'  a  very  guid  ane  it  is,"  rejoined 
the  landlord,  taking  off  a  cold  half  glass 
of  jDunch  that  stood  before  him.  '■  1  ken 
Tarn  o'  the  Broomhouse  as  weel  as  I  ken 
ony  ane  here,  and  it's  just  as  like  him  as 
can  bo.  William,"  added  mine  host,  now 
turning  and  addressing  another  member 
of  the  company — a  quiet,  mild-looking 
man,  whom  one  could  not  a  priori^  have 
suspected  of  being  a  joker — "  that's  near- 
ly as  guid  a  ane  as  the  Blue  Bonnet.  Do 
ye  mind  that  story  V  William  shook  his 
head  and  smiled. 

"  I  mind  it  weel  aneuch,"  he  replied  ; 
but  it  was  rather  a  serious  affair — at  least 
it  micht  hae  been  sae,  and  I'm  no  fond 
o'  recollectin't. 

"  Nonsense,  man  ;  nae  harm  cam  o't," 
said  the  other ;  "  and  it  was  harmlessly 
meant." 

"  But  it  micht  hae  been  a  bad  busi- 
ness," said  William. 

"  But  it  wasna,''''  said  mine  host ;  "  and, 
as  I  dinna  believe  there's  ane  here  that 
ever  heard  the  story,  I  wish  ye  wad  let  me 
tell  it." 

"  It's  no  worth  tellin,"  said  the  other. 
"I'll  tak   my  chance  o'  that,"  replied 
the  landlord  ;  "  if  it's  counted  worthless, 
I'll  tak  the  wyte  o't.     Do  ye  give   me 
leave  .?" 

"  A  wilfu  man  maun  hae  his  ain  way — 
do  as  you  like,"  rejoined  William  Bry- 
don,  affecting  a  chariness  he  did  not  alto- 
gether feel. 

Thus  regularly  licensed,  the  narrator 
began : — 

"  About  twa  or  three  years  syne,  there 


used  to  come  about   this  house  o'  mine  a 
wee  bit  whupper-snapper  body  o'  an  Eng- 
lish bagman.     An  impudent,  upaettin  brat 
he  was,  although  no  muckle  higher   than 
that  table.     The   favorite   theme   o'   this 
wee  ill-tongued  rascal — for  he  had  a  vile 
ane — was  abusin  Scotland,  an'  a'  that  war 
in't,  for  a  parcel  o'  sneakin,  hungry,  beg- 
garly loons.     This  was  his   constant  talk 
wherever  he  was,  and  whaever  he  might 
be  amang.      I  didna  mind  him  mysel ;  for 
the  cratur  wasna  a  bad  customer,  and  he 
was,  besides,  such  a  wretched-lookin  body 
— I  mean  as  to  size  and  figure,  for  he  was 
aye  weel   aneuch   put   on — that   puttin  a 
haun  to  him  was  oot  o'  the  question.     Ye 
couldna  hae  blawn  upon  him,  but  ye  wad 
hae  been  in  for  murder,  or  culpable  ho- 
micide at  the  very  least.     But,  although 
I  keep  it  a  calm  sough  wi'  him,  and   didna 
mind  his   abusive  jabberin,  it  wasna  sae 
wi'  everybody  ;  and  there  was  nane  bore  it 
waur    than   oor   freend    William   Brydon 
here,  wha  aften  forgethered  wi'  him  in  this 
hoose.      William  couldna  endure  the  cra- 
tur, and  mony  a  sair  wrangle  they  had  wi' 
the  tongue  ;  but  the  Englishman's  was  by 
far  the  glibbest,  though  William's  was  the 
weightier.     It  chanced  that  William  and 
the   little    gabby   Englishman    met  here, 
both  on  their  way  to  England,  ae  day  sune 
after  the  execution  o'  the  rebels  in  Car- 
lisle— a  time  whan   the    Scots,   as   ye   a' 
dootless     ken,   war    in   unco    bad    odor 
throughoot  a'  England,  and  especially  in 
Carlisle,  whar  the  feelin  ran  sae  high  that 
no  person  wearin  ony  piece  o'  dress  which 
smelt  in  the   least  o'  Scotland  was  safe  in 
the  streets.      And  wha  was  sae  vindictive 
against   the   rascally  rebels,   as  he   ca'ed 
them,  as  oor  wee  bagman  ?     ^  Headiu  and 
hansfin's    owre    suid  for   the   villains,'  he 
wad  say.     '  They  should  be   roasted  be- 
fore a  slow  fire,  like  sae  mony  shouthers 
o'  mutton.'     Oh,  he  had  a  bitter  spite  at 
them  !     It  was  aboot  this  time,  as  I  said, 
that  he  and  oor  freend   here   met  in  my 
hoose — and,  as  usual,  they  had  a  tremen- 
dous yokin  ;  but  it  was,  on  this  occasion, 


THE  FLOSHEND   INN. 


453 


a'  aboot  the  rebels ;  for  this  was  the  thing 
uppermost  in  the  wee  bagman's  mind  at 
the  time.  It  was  a  grand  catch  for  him, 
and  he  made  the  maist  o't.  In  short,  a' 
his  abuse  now  took  this  particular  direction. 

Notwithstanding  William  and  the  bag- 
man's constant  quarrelin,  and  their  mutual 
dislike  o'  each  ither,  thej  aye  drank  the- 
gither  whan  they  met,  and  whiles  took 
guid  scours  o't,  and  lang  sederunts  ;  but 
it  wasna  for  love,  ye'll  readily  believe, 
they  sat  thegither  :  na,  na,  it  was  for  the 
purpose  o'  gettin  a  guid  worryin  at  ane 
anither  ;  so  that  they  may  be  said  to  hae 
sought  each  ither 's  company  oot  o'  a  kind 
o'  lovin  hatred  to  ane  anither.  In  the 
afternoon  o'  which  I'm  speakin,  the  twa 
as  usual  drank  and  quarreled ;  but  I  was 
surprised  to  find,  towards  the  end  o'  their 
sederunt,  that  oor  freend  here,  instead  o' 
gettin  angrier,  as  he  used  to  do,  as  the 
contest  drew  towards  a  close,  grew  aye  the 
calmer  ;  and  what  astonished  me  still  mair 
suddenly  showed  a  strong  disposition  to 
curry  favor  with  his  antagonist,  and  actu- 
ally so  far  succeeded,  by  dint  o'  soothin 
words,  as  to  induce  the  bagman  to  extend 
the  hand  o'  friendship  and  good  fellowship 
to  him — swearing  that  William  was,  after 
all,  a  devilish  good  fellow,  for  a  Scotch- 
man. The  bagman,  however,  was  by  this 
time,  pretty  weel  on  by  the  head ;  and 
this  micht  hae  had  some  share  in  producing 
this  new-born  kindness  for  the  Scotchman. 
However  this  may  be,  being  both  anxious 
to  get  on  to  Carlisle  that  night,  they 
agreed — such  good  freends  had  they  thus 
suddenly  become — to  travel  together.  This 
settled,  their  horses  were  brought  to  the 
door.  William's  packs  had  been  sent  on 
before,  and  he  had  hired  ane  o'  my  horses 
to  carry  him  into  Carlisle.  Just  as  they 
were  gaun  oot  the  passage  there,  to  the 
door  to  mount,  William  hings  back  a  bit, 
lettin  the  bagman  gang  on  before  him,  and 
whispers  into  my  ear — 

'  I'll  play  that  pockpuddin  a  pliskie  yet. 
Hae  ye  such  a  thing  as  an  auld  broad  bon- 
net aboot  ye,  that  ye  could  lend  me  ?' 


Little  dreamin  what  he  was  gaun  to  do 
with  it,  I  replied  I  had  ;  and  runnin  into 
the  kitchen  here,  I  took  down  frae  a  nail 
ane  that  I  used  to  wear  when  gaun  aboot 
the  garden,  and  gave  it  to  him.  William 
took  it,  rowed  it  up,  and  thrust  it  in  his 
pocket,  without  sayin  a  word,  and,  in  three 
minutes  after,  the  twa  war  aff. 

On  arrivin  within  aboot  a  mile  o'  Car- 
lisle, Willie  proposed  to  the  bagman  that 
they  should  go  into  a  public-house  that 
was  on  the  road-side,  and  hae  something 
before  they  entered  the  toon,  as  they  re- 
quired to  part  a  wee  on  this  side  o't — 
William  having,  he  said,  some  sma'  busi- 
ness to  do  aff  the  road.  To  this  proposal 
the  Englishman  readily  agreed,  and  in 
they  gaed,  leavin  their  horses  at  the  door. 
Here  William  plied  the  bagman — nothing 
loth,  for  he  was  a  druckenwee  rascal — wi' 
brandy  till  he  began  to  wink,  and  no  to  be 
perfectly  certain  which  end  o'him  was  up- 
permost. Having  reduced  him  to  this 
condition,  his  friend  proposed  that  they 
should  be  moving,  when  they  both  got  up 
for  that  purpose. 

'  Where's  my  'a^  ?'  said  the  bagman, 
turnin  round  to  look  for  the  article  he 
named. 

'  Here  it's,  man,'  said  William,  coming 
behind  him  and  clapping  the  bonnet  on  his 
head. 

'  Thank  you,  friend  !'  replied  the  bag- 
man, generously  believin  that,  as  he  felt 
something  put  upon  his  head,  it  must  be 
his  hat ;  and,  thus  theekit,  he  walked  to 
the  door  and  mounted  his  horse,  as  grave 
and  composed  as  if  a'  was  right,  and  rode 
off  wi'  William  along  side  o'  him.  They 
hadna  ridden  far,  however,  when  his  friend, 
for  obvious  reasons,  desirous  of  being  quit 
o'  his  companion,  said  he  was  sorry  that 
they  maun  now  part,  he  requiring  as  he 
told  him  before,  to  turn  off  the  road  a  bit. 
On  this  they  shook  hands  and  parted.  The 
bagman  hadna  proceeded  far  wi'  the  noto- 
rious badg-e  o'  Scotland — the  broad  blue 
bonnet — on  his  head,  till  he  found  himself, 
he  could  not  conceive  how,  an  object  of 


:a 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ma;  k=^d  attention  to  a'  the  passers  by.  At 
length,  as  he  approached  the  town,  this 
att:3ntion  became  gradually  more  and  more 
alarming,  and  began  at  the  same  time  to 
be  accompanied  by  such  symptoms  as 
plainly  evinced  that  it  was  not  of  a  pleasant 
character 

Popular  notice,  the  bagman  very  weel 
saw,  he  had  attained  by  some  means  or 
other  ;  but  he  also  saw  as  weel  that  this 
by  no  means  meant  popular  admiration  ; 
for  in  every  face  that  was  turned  towards 
him  there  was  an  angry  scowl.  Amazed 
and  confounded  at  being  thus  so  strangely 
and  disagreeably  marked,  the  poor  little 
Eno-lishman  looked  first  at  his  le^s  and 
then  at  bis  borse,  leaning  forward  for  this 
purpose,  and  then  examined  his  own  outer 
man  all  over,  to  see  if  he  could  discern 
anything  wrong  with  either,  that  might  ac- 
count for  bis  sudden  elevation  in  the  pub- 
lic mind  ;  but  he  found  nothing — all  was 
right,  and  the  little  bagman  was  more 
perplexed  than  ever.  He  rode  on,  how- 
ever— as  what  else  could  he  do  ? — and  at 
length  entered  the  town.  Here  the  gene- 
ral attention  became  still  more  strikingly 
marked :  people  stood  on  the  streets  and 
stared  broadly  at  him  ;  and,  when  he  had 
passed,  looked  after  him,  and  shook  their 
heads.  At  length  matters  came  to  a  crisis. 
This  approached  by  occasional  cries  of 
'  Doon  wi'  the  rebel !'  '  Doon  wi'  the 
Scotch  cut- throat  !'  '  Hang  the  robber  !' 
'  Head  him  !  Head  him  !'  If  confounded 
before,  the  little  bagman  was  now  ten  times 
more  so.  These  terms  could  never  apply 
to  him,  and  yet  they  were  most  palpably 
directed  to  him.  What  on  earth  could  it 
mean  }  To  be  taken,  too,  for  a  character 
which  of  all  others  he  most  abhorred.  It 
was  unaccountable — most  extraordinary. 
In  the  meantime,  both  the  cries  and  the 
crowd  increased  till  the  latter  at  Icno'th 
fairly  surrounded  the  little  bagman  and  his 
horse,  and  peremptorily  arrested  his  pro- 
gress, still  shouting,  but  with  greater 
ferocity,  '  Down  with  the  rebel  !' 

'  Good  people,'  said  the  perplexed  and 


terrified  cratur,  ^  what  do  you  mean  .'' 
Hear  me  for  a  moment.  I'm  no  rebel.  1 
detest  them  as  much  as  you  can  do.  I  am 
an  Englishman — a  born  Ensilishman.' 

'  Yes,  when  it  suits  your  purpose,  ye 
cowardly  Scotch  dog  !'  exclaimed  one  of 
the  crowd,  advancing  towards  him,  and 
seizing  him  by  a  leg. 

'  We  know  you  too  well  by  your  head- 
mark,'  said  a  second,  bustling  forward  to 
have  a  share  in  forcibly  dismounting  the 
wee  bagman  ;  a  measure  which  was  now 
evidently  contemplated,  if  not  determined 
on,  by  the  crowd. 

'  Yes,  yes  !'  shouted  a  third — 'he  has 
the  mark  of  the  beast  on  him.  Down  with 
him  !  down  with  him  !  He  can't  deny  the 
blue  bonnet.  Down  with  it  and  the  head 
that's  in  it!'  Seeing  all  eyes  at  this  mo- 
ment directed  to  that  part  of  his  person 
where  a  hat  should  have  been,  the  wee 
bagman  instinctively  clapped  his  hand  on 
his  head.  It  felt  strange  !  There  was  no 
superstructure — all  was  bare  and  flat.  He 
pulled  off  the  mysterious  covering,  and  be- 
held with  horror  and  amazement  a  laro-e. 
broad,  Scotch,  blue  bonnet,  the  size  of  a 
cart  wheel,  with  a  red  knob,  like  an  over- 
grown cherry,  in  the  centre  o't. 

'  Ay,  where  got  ye  that  ?  where  got  ye 
that  .'^'  exclaimed  some  one  frae  the  crowd. 
But,  though  the  question  was  put,  no  an- 
swer was  permitted  to  the  questioned.  In 
the  next  instant  he  was  on  his  back  on  the 
street,  kicking  and  struggling  amongst  the 
feet  of  his  assailants,  who  applied  the  lat- 
ter to  all  parts  o'  his  person  wi'  a  rapidity 
and  vio;or  o'  execution  that  threatened, 
and  certainly  would  hae  extinguished  the 
wee  life  o'  him,  if  he  hadna  been  rescued 
a  trifle  on  this  o't  by  a  guard  o'  sodgers, 
whom  the  alarm  had  brought  to  the  spot. 

Battered,  bruised,  speechless,  and  his 
face  streaming  wi'  blood,  the  unfortunate 
bit  bagman  was  now  conveyed  to  the  guard- 
house, and  from  thence,  after  he  had  some- 
what recovered,  to  prison,  under  the  same 
suspicion  which  had  procured  him  such 
rough  treatment  from  the  mob.     So  that 


THE   FLOSHEND  INN. 


455 


to  appearance,  as  they  werena  very  nice 
in  thae  times,  he  was  saved  frae  a  violent 
death  only  to  be  subjected  tp  anither  ;  frae 
bein  kicked  into  the  other  world  to  be 
hanged  :  and  o'  this  opinion  the  wee  bag- 
man was  himsel  for  some  time,  for  the 
authorities  o'  Carlisle  war  at  that  time  ex- 
cessively loyal,  and  wadna  cared  muckle 
to  hae  hanged  him  on  chance.  As  it  was 
however,  he  was  kept  in  jail  for  a  week, 
when  his  innocence  having  been  so  clearly 
established  that  the  most  loyal  of  his  judges 
couldna  deny  it,  he  was  set  at  liberty — 
though  wi'  a  grudge  for  they  wad  still  fain 
hae  hanged  him — wi'  a  caution  never  to 
wear  a  blue  bonnet  in  Carlisle  again. 

"  The  wee  bagman,"  added  the  land- 
lord, "  has  never  come  this  way  since, 
and  I  fancy  now  never  will.  Come, 
freends,"  continued  he,  ^'  shute  in  your 
glasses — the  drink's  gettin  cauld  ;  and," 
he  said,  edging  the  mouth  of  the  bowl 
slopingly  towards  him,  so  as  to  afford  him 
a  view  of  its  contents,  "  there's  a  gay  drap 
in't  yet."  Then,  with  that  forethought 
which  was  a  very  remarkable  and  praise- 
worthy trait  in  his  character — "  Betty," 
he  cried  out  to  a  servant  girl,  ''  keep  the 
kettle  boilin." 

His  call  for  the  glasses  of  his  friends 
being  promptly  obeyed,  they  were  as 
promptly  refilled,  and  it  is  but  doing  jus- 
tice to  the  honest  men  assembled  on  this 
occasion  to  state,  were  as  speedily  emptied 
a2:ain.     This  done — 

"  iMr.  Gas,"  said  Walter  Gibson,  one 
of  the  most  extensive  traders  and  most 
respectable  men  in  the  company — "  Mr. 
Gas,"  he  said— for  they  all  addressed  him 
as  their  chairman — "  these  are  a'  queer 
aneuch  stories  in  their  way  that  hae  been 
teirt  the  nicht ;  but  I'm  no  sure  if  there's 
ony  o'  them  better  than  the  story  o'  Sandy 
M'Gill  and  his  niither."  The  landlord 
cocked  his  ears. 

"  And  what  story's  that,  Watty  ?"  he 
said.     "  I  never  heard  it." 

"  It's  no  the  waur  o'  that,  however," 
said  Watty  drily. 


*'  No  a  grain,''  replied  the  other,  with 
one  of  his  good-natured  laughs  ;  ^'  but  let 
us  judge  for  oursels." 

"I'll  do  that,"  quoth  Walter  ;  and  he 
immediately  began  : — "■  Twa  or  three  years 
ago,  as  ye  a'  ken.  Lord  Drumlanrig,  son 
o'  the  Duke  o'  Queensberry,  raised  a  regi- 
ment for  what  was  ca'ed  the  Holland  ser- 
vice. His  Lordship's  headquarters,  during 
the  recruitin  for  the  corps,  was  Dumfries, 
where  he  used  to  beat  up  on  the  market 
days.  Amongst  those  who  were  enlisted 
on  ane  o'  thae  occasions,  was  a  young  lad 
o'  the  name  o'  Sandy  M'Gill — a  joiner  to 
trade.  Sandy  was  a  handsome,  good- 
looking  young  man — very  smart  and  clever 
and  possessed  of  a  good  education  ;  that  is, 
he  wrote  and  figured  weel. 

On  the  regiment  being  completed,  it  was 
embodied  at  Dunse,  and  then  drilled  for 
some  time.  It  was  then  marched  to  Leith, 
Sandy  M'Gill  an'  a',  where  it  was  to  be 
embarked  for  Amsterdam.  Two  days  after 
the  regiment  had  left  Dunse,  Lord  Drum- 
lanrig, mounted  on  horseback,  and  attend- 
ed by  a  servant,  also  mounted,  set  out 
from  Dumfries  to  join  his  regiment  at 
Leith,  whence  he  meant  to  sail  with  it  for 
Holland.  On  approachin  the  Nether  Mill, 
his  Lordship  was  recognized,  while  yet  at 
some  distance,  by  an  auld  blacksmith  o' 
the  name  o'  William  Thamson. 

'  There,'  said  he,  to  a  bit  lively,  hardy- 
looking  auld  wifie — it  was  Widow  M'Gill 
— '  there's  Lord  Drumlanrig  comin  for- 
rit.' 

'  Is  that  him .?'  quoth  the  old  wifie  ; 
'  feth  an'  I  maun  speak  to  him  then  !  He's 
ta'en  awa  my  puir  Sandy  for  a  sodger.' 

And  she  ran  into  the  middle  o'  the  road, 
and,  ere  Lord  Drumlanrig  was  aware,  she 
had  his  horse  by  the  bridle,  exclaimin — 

'  Please  yer  Lordship,  ye  maun  stop 
and  speak  to  me  a  wee.  I  hae  something 
to  say  to  ye.' 

'  What  is  it,  my  good  woman  P  said  his 
Lordship,  smiling  good-naturedly  ;  '  but 
I'm  in  a  great  hurry,  and  you  must  not  de- 
tain me  a  moment.' 


45G 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


'  What  1  want  to  speak  to  yer  Lordship 
aboot,'  replied  Widow  JVrGill,  taking  nae 
notice  o'  his  Lordship's  impatience,  '  is 
this  :  ye  hae  taen  awa  my  puir  son,  Sandy, 
for  a  sodger,  an'  I'm  like  to  break  my 
heart  aboot  him.' 

'  There's  nae  guid  reason  for  that  in  the 
world,  my  honest  woman,'  said  his  Lord- 
ship ;  *  as  he'll  be  better  wi'  me  than 
lyin  at  hame  here,  scartia  the  porridge 
pots.' 

'  I'm  no  sure  o'  that,  my  Lord,  unless 
ye  look  weel  to  him  and  tak  him  under  yer 
special  care.  Ye'll  fin'  him  weel  wordy 
o't ;  for,  although  I  say  it  that  sudena  say 
it,  he's  a  clever,  weel-inclined  lad.' 

'  I've  nae  doot  o't,  honest  woman,  nae 
doot  o't,'  said  his  Lordship,  now  endeavor- 
ing to  move  on  ;  ^  and,  you  may  depend 
on't,  I'll  see  that  he  gets  every  justice.' 
And  he  made  another  attempt  to  get  on. 

^  Na,  na,  my  Lord,'  said  the  widow, 
perceiving  his  efforts  to  get  quit  of  her,  '  I 
wunna  let  ye  gang  that  way — I  hae  some- 
thing mair  to  say  to  ye  yet ;  but  as  I  see 
a'  the  neebors  glowrin  at  us,  ye'll  just  come 
doon  and  step  into  the  hoose  wi'  me  a 
minute,  and  I'll  tell  ye  there  a'  I  hae  to 
say.' 

'  Really,  really,  my  good  woman,'  said 
his  Lordship,  in  great  alarm  at  this  threat 
©'further  detention,  'it  is  impossible — I 
cannot  on  any  account — I  am  indeed  in  a 
great  hurry,  and  exceedingly  anxious  to 
get  forrit.' 

'  Deil-ma-care,  my  Lord  ! — the  deil  a  fit 
o'  ye'll  stir  till  ye  come  in  wi'  me  a  bit — 
on  that  I'm  determined.'  And  she  took  a 
still  firmer  baud  o'  the  bridle. 

'  Some  ither  time,  my  guid  woman,'  said 
his  Lordship  despairingly. 

'  Na,  na,  nae  time  like  the  present,  my 
Lord,'  replied  the  widow. 

Seein  now  that,  unless  he  had  recourse 
to  some  violence — which  it  was  neither  his 
nature  nor  desire  to  have — it  was  useless 
to  contend  wi'  the  resolute  auld  wife,  his 
Lordship  dismounted,  though,  ye  may  be- 
lieve, wi'  a  very  bad  grace,  gave  his  horse 


to  his  servant  to  baud,  and  went  in   wi 
Widow  M'Gill  to  her  little  cot.     On  en- 
terin  the  hoose,  his  Lordship  made  anither 
desperate  effort  to  prevail  on  the  widow  to 
shorten  his  detention. 

'  Now,  my  guid  woman,'  he  said,  '  let 
me  beg  o'  you  to  say  quickly  what  ye  hae 
to  say,  for  I  really  will  not  be  detained.' 

*  No  twa  minnits,  no  twa  minnits,  my 
Lord,'  said  the  widow,  dustin,  wi'  great 
activity,  wi'  her  apron,  a  chair  for  his 
Lordship  to  sit  doun  upon. 

'  No,  no  ;  I  really  will  not  sit  down,' 
said  his  Lordship  determinedly.  '  I'll  hear 
what  you  hae  to  say  standin.' 

'  But  ye  maun  sit,  my  Lord,'  replied 
the  widow,  wi'  equal  resolution.  '  A 
bonny  thing  it  wad  be,  you  to  come  into 
my  hoose,  an'  gang  oot  again  withoot  sit- 
tin  doun.  Na,  na,  that  maunna  be  said. 
Doun,  my  Lord,  ye  maun  sit.'  And, 
seein  that  he  would  only  increase  his  ain 
delay  by  resistance,  doun,  to  be  sure,  his 
Lordship  did  sit.  '  Noo,  my  Lord,'  says 
the  widow,  '  I'm  sure  the  deil  a  morsel  o' 
breakfast  ye  hae  gotten  the  day  yet — for 
it's  no  aboon  seven  o'clock  ;  sae  ye'll  just 
tak  a  mouthfu'  wi'  me.' 

At  this  horrid  proposal  his  Lordship 
sprang  frae  his  chair — for  he  was  noo 
fairly  driven  at  bay — and  made  for  the 
door  ;  but  the  widow  was  as  clever  in  the 
heels  as  he  was.  She  sprang  after  him, 
an',  before  he  could  gain  the  door,  had 
him  fast  by  the  tails  o'  the  coat,  exclaim- 
in,  as  she  pu'ed  him  back — 

'  Deil  a  fit  o'  ye,  my  Lord's  gaun  oot 
o'  this  hoose  till  ye  taste  my  bread  an' 
cheese.     I'se  baud  ye  fast,  I  warrant.' 

Regardless  o'  her  threats,  his  Lordship 
still  pressed  for  the  door  ;  but  the  stieve 
auld  wifie  held  on  wi'  a  determined  an' 
nae  feckless  grip,  an'  ho  couldna  mak  it 
oot,  withoot  efforts  that  might  do  her  an 
injury.  Seein  this,  an'  seein,  at  the  same 
time,  the  ludierousness  o'  the  struggle, 
his  Lordship  at  length  gied  in,  an'  return- 
ed to  his  seat.  In  a  twinklin  the  active 
auld  wifie  had  a  table  before  him,  covered 


THE  FLOSHEND   INN. 


457 


wi'  bread,  butter,  and  cbeese,  aud  a  large 
jug  o'  sweet  milk. 

'  Noo,  ii}y  Lord,  see  an'  taka  moutlifu'. 
It's  but  bamelj  fare  to  put  before  a  Lord  ; 
but  it's  gien  wi'  liearty  guid  will,  an'  that 
maun  mak  amends.' 

His  Lordsbijo  good-naturedly  took  a 
little  of  what  was  put  before  him.  While 
doiu  this,  the  auld  wifie  kept  up  a  runnin 
fire  o'  sma'  talk. 

'  Noo,  my  Lord,  ye'll  be  guid  to  my 
son.  He's  an  honest  man's  bairn,  but  his 
faither's  dead  an'  gane  mony  a  year  syne  ; 
an'  mony  a  lonely  seat  an'  sair  heart  has 
fa'en  to  my  share  sin  syne ;  but  I  aye 
looked  forward  to  findin  a  comforter  an' 
supporter  in  my  only  son,  in  my  auld  age  ; 
but  noo  he's  taen  frae  me  too,  an'  a'  is 
desolation  an'  darkness  around  me.' 

Here  the  puir  widow,  whose  maternal 
feelings,  thus  excited  by  the  picture  she 
had  drawn  o'  her  ain  loneliness,  had  sud- 
denly and  totally  changed  her  character, 
or  rather  had  brocht  oot  its  real  qualities, 
which  were,  after  a',  those  o'  a  kind  an' 
feelin  heart,  raised  the  corner  o'  her  apron 
to  her  eyes  an'  wiped  awa  an  involuntary 
tear.  His  Lordship,  notwithstandin  o' 
the  proYokin  predicament  in  which  he  was, 
feelin  much  affected  by  the  widow's 
lamentations,  thus  simply  expressed,  took 
oot  a  memorandum-book  frae  his  pocket, 
an'  havin  inquh^ed  her  son's  name,  and 
the  name  o'  the  place  o'  her  residence, 
wrote  them  doun.  He  next  asked  if  she 
knew  in  whose  company  he  was. 

^  Captain  Dooglas,'  replied  the  widow 
— ^  Captain  Dooglas  they  ca' him.'  Then 
becomin  querist  in  turn — '  Do  ye  ken 
what  sort  o'  a  man  he  is,  my  Lord  .-' 

*  Oh,  an  excellent  man,  my  guid  wo- 
man,' said  his  Lordship.  '  Your  son 
could  not  be  under  a  better  fellow.'  And 
his  Lordship  noted  doun  this  circumstance 
also,  wi'  the  name  o'  Sandy's  captain. 

Havin  dune  this,  he  replaced  his 
memorandum-book  in  his  pocket,  an'  rose 
frae  his  seat,  the  widow  noo  offerin  nae 
farther  resistance  ;  an'  havin  placed,  un- 


perceived  as  he  thought,  a  couple  o'  gui- 
neas on  the  table,  was  aboot  to  leave  the 
hoose,  after  shakin  his  hostess  kindly  by 
the  hand — for  his  Lordship  was  noo  rather 
tickled  with  the  adventure  a'thegither — 
an'  23romisin  to  see  to  the  interests  o'  her 
son,  when  the  widow,  gettin  her  ee  on  the 
coin,  snatched  it  up,  an'  was  forcin  it 
back  on  its  original  possessor,  exclaim- 
in — 

'  Na,  na,  my  Lord — I'll  tak  nae  siller 
for  kindness.  A'  that  I  want  is  that  ye 
wad  be  guid  to  my  puir  Sandy,  whan  he's 
far  awa  frae  his  hame  an'  his  freends. 
Be  kind  till  him,  my  Lord,  an'  tak  the 
widow's  blessin  in  return.'  An'  she  was 
pressin  the  money  back  on  his  Lordship, 
when  he  ran  frae  her,  got  oot  o'  the  hoose, 
an'  was  aboot  to  mount  his  horse,  when, 
to  his  unutterable  horror,  he  heard  the 
widow  exclaimin — '  Gude  guide  me  !  I 
hae  a'  this  time  forgotten  your  servant, 
my  Lord — an'  he'll  be  hungry  aueuch, 
too,  puir  fellow!  I  hae  nae  doot.'  An' 
she  ran  an'  seized  his  horse  next  by  the 
bridle.  '  Come  doun,  lad,  an'  come  in 
by  a  bit,  an'  tak  a  mouthfu'.  His  Lord- 
ship, I'm  sure,  '11  wait  twa  or  three  min- 
nits  on  ye  without  grudgin't ;  for  the  puir 
maun  be  fed  as  weel  as  the  rich,  the  man 
as  weel  as  his  maister.' 

'  No,  no,  no.  For  God's  sake,  my 
guid  woman,  let  us  be  gone,'  exclaimed 
his  Lordship,  in  an  implorin  voice,  and 
noo  beginning  to  think  he  wad  never  get 
oot  o'  the  auld  wife's  hands. 

'  Na,  troth,  my  Lord,  I'll  no  let  him 
go.  The  lad  maun  hae  a  mouthfu'  o' 
meat.' 

'  Then,  in  heaven's  name,'  said  his 
Lordship,  ^  if  ye  will  hae  him  tak  some- 
thino-,  brino-'t  oot  till  him  here,  and  dinna 
tak  him  aff  his  horse. ' 

Complyin  wi'  this  request,  the  very  first 
she  had  complied  wi',  the  auld  wifie  ran 
in  to  the  house — his  Lordship,  while  she 
was  there,  tellin  his  servant  to  put  at  ance 
into  his  pocket  whatever  she  brought — • 
and  brought  oot  a  quantity  o'  bread  and 


458 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS, 


cbeese,  which  the  man  disposed  of  as  his 
master  had  desired  him. 

The  coast  being  now  clear,  Lis  Lord- 
ship, after  again  shakin  hands  wi'  the  auld 
wife,  and  promisin  to  keep  an  ee  on  her 
son,  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  darted  aff 
at  full  speed,  as  delighted  wi'  his  liberty 
as  if  he  had  escaped  frao  a  highwayman  ; 
but,  fast  as  he  gaed,  it  was  some  seconds 
before  he  got  oot  o'hearin  o'  the  auld  wife's 
voice,  bawlin  after  him — '  Noo,  my  Lord, 
dinna  forget  Sandy,  dinna  forget  Sandy 
M'Gill.'' 

On  gaining  some  distance,  both  master 
and  man  drew  bridle  and  laughed  heartily 
at  the  adventure  wi'  the  auld  wife  o'  the 
Nether  Mill. 

Aweel,  shortly  after,  his  Lordship  em- 
barked for  Holland  with  a  part  of  his 
regiment — the  remainder,  amongst  which 
was  Sandy  M'Gill,  proceeding  in  another 
vessel — and  arrived  there,  as  did  the 
whole  corps,  in  due  time,  and  without  any 
accident. 

Some  days  after  the  landin.  Lord 
Drumlanrig,  at  parade  one  forenoon,  after 
speakin  and  laughin  for  a  few  minutes  wi' 
Captain  Douglas  in  front  o'  the  line,  went 
up  to  a  certain  guid-lookin  young  sodger 
in  that  officer's  company,  and,  callin  him 
out  frae  his  comrades,  asked  him  his 
name. 

'  Sandy  M'Gill,  my  Lord,'  replied  the 
vouno"  man,  touchin  his  hat,  and  some- 
what  surprised  at  beiu  singled  out  in  this 
way. 

'  Exactly,'  said  his  Lordship.  *  Well, 
Sandy,  I  breakfasted  in  your  mother's 
house  on  my  way  frae  Dumfries  to  Edin- 
burgh, just  before  I  left  Scotland  ;  and  a 
kind,  hearty  old  woman  she  is,  I  assure 
you.' 

'  I  wonder,  my  Lord,'  said  Sandy,  blush- 
ing, '  that  my  mother  could  hae  had  the 
impudence  to  tak  your  Lordship  into  her 
puir  sooty  house.' 

*  It  was  no  impudence  at  all,  Sandy — 
nae  such  thing.  It  was  oot  o'  kindness  to 
me  and  affection  for  you.     The  breakfast, 


however,  was  an  excellent  one,  and  gien 
wi'  a  hearty  welcome  and  richt  guid  wull. 
But  t  promised  ycr  mother,  vSandy,'  con- 
tinued his  Lordship,  '  to  look  after  ye, 
and  I  mean  to  do  sae.  Can  you  write 
any  .'' 

Sandy  said  he  could. 

^  Can  you  figure  .^' 

Another  reply  in  the  affirmative. 

'  Can  ye  show  me  your  handwriting  .'* 
Have  ye  any  specimens  upon  you  .^' 

Sandy  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  some 
scraps  o'  paper  that  exhibited  his  fist. 
His  Lordship  looked  at  them,  and  said 
the  writing  was  very  guid — that  it  wad  do 
very  weel.  '  Now,  then,  Sandy,'  he  add- 
ed, 'I'll  tell  ye  what  I  mean  to  do  for 
you,  to  begin  wi'  ;  there's  anither  sergeant 
wanted  for  your  company,  and  I  hae  de- 
sired Captain  Douglas  to  appoint  you. 
You  will  get  a  suit  o'  claes  frae  the  store, 
and  there's  five  guineas  to  you  to  purchase 
necessaries,  and  I  hae  nae  doot  ye'll  turn 
oot  a  guid  and  brave  sodger.' 

Sandy  endeavored  to  express  his  grati- 
tude for  the  sudden  and  unexpected  for- 
tune ;  but  he  couldna.  Nor,  though  he 
had  been  able,  did  his  Lordship  gie  him 
an  opportunity  ;  for,  anticipating  the  lad's 
embarrassment,  he  walked  awa  the  mo- 
ment he  had  dune  speakin. 

Next  day,  Sandy  appeared  in  the  uni- 
form o'  a  non-commissioned  officer  ;  and, 
being  now  on  the  road  to  promotion,  re- 
turned, at  the  conclusion  o'  the  war,  to 
his  native  place,  a  captain  ;  attributin  a' 
his  guid  fortune  to  the  breakfast  which  his 
mother  gae  to  Lord  Drumlanrig  at  the 
Nether  Mill." 

"  Aweel,  it  is  really  curious  hoo  things 
turn  oot  sometimes,"  said  lang  Jamie 
Turner,  on  the  conclusion  o'  the  foregoing 
story — very  curious.  Did  ye  ever  hear, 
Mr.  Gas,"  continued  Jamie,  now  address- 
ing his  landlord,  "  hoo  Jock  Tinwald,  a 
son  o'  Andrew  Tinwald's  o'  Shaw  Hill, 
recovered  forty  guineas  he  once  lost  at  the 
Candlemas  Fair  o'  Dumfries  ?" 

"  No,"  said    Mr.    Gas,    looking  with 


THE  FLOSHEND  INN. 


459 


interest  at  the  speaker.     "  I  never  heard 
that  ane." 

"  It  was  a  gay  clever  ane,"  said  Jamie 
Turner,  and,  without  further  preface,  he 
proceeded  to  relate  the  following  adven- 
ture : — 

"  On  a  certain  Candlemas  Fair,  some 
twa  or  three  years  back,  auld  Tinwald  o' 
Shaw  Hill,  sent  his  son,  Jock,  to  Dumfries, 
wi'  forty  guineas  in  a  net  purse  in  his 
pocket,  to  purchase  a  couple  of  good 
draught  horses.  Jock  wasna  lang  in  the 
fair  until  he  fell  in  wi'  twa  horses  that  ap- 
peared to  be  o'  precisely  the  description 
he  wanted.  He  inquired  their  price,  j 
found  it  wasna  far  beyond  the  mark,  and, 
finally,  after  some  chaffering,  struck  a 
bargain  with  the  seller.  This  done,  the  ; 
young  farmer  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  , 
to  bring  out  the  net  purse  with  the  forty 
guineas.  He  started  and  looked  pale. 
It  was  not  in  the  pocket  in  which  he 
thought — nay,  in  which  he  was  certain  he 
had  put  it.  He  searched  another,  and 
another,  and  another,  with  distraction  in 
his  looks.  It  was  in  none  of  them — it  was 
lost,  gone  I  He  had  been  robbed.  Of 
this  there  was  no  doubt.  Poor  Jock  was 
in  despair,  but  it  was  an  evil  without  a 
remedy ;  for  he  had  not  the  smallest 
notion  when,  where,  or  by  whom  he  had 
been  plundered.  There  was,  therefore, 
no  help  for  it  ;  and,  feeling  this,  Jock 
repaired  to  a  public  house,  drowned  the 
recollection  of  his  loss  in  brandy,  and 
went  home  at  night  penniless,  horseless, 
and  drunk. 

Six  months  after  this,  the  Rude  Fair 
of  Dumfries  came  round  ;  an',  in  the 
thick  an'  the  thrang  o'  this  fair,  micht  hae 
been  seen  the  braid  shouthers  an'  the 
round,  healthfu',  guidnatured  face  o'  Jock 
Tinwald.  But  surely  he'll  tak  care  this 
time  how  he  mingles  wi'  the  crood,  or  at 
least  keep  a  sharp  ee  on  his  necbors. 
Not  he.  There  he  is,  pushin  an'  jostlin 
awa  in  the  heart  o'  the  very  densest  mass, 
wi'  an  apparent  regardlessness  o'  conse- 
quences which  is  most  amazing,  considerin 


the  loss  he  sustained  on  a  former  occasion. 
Nay,  not  only  is  he  doin  this,  but  he  is 
ostentatiously  displayin  a  purse  apparent- 
ly as  well  filled  as  the  last  one.  This 
does,  indeed,  seem  the  extreme  of  folly. 
But  it  only  seems  so.  It  is  not  without  a 
reason.  Jock  is  not  so  unguarded  as  he 
appears.  The  truth  is,  he  is  just  now 
practising  a  ruse  which  he  is  not  without 
hope  may  help  him  to  the  recovery  o'  his 
forty  guineas. 

The  purse  which  Jock  is  so  openly 
sporting  is  filled  not  with  gold,  but  with 
copper.  It  contains,  in  short,  instead  of 
guineas,  a  quantity  of  farthings,  and  is 
thus  ostentatiously  displayed  in  the  hope 
of  attracting  the  notice  of  the  light-finger- 
ed gentleman  who  had  relieved  him  on 
the  former  occasion — and  with  what 
promise  of  success  may  be  guessed  frae 
the  following  incident. 

On  Tinwald's  first  entering  the  scene  o' 
the  fair,  he  was  marked  by  two  persons  of 
very  equivocal  appearance  who  were  ho- 
vering about, 

'  That,'  said  ane  o'  them,  nudging  his 
neebor  wi'  his  elbow,  and  inclinin  his 
head  towards  Tinwald — '  that's  the  flat  I 
did  at  the  last  Candlemas*  Fair.  The 
easiest  handled  guse  I  ever  cam  across.' 

'  What  wad  ye  think  o'  our  tryin  him 
again  P  said  the  speaker's  neebor. 

'  Wi'  a'  my  heart,'  replied  the  other. 
'  He's  but  a  saft  ane  ;  but  I  fear  he'll  no 
hae  ony thing  on  him  this  time.' 

At  this  instant  the  fears  of  the  pair  of 
pickpockets  on  this  score  were  relieved 
by  a  sight  of  Jock's  purse.  It  caught 
their  eyes  in  a  moment,  and  they  viewed 
it  with  a  delight  which  gentlemen  of  their 
profession  alone  can  know.  They  felt  as 
sure  of  it  as  if  it  were  already  in  their 
pockets.  Dropping  all  other  speculation, 
therefore,  they  now  commenced  dogging 
Jock,  who  was  fishing  away  with  his  purse 
through  the  crowd,  like  an  angler  with  his 
fly,  for  the  thief  of  his  guineas  or  some  of 
his  gang,  whom  he  had  a  pretty  shrewd 
notion  would  not  be  far  ofi".     Jock,  how- 


4G0 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


ever,  took  care  to  keep  the  exhibition  of 
his  purse  within  bounds.  He  took  care 
not  to  make  an  over  frequent  or  suspicious 
display  of  it,  only  occasionally,  and  then 
returning  it  to  a  certain  side  pocket  of 
easy  access.  There  was  nothing,  there- 
fore, which  Tinwald  was  at  this  moment 
so  anxious  for  as  to  feel  a  hand  in  the 
said  pocket ;  and  this  was  a  gratification 
which  he  was  not  long  denied.  A  hand 
was  introduced,  he  felt  it,  and,  turning 
quickly  round,  he  seized  the  person  to 
whom  it  belonged. 

'  I  ken  ye,  freen,'  said  Jock  to  his 
prisoner,  in  a  low  whisper — '  I  ken  ye 
perfectly  weel.  It  was  you  that  robbed 
me  o'  forty  guineas  in  a  green  net  purse 
at  the  last  Candlemas  Fair.'  (All  this 
was  said  by  Jock  at  a  venture,  but  by 
chance  was  true.)  '  Now,  I  say,  let  me 
hae  the  money  back  quietly  and  I'll  tak 
nae  mair  notice  o'  the  matter  ;  but,  an' 
ye  dinna,  I'll  immediately  gie  the  alarm 
an'  hae  ye  apprehended.  Sae  tak  yer 
choice,  freen.  But,  mind,  there's  a  rope 
round  your  neck  :  it's  hanging  at  the  very 
least.' 

'  Let  me  go,  then,  and  follow  me,' 
replied  the  depredator,  briefly,  and  in  the 
same  low  tone  that  he  had  been  addressed. 

Jock  loosed  his  grasp,  and  keeping 
close  behind  his   man,  who    immediately 


began  threadin  his  way  oot  o'  the  crood, 
followed  him  till  they  had  cleared  it ; 
when,  dreadin  a  sudden  bolt,  he  cam  up 
close  beside  him  ;  an'  thus  the  two  held 
on  their  way,  till  they  cam  to  a  retired 
part  o'  the  market  place,  when  the  thief 
suddenly  stopped,  an',  plungin  his  hand 
into  his  bosom,  drew  oot  a  leathern  bag, 
from  which  he  counted  into  the  aston- 
ished young  farmer's  hand  forty  golden 
guineas. 

Jock,  confounded  at  his  own  success, 
could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  when  he 
looked  at  the  precious  deposit  in  his  hand  ; 
and,  in  the  fulness  o'  his  joy,  insisted  on 
gien  the  thief  half-a-mutchkin  o'  brandy 
on  the  head  o't.  This,  however,  the 
latter  declined,  and,  in  an  instant  after, 
disappeared  in  the  crowd  ;  an'  Jock  never 
saw  mair  o'  him.  An'  sae  ends  my  storj'", 
freens,"  added  lang  Jamie  Turner. 

''  An',  by  my  feth,  a  richt  guid  ane — 
a  real  clever  ane,"  said  the  landlord,  as  he 
filled  glasses  round,  and,  rising  on  his 
little,  short  legs,  drank  to  each  and  all  of 
the  company  "  a  soun  sleep  an'  a  blyth 
waukenin."  In  two  or  three  minutes 
more,  the  kitchen  of  the  Floshend  Inn  was 
cleared  of  its  tenants,  and,  for  that  night 
at  any  rate,  no  more  was  heard  in  it  the 
sounds  of  revelry,  nor  the  accompanying 
glee  of  the  gibe,  or  jest,  or  merry  tale. 


-^<o>^ 


THE    WIDOW    AND     HER     SON. 


To  us  there  are  few  things  that  appear 
more  melancholy  or  more  afibcting  than 
the  ruins  of  a  deserted  dwelling-house, 
which  the  hand  of  time  has  unroofed  and 
laid  prostrate.  There  is,  we  think,  some- 
thing impressive,  sadly  impressive,  in  its 
cold,  desolate  apartments,  now  exposed  to 
the  rain  and  the  winds  of  heaven,  its  eye- 


less windows,  and  dilapidated  doorway — 
nay,  there  is  an  interest  excited  even  by 
the  traces  of  the  fiistenings  of  the  cupboard 
on  the  wall,  and  of  the  fire  in  the  chill, 
gaping,  and  ruinous  chimney.  All,  all 
speak  forcibly  of  decay,  and  tell  of  the 
transitorincss  of  the  things  of  this  ephe- 
meral world. 


THE   WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 


461 


In  contemplating  such  scenes  as  this — 
and  hence,  perhaps,  the  feelings  we  have 
alluded  to — the  imagination  sets  to  work, 
and  paints  the  happy  groups  that  once 
assembled  around  the  then  cheerful,  but 
now  cold  and  desolate  hearth,  or  recalls 
the  joyous  laugh  of  the  deserted  mansion's 
young  inmates,  with  all  the  hilarious  din 
and  bustle  of  a  numerous  and  happy  fami- 
ly ;  or,  mayhap,  it  may  dwell  on  the  hopes 
and  fears  of  their  elders,  now  both  termi- 
nated for  ever.  And  the  reverie  is  wound 
up  by  the  sad  inquiry — "  Where  are  they 
all  now  V  And  the  query  is  answered  by 
a  gust  of  wind  rushing,  with  melancholy 
sound,  through  the  deserted  apartments, 
and  waving,  in  its  progress,  the  long  grass 
and  nettles  with  which  they  are  over- 
grown. 

Nor  are  we  sure  that  these  feelings  and 
associations  are  confined  to  the  ruins  of 
houses  of  note  alone,  to  the  deserted  man- 
sions of  the  great  or  the  wealthy.  In  our 
own  case,  at  any  rate,  we  are  certain  they 
are  not  ;  for  we  have  felt  them  all,  and 
with  equal  force,  when  contemplating  the 
ruins  of  a  cottage  ;  and  on  no  occasion 
were  we  more  under  their  influence,  than 
when  viewing  the  remains  of  such  an 
humble  domicile  as  that  we  have  alluded 
to,  in  the  course  of  an  excursion,  last 
summer,  through  the  wilds  of  Nithsdale. 
But,  then,  we  must  confess,  there  was  a 
story,  an  affecting  one,  connected  with  the 
lonely  dwelling,  which  might,  nay,  which 
must  have  added  to  the  interest  with  which 
we  contemplated  its  ruins.  .jThese  ruins, 
consisting  of  one  gable^  1an(iF^  small  por- 
tion of  the  side  walls,  together  with  the 
remains  of  a  low,  loose  stone  dyke,  that 
once  formed  the  boundary  of  the  little 
garden,  or  kail-yard,  which  was  attached 
to  the  house,  are  situated  in  a  remote  and 
sequestered  spot  in  the  district  above 
named. 

At  the  period  of  the  story  we  are  now 
about  to  relate  to  our  readers,  the  little 
cottage  of  which  we  have  spoken,  was 
inhabited  by  a  widow  woman  of  the  name 


of  Riddel,   and  an   only  child,   a  son,  of 
about  thirteen  years  of  age. 

Mrs.  Riddel's  husband,  who  was  now 
dead  several  years,  was  a  poor  but  most 
industrious  and  pious  man,  who  wrought 
at  such  country  work  as  the  neighborhood 
afforded.  His  gains  were,  it  will  readily 
be  believed,  but  moderate  ;  vet  a  fru^-al, 
abstemious,  and  exceedingly  temperate 
life,  enabled  him  to  purchase  the  cottage 
he  inhabited,  with  the  garden  attached  to 
it ;  and,  in  time,  to  aJ!d  to  these  posses- 
sions a  cow.  But,  beyond  this,  the  poor 
but  worthy  man  was  not  permitted  to  in- 
crease his  store.  Death  cut  short  his  days, 
and  left  the  widow  and  her  son  to  reap  the 
benefit  of  his  prudence  and  industry  ;  and 
no  small  matter  was  this  found,  when 
there  was  none  other  to  assist  them.  The 
cow,  the  cottage,  and  the  garden,  were  to 
them  great  riches.  And  thankful  to  her 
God  was  the  widow,  for  the  mercies  He 
had  bestowed  on  her ;  not  the  least  of 
which  was  the  happiness  she  found  in  her 
boy,  who  was,  to  her,  ail  that  she  could 
wish.  James  was,  indeed,  such  a  son  as 
a  mother  might  well  be  proud  of.  He 
was  mild,  dutiful,  yet  bold  and  active,  and 
gave  promise  of  being  more  than  usu- 
ally handsome.  He  loved  his  mother 
with  the  most  sincere  and  devoted  affec- 
tion, and  though  only  in  his  thirteenth 
year,  earned  nearly  the  wages  of  a  full- 
grown  man  ;  and,  if  any  one  had  seen  the 
delight  and  exultation  expressed  in  his 
eye,  as  he  poured  his  weekly  wages  into 
his  mother's  lap,  they  would  have  felt  as- 
sured that  these  were  the  happiest  mo- 
ments of  his  life. 

Thus,  what  with  the  little  property  she 
possessed,  and  the  earnings  of  her  son. 
Widow  Riddel's  lonely  cottage  presented 
as  pleasing  a  picture  of  comfort,  in  an 
humble  way,  as  might  anywhere  be  seen  ; 
nor  could  two  happier  beings  be  found 
within  the  county — we  might  extend  it  to 
the  kingdom — than  the  worthy  widow  and 
her  son.  But  inscrutable  are  the  ways  of 
Providence — dark    and    inscrutable,    in- 


462 


TALES   OP  THE  BORDERS, 


deed,  since  they  permitted  all  tliis  humble 
happiness  to  be  blighted  in  an  instant,  and 
ruin  and  desolation  to  overtake  its  unof- 
fending possessors. 

It  was  on  a  fine  summer  afternoon,  in 
the  year  1746,  about  two  months  after  the 
battle  of  Culloden,  that  Widow  Riddol,  as 
she  sat  knitting  stockings  on  the  little 
rustic  seat  in  the  garden,  which  her  son 
had  made  for  her  accommodation,  and 
while  the  former  was  busily  employed  be- 
side her  in  putting  some  seeds  into  the 
ground,  happening  to  look  down  into  the 
little  strath  or  valley  that  lay  almost  im- 
mediately before  the  cottage,  saw  what 
was  to  her  a  very  unusual  and  alarming 
sight.  This  was  a  party  of  dragoons. 
She  had  heard  much  of  the  cruelties  and 
atrocities  that  had  been  perpetrated  by 
the  government  troops,  on  the  persons  and 
properties  of  the  insurgents,  w^hose  hopes 
had  been  laid  prostrate  at  Culloden  ;  and 
she  was  not  ignorant  of  the  military  des- 
potism which  generally  prevailed  over  the 
kingdom  in  consequence  of  that  victory. 
But  she  had  yet  to  learn,  and  the  lesson 
was  now  to  be  taught  her  by  fearful  ex- 
perience, how  indiscriminating  was  the 
veno-eance  of  the  ruthless  and  sano;uinary 
ruffians,  to  whom  the  power  of  inflicting 
chastisement  had  been  intrusted. 

On  observing  the  soldiers,  Widow  Rid- 
del immediately  called  her  son's  attention 
to  them,  and  wondered  where  they  could 
be  going  to.  This  was  soon  made  plain 
cnouo-h.  In  a  moment  after  she  herself 
exclaimed — 

"  Mercy  on  us,  Jamie  !  they're  comin 
here.  What  in  a'  the  earth  can  they  be 
wantin .'" 

Next  minute,  the  dragoons  were  in  front 
of  the  cottao-e  ;  when  one  of  them  dis- 
mounted,  and  advancing  towards  the  wi- 
dow, inquired  if  there  were  any  rebels 
skulking  thereabouts. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,  no,"  replied  the  terrified 
woman.;  "  there's  naebody  o'  that  kind  in 
this  quarter,  I  assure  you." 

"  Well,  well,  so  much  the  better,  good 


woman,  for  both  you  and  them  ;  but,  I  say, 
we're  starving  of  hunger,  old  girl ;  can  ye 
let's  have  something  to  eat .?" 

"  Blithely,  sir,  blithely,"  rejoined  poor 
Mrs.  Riddel,  delighted  to  find  matters 
taking  so  amicable  a  turn.  '*  I  haena 
muckle,  sirs,  but  ye 're  welcome  to  what  I 
hae."  And  she  bustled  into  the  cottage, 
and,  with  the  assistance  of  her  son,  brought 
out  a  quantity  of  oaten  cakes,  cheese,  and 
sweet  milk,  on  which  the  soldiers  made  a 
hearty  meal. 

Now,  after  this  kindness  of  the  widow's, 
or  even  without  it,  into  whose  head  or 
heart,  but  that  of  an  incarnate  fiend,  or 
monster  in  human  shape,  could  it  have 
entered  to  do  her  a  mischief  i  Yet  such 
a  wretch  was  amongst  the  troopers  who 
now  surrounded  her  humble  dwelling,  and 
had  partaken  of  her  hospitality.  Just 
before  the  party  started,  the  ruffian  who 
first  addressed  Mrs.  Riddel,  asked  her, 
with  an  afi"ected  aii*  of  kindness,  how  she 
lived, 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  the  unsuspecting 
widow,  "  the  bit  cow  there,"  pointing  to 
the  animal  which  was  grazing  at  a  little 
distance,  "  an'  the  bit  garden,  wi'  what 
the  laddie  can  earn,  is  a'  that  I  hae  to 
depend  upon  ;  but,  wi'  God's  blessing,  it's 
eneuch,  an'  we  are  sincerely  thankfu'." 

To  this  affecting  detail  of  her  humble 
resources,  the  villain  made  no  reply  ;  but 
drew  a  pistol  from  his  holster,  and,  riding 
up  to  the  poor  woman's  cow,  discharged  it 
through  her  head,  when  the  animal  in- 
stantly fell  down  dead.  Not  satisfied  with 
this  heartless  atrocity,  the  ruffian  leaped 
the  little  garden  wall,  with  his  horse,  and 
deliberately  trode  down  every  growing 
thing  it  contained  ;  and  those  that  the  feet 
of  his  charger  could  not  reach,  he  de- 
stroyed with  his  sabro. 

Having  completed  this  unnaraeable  vil- 
lany,  the  monster  rejoined  his  comrades, 
laua-hins:  and  shoutins;  out  as  he  went,  in 
exultation  at  the  deed. 

"  There,  you  old  devil,"  he  exclaimed 
— "  that  will  put  it  out  of  your  power  to 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 


463 


harbor  any  rascally  rebels,  or,  if  you  do, 
they  and  you  must  starve." 

In  an  instant  afterwards,  the  party  rode 
off,  laughing  heartily  at  the  mischief  done 
by  their  comrade,  of  which  they  all  seemed 
to  approve. 

It  would  be  a  vain  task  to  attempt  to 
depict  the  distress  and  misery  of  the  be- 
reaved widow,  when  she  found  herself  thus 
suddenly  deprived  of  her  all.  This  scene 
is  better  left  to  the  imagination  of  the 
reader.  Wringing  her  hands  in  bitter 
agony,  she  rushed  into  the  house,  and 
flung  herself  on  her  bed,  where  she  gave 
way  to  the  sorrow  that  overwhelmed  her. 
From  that  bed  she  never  again  arose.  A 
violent  illness,  the  consequence  of  dread- 
fully excited  and  agitated  feelings,  seized 
her,  and  in  a  few  days,  terminated  her 
existence. 

During  her  illness,  her  poor  boy  never 
left  her  bedside.  There  he  remained  night 
and  day,  endeavoring  to  cheer  the  spirits 
of  his  dying  parent,  and  to  make  her  look 
lightly  on  the  misfortunes  that  had  befallen 
them. 

"  Dinna,  mother — dinna  tak  it  sae  much 
to  heart.  •  Never  mind  it,  mother,"  he 
would  say;  ''  I  am  strong,  and  able  to 
work  for  you,  and  you  shall  never  want 
sae  lang  as  I  can  earn  a  penny  ;  and  I'll 
put  the  garden  into  as  guid  order  as  ever 
it  was.  It's  no  near  sae  much  harmed  as 
ye  think,  mother ;  and  what's  to  hinder 
me  to  buy  ye  a  cow  by  and  by,  as  weel  as 
my  father  did.  I'll  sune  hae  as  much 
wages  as  he  had,  and  I'm  sure  I'll  guide  it 
as  weel,  for  your  sake."  And,  on  one 
occasion,  the  poor  boy,  thinking  to  in- 
crease the  effects  of  the  consolation  he 
was  administering,  added — "  And  wha 
kens,  mother,  but  I  may  yet  meet  the 
villain  somewhere,  and  be  revenged  o' 
him  for  what  he  has  dune  to  us  !" 

At  these  words,  the  dying  woman,  on 
whose  ear  all  the  rest  seemed  to  have 
fallen  unheard,  suddenly  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow,  and,  looking  her  son  affection- 
ately but  earnestly  in  the  face,  said — 


"  My  son,  speak  not  of  revenge  !  It  is 
unbecoming  a  Christian;  and  I'm  sure 
such  a  spirit  was  never  encouraged  in  you 
either  by  yer  worthy  faither  or  by  me. 
Leave  vengeance  in  the  hands  of  God, 
Jamie.  He  will  deal  with  the  destroyer  in 
His  ain  way  and  in  His  ain  guid  time. 
Perhaps,  my  sou,  the  misguided  man  even 
now  repents  o'  what  he  has  dune  ;  and  if 
he  does,  you  surely  would  not  seek  to  in- 
crease his  punishment,  which  maun  be,  in 
such  a  case,  a  full  atonement  for  a'  that 
he  has  dune  ;  for  what  pain,  Jamie,  can 
equal  that  of  an  awakened  conscience  .^" 

The  boy  was  silenced  hj  this  reproof; 
but  we  can  hardly  say  cleansed  of  the 
spirit  of  revenge  which  had  been  kindled 
in  his  youthful  bosom  against  the  author 
of  their  ruin. 

On  the  following  day  the  widow  expired  ; 
and,  on  the  4th  thereafter,  her  son  fol- 
lowed her  remains  to  the  grave.  But  he 
returned  not  again.  At  the  conclusion  of 
the  ceremony  he  suddenly  disappeared, 
and  no  one  knew  whither  he  had  gone. 
Days,  weeks,  months,  and  3'ears,  passed 
away ;  but  no  intelligence  ever  reached 
the  neighborhood  of  what  destiny  had  be- 
fallen the  orphan  boy. 

Thirteen  years  after  this,  the  famous 
battle  of  Minden  was  fought  by  Prince 
Ferdinand  against  the  French.  True  ; 
but  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  story  of 
the  widow  and  her  son  ? 

Patience,  good  reader,  and  you  shall 
hear.  Associated  with  the  army  of  Prince 
Ferdinand,  there  was  a  large  body  of 
British  horse  under  Lord  George  Sack- 
ville  ;  and  these  shared  in  the  dangers  and 
glory  of  the  victory.  On  the  evening  of 
the  day  on  which  the  battle  was  fought,  a 
party  of  these  dragoons  were  assembled  in 
a  tavern,  where  they  were  boasting  loudly, 
in  their  cups,  of  the  feats  they  had  per- 
formed, when  one  of  them,  striking  the 
table  fiercely  with  his  clenched  fist,  swore, 
that,  when  he  was  in  Scotland,  he  had 
done  a  more  meritorious  thing  than  any  of 
them. 


4G4 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  What  was  that,  Tom — what  was 
that?"  shouted  out  his  companions  at 
once. 

"  Why,  starving  an  old  witch  in  Niths- 
dalo,  to  be  sure,"  replied  the  fellow. 
"  We  first,  you  see — for  there  was  a  party 
of  us— ate  up  all  she  had,  and  then  I  paid 
the  reckoning  by  shooting  her  cow,  and 
riding  down  her  greens." 

'^  And  don't  you  repent  it  .^"  exclaimed 
a  young  soldier,  suddenly  rising  from  his 
seat  at  the  upper  end  of  the  apartment, 
and  approaching  the  speaker,  as  he  put 
the  question.     "  Don't  you  repent  it .?" 

"  Repent  what .?"  said  the  ruffian, 
fiercely.  "  Repent  such  a  matter  as  that ! 
No,  I  glory  in  it." 

"  Then,  villain !"  said  the  youth,  un- 


sheathing his  sword — "  know  that  that 
woman  was  my  mother  ;  and  since  you  do 
not  repent  the  deed,  you  shall  die  for  it. 
Draw  and  defend  yourself." 

The  dragoon  sprang  to  his  feet — a  com- 
bat ensued  ;  and,  after  two  or  three  passes, 
the  latter  was  stretched  lifeless  on  the 
floor. 

"  Had  you  repented,"  said  the  youth, 
looking  towards  the  corpse  as  he  sheathed 
his  sword,  "  I  would  have  left  you  in  the 
hands  of  your  God ;  but  since  you  did 
not,  I  have  made  myself  the  instrument  of 
His  Yen2;eance." 

Youniz;  Riddel  afterwards  rose  to  the 
rank  of  Captain  in  the  British  service,  and 
greatly  distinguished  himself  in  the  Ger- 
man wars. 


THE    SCHEMER; 


OR,    THE    CHEVIOT    LAIRD    OUTWITTED. 


The  triumphs  of  pure  cunning,  exercised  j 
for  the  gratification  of  purposes  of  selfish- 
ness, are  greatly  fewer  and  less  important 
than  is  generally  imagined.  It  has  even 
attained  the  form  of  a  proverb,  that  a  cun- 
ning man  is  never  more  deceived  than 
when  he  attempts  to  deceive  others.  The 
truth  seems  to  be,  that  nature,  which  sup- 
plies antidotes  to  her  evils,  has  put  almost 
every  one  of  her  sons  on  guard  against  the 
secret  selfishness  of  his  neighbors.  What 
displeases  a  person  most  at  the  sneaking 
designs  of  the  man  of  cunning,  is  not  the 
loss  which  is  attempted  to  be  caused  to 
him  by  an  unjust  appropriation,  or  some 
wicked  circumvention,  but  the  thought 
that  he  is  considered  by  the  schemer  to  be 
less  able  than  himself.  This  is  the  true 
antidote,  resolving  indeed  into  self-love, 
which   has   been    so   generally    provided 


ajrainst  this  most  abominable  of  all  traits 
in  the  character  of  a  man.  Every  one  is 
on  his  guard  against  an  attempt  to  de- 
preciate his  understanding  ;  and  the  quick- 
sightedness  thus  produced,  enabling  him 
to  discover  the  character  of  those  who 
wish  to  circumvent  him,  exposes,  in  the 
long  run,  the  man  of  wiles,  and  defeats 
his  purposes. 

In  consequence  of  this  liability  to  dis- 
cover}^, and  of  the  intense  disgust  which 
such  discovery  uniformly  produces,  the 
man  of  wiles  would  require  to  be  a  man 
of  courage ;  though,  generally  speaking, 
it  may  be  safely  assumed  that  he  is  always 
a  coward.  Continually  exciting  disgust, 
he  could  not  indeed  live,  where  he  cour- 
ageous ;  for  the  insults  he  is  continually 
receiving,  would  render  it  necessary  for 
him  to  go  about  with  a  pistol  in  his  hand. 


THE  SCHEMER. 


465 


His  preservation,  therefore,  lies  in  his 
cowardice,  which,  joined  to  his  character 
of  being  cunning,  j^laces  him  below  the 
contempt  of  mankind.  He  is  allowed  to 
crawl  about  like  a  reptile  ;  and  it  is  only 
when  he  becomes  troublesome,  that  he  is 
shaken  off.  To  kill  him,  would  generally 
be  too  much  trouble  :  yet,  such  is  the 
offensiveness  of  the  creature,  that  the 
foot  is  often  placed  upon  him  before  one 
is  aware  that  he  is  brinsjino;  himself  within 

CD        O 

the  arm  of  authority,  for  no  other  reason 
than  the  gratification  of  a  little  spleen. 

We  make  these  remarks,  because  we 
wish  that  the  moral  of  a  story  we  intend 
to  lay  before  our  readers,  should  be  under- 
stood as  it  is  progressively  read  ;  and  we 
are  hopeful  that  its  effect  may  be  felt  and 
appreciated  by  all  good  and  straightfor- 
ward men. 

The  property  of  Corbetfield,  on  the 
confines  of  the  Cheviots,  was,  some  two 
hundred  years  ago,  possessed  by  a  person 
of  the  name  of  William  Dryhope.  He  in- 
herited the  property  from  his  father,  and 
V7as  reputed  wealthy,  as  the  estate  was 
considerable,  and  his  expenditure  limited 
by  his  habits  of  penuriousness.  He  was 
emphatically  what  is  called  a  cunning  man. 
No  project  was  ever  pleasant  to  him, 
which  did  not  admit  of  some  subtlety  in 
its  accomplishment  ;  and  even  plain  and 
common  acts  of  e very-day  life  were  not 
allowed  to  be  performed  in  a  plain  and 
straightforward  way,  but  were  invested 
with  a  portion  of  that  secrecy  and  under- 
hand dealing  which  nature  and  practice  had 
made  pleasant  and  familiar  to  him.  Plain 
dealinn;  had  somethina;  in  it  offensive  to  his 
crooked  mind.  It  seemed  as  if  he  felt  the 
same  dissatisfaction  at  the  tame  and  unin- 
teresting progress  of  a  fair  bargain,  that 
other  people  do  at  the  tardy,  winding 
manoeuvres  of  the  man  of  cunnino;. 

His  appearance  quadrated  with  this 
character.  He  had  the  bent  body,  the  sly, 
twinkling,  lurking  eye,  the  pawky  smile, 
the  wheedling  manner,  the  lying  tongue, 
and  the  ready  giggling  laugh  of  his  tribe. 

VOL.  a.  G7 


He  paid  no  great  attention  to  his  external 
appearance.  His  mind  was  too  much  oc- 
cupied by  the  formation  and  working  out 
of  schemes,  to  leave  him  either  time  or 
inclination  to  perform  decently  the  duties 
of  his  personal  economy.  His  continued 
contriving  and  brooding,  rendered  him  thin 
and  emaciated ;  and  his  timid  slouched 
walk,  and  side  looks,  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  a  weasel  searching  for  an  aperture 
in  an  old  turf-dike  to  escape  from  the  eyes 
of  men. 

That  extraordinary  peculiarity  of  cun- 
ning men — the  pride  of  being  thought 
cunning — attached  to  him,  as  to  all  the 
rest  of  his  kind.  At  the  very  time  he  was 
scheming  against  his  friend,  he  would 
boast  to  him  slily  of  his  slyness — conceal- 
ing, of  course,  with  great,  though  often 
ineffectual  care,  the  details  of  the  opera- 
tions he  was  at  the  time  carrying  on. 
This  pride  of  circumvention,  which  is 
found  in  all  cunning  men,  is  surely  an  ex- 
traordinary gift  of  nature — justifying  the 
ways  of  Providence,  by  counteracting 
what  would  otherwise  be  one  of  the  great- 
est evils  of  man.  The  schemer  is  the  de- 
stroyer of  his  own  schemes,  by  putting 
every  man  upon  his  guard,  and  telling,  be- 
fore he  stabs,  that  he  intends  to  slay. 

By  the  effects  of  this  evil  propensity, 
or  rather  by  the  greed  which  accompanies 
it — for  cunning  does  comparatively  little 
evil  after  it  is  known,  and  it  cannot  be 
concealed — Dryhope  scraped  together  a 
considerable  fortune,  independently  of 
Corbetfield.  His  wife  had  died  some 
years  after  his  marriage,  leaving  him  a  son 
and  daughter,  Hector  and  Maria,  who 
were  often  ashamed  of  the  ways  of  their 
father,  though  filial  duty  constrained  them 
to  conceal  them ;  at  least,  to  construe 
them  in  such  a  way  as  to  take  from  them 
their  more  disgusting  and  obnoxious  fea- 
tures. 

Having  made  the  most  of  every  oppor- 
tunity which  chance  had  thrown  in  his 
way,  and  turned  all  things  to  account,  as 
far  as  his  ability  would,  under  the  opposi- 


46G 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


tion  produced  by  the  knowledge  of  his 
character,  permit — he,  after  his  son  and 
daughter  had  arrived  at  a  marriao-eable 
condition,  began  to  contrive  how  he  could 
best  turn  them  to  advantage.  This  was  a 
notable  object  for  the  exertion  of  his  abili- 
ties and  he  was  determined  to  make  them 
exhibit  their  highest  mettle.  He  had  ex- 
pended a  great  deal  of  money  (in  his  esti- 
mation) upon  the  two  youngsters  ;  and  it 
would  run  hard  with  him  if  he  had  not 
skill  sufficient  to  draw  out  of  their  marriages 
a  proper  reimbursement.  How  otherwise 
could  he  be  paid  ?  For  their  affections  he 
cared  nothing — their  duty  was  of  no  avail 
to  him — they  were  his  debtors  for  their 
maintenance  and  education ;  and,  as  they 
could  not  liquidate  the  claims  themselves, 
it  must  be  his  policy  to  get  some  persons 
to  do  that  for  them.  These  were  high 
aims,  and  undoubtedly  worthy  of  the 
elevated  genius  of  a  man  of  cunning,  who 
conceived  that  no  person  in  the  county 
possessed  equal  powers  of  outwitting  his 
neighbors. 

In  regard  to  his  daughter,  Maria,  who 
was  a  very  superior  girl,  he  expected  to 
drive  a  bargain  with  a  young  proprietor, 
not  far  distant,  of  the  name  of  Walter 
Tait,  whose  property  of  Oldbattle,  would, 
if  settled  upon  her  and  her  children,  form 
a  very  handsome  acquisition  to  his  family. 
He  wished  this  marriage  for  several  rea- 
sons : — The  first  was,  that  Tait  being  a 
dissolute  youth,  would,  in  all  probability, 
soon  die,  and  leave  Maria  mistress  of  the 
property  for  herself  and  her  children. 
The  second  was,  that,  if  he  lived,  he 
would  become,  from  his  ductility,  a  very 
good  subject  for  the  operations  of  Dry- 
hope's  schemes,  whereby  he  would  be  en- 
abled to  take  a  great  part  of  his  property 
from  him,  and  attach  it  to  his  own  estate 
of  Corbetfield. 

There  was  another  reason  which  operat- 
ed upon  him,  in  endeavoring  to  get  this 
match  accelerated.  He  held  a  bond  from 
the  father  of  Hugh  Templeton  of  Temple- 
ton,  another  neighbor,  for  10,000  merks — 


an  immense  sum  in  those  days — but  which 
he  had  long  considered  to  be  little  better 
than  a  bad  debt.  The  lands  of  Temple- 
ton  had  been  burdened,  previous  to  Dry- 
hope's  security,  by  the  schemes  of  a  writer, 
who  thought  it  all  fair  to  fight  Dry  hope 
with  his  own  weapons.  The  sum  had,  it 
seems,  never  been  all  advanced  to  old 
Templeton;  but  he,  in  the  necessities  pro- 
duced by  youthful  indiscretions,  had,  to 
induce  Dryhope  to  lend  him  6,000  merks, 
promised  to  give  him  secm-ity  over  his 
lands  for  a  sum  of  10,000  merks.  Tem- 
pleton's  attorney,  knowing  the  usurious 
nature  of  the  bargain,  borrowed  for  his 
client  4,000  merks  from  the  father  of 
Walter  Tait,  giving  him  a  bond  for  the 
same  ;  and  thus  Dryhope,  keen  to  get  his 
transaction  finished,  and  overlookino;  a 
proper  investigation,  was  only  a  second 
creditor  over  the  property. 

This  bond  to  Dryhope  young  Temple- 
ton could  not  discharge,  and  the  lands 
were  not  of  sufficient  value  to  pay  it. 
But,  as  Walter  Tait  was  entirely  ignorant 
of  the  bad  credit  and  reduced  circum- 
stances of  Templeton,  Dryhope  flattered 
himself  that  he  would  get  his  intended  son- 
in-law  to  take  the  10,000  merk  bond  as 
the  dowry  of  his  daughter  IMaria  ;  and 
in  this  way  he  would  accomplish  two  great 
points ;  first,  he  would  get,  for  a  false 
dowry,  a  large  jointure  to  his  daughter ; 
and,  secondly,  he  would  accomplish  his 
ardent  wish,  in  the  event  of  Tait  dying,  of 
getting  the  envied  lands  of  Templeton 
into  his  family. 

As  Dryhope  was  upon  the  eve  of  making 
this  offer  to  Tait,  who  was  enamored  of 
Maria,  a  circumstance  occurred  which 
made  him  pause.  Templeton  was,  it 
seems,  making  love  to  a  daughter  of 
Edward  Whitten  of  Eccleshall  ;  and  he 
was,  at  same  time,  intimate  with  a  daugh- 
ter of  James  Harvey  of  Moorfield — both 
neighborinfir  lairds.  This  fact  was  com- 
municated  to  Dryhope,  who  immediately 
saw  how  it  would  affect  his  interests.  If 
Templeton  married  a  wife  with  money,  he 


THE  SCHEMER. 


467 


would  tlien  "be  able  to  pay  Dryhope  his 
10,000  merks,  a  most  important  circum- 
stance, which  would  afford  to  him  ample 
means  for  makinG;  a  baro-ain  with  Walter 
Tait.  But  it  was  necessary  to  ascertain 
which  of  the  two  damsels  would  likely 
bring  Templeton  the  most  money. 

To  ascertain  this,  Dryhope  set  about 
inquiring  into  the  circumstances  of  Whit- 
ten  and  Harvey.  This  was  immediately 
accomplished,  and  in  such  a  way  as  a  man 
of  stratagem  would,  according  to  the  bent 
of  his  nature,  adopt.  After  a  great  deal 
of  trouble,  many  thrcadings  of  narrow 
channels,  and  crooked  and  dishonorable 
means,  he  ascertained  that  Whitten  was 
not  in  such  circumstances  as  would  afford 
any  dowry  to  his  daughter  at  all ;  but 
Harvey  was  reputed  very  wealthy,  and  had 
been  heard  to  say  that  he  would  portion 
his  daughter  with  15,000  merks,  if  he  got 
for  her  a  husband  to  his  satisfaction. 

Having  got  this  most  important  infor- 
mation, Dryhope  set  his  wits  to  work,  with 
a  view  to  turn  it  to  the  best  advantage. 
He  was  slightly  acquainted  with  Eccles- 
hall,  and  resolved  to  call  on  him.  This 
he  accordingly  did.  Selfishness  produces 
boldness,  if  not  impudence  ;  and  Dryhope, 
as  he  rang  the  bell  of  the  stately  mansion, 
muttered  to  himself  that  he  must  trust  to 
chance  and  his  own  invention  for  a  success- 
ful interview,  as  well  as  for  the  means  of 
accounting  for  a  visit,  the  first  he  had  made 
to  the  family. 

*'  Hoo  is  my  muckle-honored  neebor, 
Ecclesha'.?"  he  cried  out,  as  he  advanced 
to  shake  the  laird  by  the  hand.  "  They're 
a  sad  plague  thae  turnpikes.  Ye  ken  the 
auld  loan  that  rins  doon  frae  the  green 
burn  to  the  auld  kist,  as  they  ca'  the  big 
stane  at  the  back  o'  the  birk  wood — they're 
threatenin  to  mak  that  a  turnpike  ;  an',  as 
itboundsyour  property  an'  mine,  we  maun 
concock  some  plan  for  settlin  the  marches 
for  dootless  they'll  be  for  makin  the  road 
broader,  an'  either  takin  frae  you  or  frae 
me." 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  this,  Mr. 


Dryhope,"  answered  Eccleshall ;  "  and  I 
rather  think  you  are  wrong,  for  my  under- 
standing is,  that  the  road  is  to  be  made 
through  the  property  of  Templeton,  to  the 
westward." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear't,"  said  Dryhope, 
who  knew  the  fact  as  well  as  Eccleshall, 
"  for  I'm  just  as  ill  able  to  boar  a  loss  o' 
that  kind  as  Templeton." 

^'  It  would  not  affect  either  of  you  much, 
I  presume,"  said  Eccleshall.  "  He  has  a  fine 
property,  and  you  are  known  to  be  rich." 

"  It's  no  my  business,  Ecclesha',"  said 
Dryhope,  "  to  interfere  wi'  the  affairs  o' 
my  neebors.  There's  nae  doot  that  Tem- 
pleton has  a  fine  property,  an'  they  say  he 
wadna  care  to  sell  it — but  it's  an  auld 
sayin',  '  He  wha  buys  has  need  o'  a  hun- 
dred een — he  wha  sells  has  enough  if  ho 
has  ane.' " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  Mr.  Dry- 
hope,"  said  Eccleshall;  "I  never  heard 
Mr.  Templeton  say  he  intended  to  sell 
his  estate  ;  but,  if  he  did,  I  suppose  he 
would  get  a  good  price  for  it.  I  am,  how- 
ever, somewhat  interested  in  this  gentle- 
man's affairs,  and  beg  you  to  explain 
manfully  your  meaning." 

"  It's  no  my  wish,  and  Heaven  kens  it's 
no  my  practice,  to  deal  in  secrecy,"  said 
Dryhope.  "  Words  wound  aften  mair 
than  swords ;  but  I  maun  do  myseP  the 
justice  to  think  that,  when  I  do  speak,  I 
ken  what  to  say.  When  a  blind  man 
leads  anither  blind  man,  they  baith  fa' 
into  the  ditch.  Dryhope  can  see  as  far  as 
ither  men  (with  a  wink),  and  if  I  thought 
ye  were  muckle  interested  in  the  affairs  o' 
Templeton,  I  could  maybe  gie  ye  a  hint — 
for  there's  naebody  kens  better  the  heat 
o'  the  fire  than  he  wha  has  been  burnt." 

"  That  is  still  all  a  mystery  to  me,  my 
good  friend,"  said  Eccleshall.  "  I  have 
told  you  that  I  am  interested  in  Temple- 
ton's  affairs.  He  is  courting  my  daughter  ; 
and  I  should  like  to  know,  since  you  have 
roused  my  suspicions,  whether  his  property 
is  free  and  unburdened,  and,  generally, 
the  state  of  his  finances." 


468 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  The  looker-on  sees  mair  tlian  the 
player,"  answered  Dryhope,  winkmg  cun- 
ningly. "  1  heard  as  muckle  as  what  ye 
say.  Ye  couldna  hae  applied  to  a  better 
man  than  me  ;  for  it  is  guid,  they  say,  to 
learn  at  anither  man's  cost,  an'  true  ser- 
vice hangs  mair  by  the  time  than  the 
mode.  Between  you  an'  me,  Templeton 
awes  me  as  muckle  as  wad  buy  his  pro- 
perty twice  owre  ;  an'  he  has  mony  other 
debts  on  his  land,  besides  personal  debts 
to  a  maist  enormous  amount.  He  has  tried 
to  conceal  a'  this — but  grey  cats  see  i'the 
dark  ;  an'  I  am  glad  I  can,  in  this  affair, 
do  ye  a  service.  Ye  may  hae  something 
i'  yer  power  as  regards  me — ac  hand 
washes  anither,  ye  ken,  winking  again. 

The  servant  here  came  in,  and  said  that 
Mr.  Walter  Tait  was  in  waiting. 

"  Tell  him  I  shall  be  with  him  present- 
ly," said  Eccleshall.  Turning  to  Dry- 
hope — "  Walter  has  few  debts,  1  should 
imagine  ;  but  he  is  in  bad  health,  poor 
fellow." 

"  Wha  lives  weel,  lives  lang,"  said 
Dryhope,  anxious  to  create  some  suspicion 
also,  against  Tait,  whom  he  himself  wished 
to  catch  for  Maria.  "  There's  an  auld 
sayin',  very  common,  I  am  tauld,  in  Ger- 
many— '  Gluttony  and  drunkenness  hae 
killed  mair  men  than  the  sword.'  I  am 
very  sorry  for  Walter,  puir  lad,  and  wad 
be  the  last  man  to  injure  him  ;  but  ye  hae 
gien  me  some  o'  yer  confidence  the  day, 
and  I'm  bound  to  reward  ye  wi'  mine. 
Truth  may  be  blamed,  but  never  can  be 
shamed.  I  hae  gien  ye  a  hint  aboot  Wat- 
tie,  puir  lad,  that  may  be  o'  service  to  ye. 
He  wha  has  wisdom  is  twice  blessed." 

Eccleshall — who  was  one  of  those  men 
who,  being  honest  himself,  believes  all 
others  to  be  so — was  much  affected  by  the 
character  he  had  heard  of  his  friend  and 
neighbor,  Mr.  Tait.  He  believed  it,  and 
thanked  Dryhope  for  his  kind  inten- 
tions. 

^'  This  is  quite  new  to  me,"  said  he. 
"  I  have  always  understood  that  Walter's 
bad  health  prevented  him  from  exceeding. 


or  even  indulging  to  any  extent,  in  the 
pleasures,  far  less  the  luxuries  of  life." 

"  Bad  health  may  be  the  effect  o'  in- 
temperance," answered  Dryhope.  "  So- 
briety secures  us  against  distempers,  and 
sweetens  life  ;  the  harvest  o'  diseases  is 
reaped  frae  the  seeds  o'  intemperance. 
Watty's  faither  died  owre  sune.  We  ken 
hoo  to  tak  care  o'  our  bairns" — another 
wink. 

"  You  will  teach  me  to  take  care  of 
mine,  at  all  events,"  said  Eccleshall ; 
"  and  I  am  certainly  obliged  to  you  for 
the  open,  frank,  and  gentleman-like  way 
in  which  you  have  warned  me  of  the  rocks 
of  poverty  and  dissipation.  I  shall  not 
soon  forget  it." 

''  I'm  no  greedy  o'  thanks,  Ecclesha'," 
said  Dryhope  ;  "  for  I  aye  think  the  re- 
ward o'  a  guid  conscience  is  the  best  re- 
muneration for  a  guid  office.  I  can  safely 
say,  mine  is  a  guid  ane  ;  for  I  aye  carry 
aboot  wi'  me  the  proverb — '  that  the  de- 
bauchin  o'  the  conscience  is  the  source  o' 
a'  our  errors  and  crimes.'  Ill  as  puir 
Watty  is,  some  ca'  him  even  waur  than  I 
hae  said  ;  for  his  auld  butler  said  to  me, 
ae  day,  wi'  a  wink — '  A  debauched  con- 
science is  waur  than  a  debauched  stamach.' 
But  I  never  like  a  statement  that  has  a 
wink  ahint  it.  The  cooard  looks  ahint 
him,  the  brave  man  afore  him  ;  but  a  leiar 
shuts  ane  o'  his  een.  Yet  auld  George  is 
an  honest  chiel,  too." 

Eccleshall  was  not  so  blind  as  not  to 
see  that  Dryhope  was  himself  a  great 
winker  ;  but  this  did  not  open  his  eyes. 
He  again  thanked  Dryhope  for  his  atten- 
tion, and  the  latter  took  his  leave.  As  he 
went  out,  he  saw  Walter  Tait  standing 
on  the  landing-place,  having  preferred 
enjoying  the  air  to  being  shut  up  in  an 
antechamber.  He  flew  and  shook  hands 
with  him. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  ye  lookin  sae  weel, 
i\Ir.  Walter.  JMaria  was  just  inquirin' 
about  ye,  yesterday.  Hoo  dinna  ye  come 
doon  an'  see  us  ,''  Wha's  sae  welcome  as 
you  }  I  hae  just  been  speakin  to  Ecclesha' 


THE   SCHEMER. 


469 


about  the  new  turnpike.  I  am  glad  to 
tliink  it's  no  comin'  aff  his  land  ;  for  I  un- 
derstand little  compensation  will  be  gien  ; 
and  (taking  his  friend  by  the  button,  and 
talking  low)  ye  ken  he's  novery  weel  able 
to  bear  even  a  sma  loss  like  that.  I  was 
tellin  him,  in  that  jocular  easy  Way  I  can 
tak  wi'  him,  that  he  should  get  aff  his 
dochter  to  some  sillered  chap,  wha  micht 
assist  him  wi'  a  few  hunder  merks.  My 
heart  bluids  to  see  a  guid  man  in  diffiqual- 
ties  ;  an'  I  gae  him  that  advice,  contained 
in  the  auld  proverb  — '  They  wha  dinna 
ken  hoo  to  ask,  dinna  ken  hoo  to  gie.' 
Ye  ken  what  I  mean,  eh  ?" 

Tait,  who  knew  Dryhope's  cunning,  did 
not  give  any  decided  tokens  of  acquies- 
cence in  the  truth  of  this  speech  ;  and 
knowing  that  Eccleshall  was  waiting  for 
him,  he  promised,  in  a  few  words,  to  call 
and  see  Maria,  and  went  into  the  house. 

Dryhope  conceived  that  he  had  managed 
this  interview  with  the  greatest  adroitness  ; 
and,  as  he  went  down  the  avenue,  felici- 
tated himself  upon  his  powers  of  manoeu- 
vring, ejaculating,  at  intervals,  while  he 
rubbed  his  hands — "  Thae  twa  lads  are 
peppered."  So  much  was  he  occupied 
with  the  exultation  of  having,  as  he 
thought,  outwitted  three  men,  and  blasted 
the  prospects  of  two,  that  he  did  not  even 
see  the  people  on  the  road,  who  stood  and 
stared  as  they  saw  a  man  running  and  rub- 
bing his  hands,  and  saying  to  himself, 
"  Thae  twa  lads  are  peppered."  Cunning 
has  indeed  only  one  eye,  although  it  thinks 
itself  possessed  of  the  hundred  which  be- 
longed, heretofore,  to  Argus,  the  watch- 
man of  lo.  The  delightful  music  of  Mer- 
cury closed  up  the  whole  hundred  ;  sel- 
fishness may  well  close  up  one. 

The  next  step  to  be  taken  by  Dryhope, 
was  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mr.  Harvey  ;  whose 
daughter  was,  as  he  had  heard,  also  in  the 
eye  of  Templeton.  He  made  no  scruple 
to  call  there  ;  and,  being  afraid  of  losing 
time,  he  directed  his  steps  to  Moorfield, 
where  he  found  the  proprietor  occupied  in 
his  garden.     In  this  interview,  Dryhope 


had  to  encounter  one  who  knew  his  true 
character,  though  the  wily  laird  himself 
thought  he  was  altogether  unknown  to 
anybody  ;  another  weakness  of  the  en- 
grossing quality  of  selfish  cunning. 

*'  I  hope  Moorfield  is  in  guid  health,'' 
began  Dryhope  ;  "  I  hae  like  to  see  my 
friends  weel ;  for  health  gaes  afore  riches, 
an'  naebody  kens  better  what  is  guid  than 
he  wha  has  endured  evil.  I  mysel'  ken 
what  disease  is.  The  garden  is  better  for 
recreation  than  the  drawin'  room.  So  the 
turnpike  is  to  gae  through  Templeton's 
property,  after  a',  is  it  V 

''  I  believe  it  is,"  answered  Moorfield, 
waiting  to  see  the  next  turn. 

"  Weel,  better  he  than  anither,"  said 
Dryhope.  *'  Puir  Ecclesha'  couldna  hae 
borne  it  sae  weel." 

^'  Do  you  think  so  !"  said  Moorfield, 
with  curiosity — knowing  that  Templeton's 
property  was  burdened  with  the  two  bonds, 
which,  however,  did  not  affect  his  estimate 
of  the  character  of  his  friend.  "  Is  Tem- 
pleton not  in  debt  }  I'm  very  glad  to 
hear  it.  Somebody  said  he  was  owing  you 
money  ;  but  I  presume  it  is  false,  like  all 
the  rest  of  these  flying  statements." 

''  No  a  penny,  Moorfield — no  a  penny !" 
said  Dryhope,  quickly.  "  Sae  far  as  I 
ken,  the  property  is,  as  regards  the  young 
man's  acts,  as  free  as  the  blue  firmament 
when  there's  nae  clouds  i'  the  air.  I  was 
just  sayin'  to  Ecclesha',  he  wud  mak  a 
fine  match  for  his  dochter  ;  an',  atween 
you  an'  me  (one  of  his  winks),  it  wad  be 
a  guid  thing  for  baith  o'  them.  Dinna  ye 
think  sae  yerseP  .^" 

As  Dryhope  put  this  question  to  Moor- 
field, he  directed  upon  him  that  peculiar 
look  with  which  a  cunning  man  watches 
the  effect  of  a  well-framed  interrogatory. 
Moorfield  read  the  twinkle  with  the  great- 
est ease. 

"  An  excellent  thing,''  replied  Moor- 
field ;  "  and  I'll  tell  you  another,  nearly 
as  good — What  do  you  think  of  my  Ger- 
trude and  your  Hector  .'" 

This  did  not  suit  Dryhope,  who  had  a 


470 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


lady  in  bis  eye  for  his  son  ;  and  he  was 
discomfited  by  the  nonchalance  with  which 
his  trying  question  was  received. 

*'  Ye '11  no  be  thinkin'  o'  Templeton  for 
Gertrude  .■^"  he  again  asked. 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances," 
replied  Moorfield.  "  If  I  could  hear  that 
he  was  entirely  free  of  debt,  I  would  have 
no  objections  to  him  for  a  son-in-law.  He 
is  a  very  fine  young  man  ;  but  it  would  be 
hard  to  pay  15,000  merks  to  his  credit- 
ors." 

"  Sae  it  wad,  sae  it  wad,"  said  Dryhope, 
in  anxiety;  "  but  he  has  nae  debt — no  a 
penny  o'  debt — I  hae  it  upon  guid  autho- 
rity. Ye  may  rely  upon  it.  But  ye're 
richt  to  be  sure.  ]\Iony  a  ane  gaes  oot  to 
seek  wool,  an'  comes  hame  shorn.  I  hae 
a  kind  o'  regard  for  Templeton,  as  weel 
as  for  yersel ;  an'  if  I  could  satisfy  ye  wi' 
regard  to  yer  scruples,  1  wad,  for  the  sake 
o'  his  faither,  exercise  my  puir  faculties  to 
that  efi"ect." 

''  I  will  be  much  obliged  to  you,  then, 
my  good  friend,"  said  Moorfield,  fighting 
him  with  his  own  weapons,  "  if  you  will 
make  all  the  inquiry  in  your  power,  and 
inform  me  whether  you  can  learn  of  any 
debts  due  by  young  Templeton.  If  I  am 
perfectly  satisfied  of  his  solvency,  I  may 
indulge  his  suit  with  my  Gertrude." 

"  I  will — I  will,"  replied  Dryhope, 
eagerly ;  and,  after  some  general  conver- 
sation, he  retired. 

Dryhope,  as  he  went  home,  thought  he 
had  also  duped  Moorfield.  He  had  said 
that  Templeton  was  not  his  debtor.  There 
was  no  danger,  he  conceived,  in  that,  be- 
cause, in  the  first  place,  it  was  old  Tem- 
pleton who  granted  him  the  bond ;  and, 
though  the  young  man  was  no  doubt  liable 
to  him,  yet  he  could  scarcely  be  said  to  be 
his  debtor  in  the  bond.  This  wretched 
subtlety  pleased  him  beyond  measure. 
And,  secondly,  anything  he  could  say  to 
Moorfield,  would  not  affect  his  claim, 
constituted  by  a  written  bond,  against 
Templeton.  This  was,  he  thought,  inge- 
nious reasoning ;  and,  if  he  was  safe,  he 


did  not  care  how  far  he  went  in  the  manu- 
facture and  issuing  of  lies. 

Moorfield,  with  no  cunning,  had  more 
judgment.  iSext  morning,  he  despatched 
the  following  letter  to  Dryhope  :  — 

"  Dear  Sir — I  thank  you  for  the  ex- 
treme kindness  you  evinced  towards  me 
and  my  daughter,  when  you  called  here 
yesterday.  I  have  been  curious  to  know 
upon  what  authority  you  stated  that  Hugh 
Templeton  was  free  from  debt  ;  and,  in 
particular,  I  am  anxious  to  know  whether 
or  not  Templeton  granted  you  a  bond  for 
10,000  merks.  I  have  heard  such  a  thing 
stated,  and  wish  to  satisfy  myself  of  the 
truth  or  falsehood  of  it.  If  your  answer 
to  me  is  satisfactory,  and  I  am  certiorated 
of  the  fact  that  Templeton  owes  you  no- 
thing, I  will  give  him  15,000  merks  with 
my  daughter  as  her  tocher. 

"  I  am,  dear  sir,  yours  sincerely, 

"James  Harvey." 

This  letter  was  written  by  Moorfield, 
with  the  view  of  getting  Dryhope  com- 
mitted to  paper.  He  could  not  answer  for 
its  being  attended  with  any  success  ;  but 
he  knew  that  Dryhope  wanted  payment  of 
his  money,  and  might  go  a  great  deal  far- 
ther than  prudence  warranted,  in  order  to 
fulfil  that  object. 

The  moment  Dryhope  got  this  letter, 
he  began  to  consider  of  what  he  was  about. 
He  was  too  quick- sighted  not  to  see  that 
he  was  upon  dangerous  ground.  Conver- 
sation, where  there  were  no  witnesses,  was 
one  thino- — writinsrwas  another.  Besides, 
he  verified  the  characteristic  of  his  own 
disposition,  by  suspecting  there  was  some 
attempt  at  trick  on  the  part  of  Moorfield. 
He  accordingly  called  for  his  horse,  and 
rode  away  to  town  with  a  view  to  consult 
his  agent.  Like  all  cunning  diplomatists, 
however,  he  would  not,  indeed  he  could 
not,  tell  his  attorney,  who  happened  to  be 
an  honest  man,  his  whole  case  ;  but,  like 
many  fools  who  consult  doctors  and  law- 
yers, and  think  they  can  work  by  the 
powers  of  their  own  minds,  on  answers  to 
particular  questions  and  special  interroga- 


THE  SCHEMER. 


471 


tories,  put  a  number  of  hypotiietical  cases, 
on  whicli  he  asked  opinions.  The  princi- 
pal of  these  was — whether  a  person,  who 
had  a  bond  from  another  man's  father, 
could  safely,  and  without  endangering  his 
debt,  say  to  another  person,  an  acquaint- 
ance of  the  son's,  that  he,  the  son,  was  not 
a  debtor  specified  in  the  bond.  The  at- 
torney's answer  was  quick  and  sound. 
"  No,"  he  replied;  "there  is  «o  law  for 
any  such  thing ;  neither  will  the  state- 
ment be  against  the  truth,  for  the  young 
man's  name  is  not  mentioned  in  the  bond, 
and,  therefore,  he  is  not  the  specified 
debtor  in  the  bond." 

With  this  answer,  Dryhope  came  away, 
delighted  with  the  scheme  which  he  was 
now  forming  of  circumventing  Moorfield, 
and  catching  him  in  his  own  snare — the 
very  highest  triumph  of  cunning  ;  for  no 
cunning  man  can  bear  the  idea  that  there 
is  any  person  in  the  world  more  sly  than 
himself.  In  riding  home,  the  scheme  was 
partly  formed.  His  deep  study  was  only 
at  times  interrupted  by  a  stumble  of  his 
horse.  On  reaching  home,  he  retired  to 
his  study,  and  sat  with  his  hand  on  his 
brow  for  more  than  an  hour.  His  object 
was  to  write  such  a  letter  to  Moorfield  as 
would  save  his  right  to  his  bond,  and  yet, 
at  the  same  time,  secure  payment  of  his 
debt.  The  object  was  grand — the  means 
lay  in  his  wonderful  mind.  What  was  too 
diiScult  for  his  subtlety.^  Had  he  not 
humbugged  one  half  of  the  world  already  ? 
and  who  had  humbugged  him }  None. 
W^hy  then  have  any  timidity,  while  the 
proverb  maintained  its  force,  that  "  a 
faint  heart  never  gained  a  fair  lady."  To 
succeed  in  this  enterprise,  would  stamp  his 
character  for  ever  as  a  man  of  parts.  It 
would  do  more — it  would  make  a  bad  debt 
good,  and  overturn  the  scheme  of  one  who 
had  the  boldness  to  try  him  with  his  own 
weapons.  These  reflections  produced  a 
kind  of  enthusiasm,  or,  at  least,  some 
emotion  as  nearly  analogous  to  that  as  the 
mind  of  a  cunning  man,  with  its  cold  cal- 
culating views,  is  capable  of  feeling  ;  and, 


seizing  the  pen,  he  wrote  the  first  draft  of 
an  answer  to  Moorfield.  Having  finished 
the  rough  sketch,  he  wished  to  allow  it  to 
lie  until  his  fancy  cooled — a  common 
practice  with  him  when  engaged  in  a  wily 
scheme.  He  dined,  and  came  back  to  his 
importantwork  again.  He  read  his  draft. 
It  was  too  unguarded,  and  required  the 
application  of  greater  caution.  Another 
copy  was  written,  and  many  more.  At 
last,  he  thought  the  following  sufficient  to 
realize  his  scheme  : — 

"  Dear  Sir, — I  beg  to  say  that  I  re- 
ceived your  letter  ;  and,  in  answer  thereto, 
I  now  inform  you  that  Hugh  Templeton, 
Esq.,  presently  of  Templeton,  never  signed 
any  bond  to  me  for  10,000  merks,  or  any 
other  sum.  I,  therefore,  conceive  you 
are  perfectly  safe,  and  will  warrant  you  to 
dower  Miss  Gertrude  Harvey,  your  daugh- 
ter, with  the  sum  you  have  stated.  I  have 
particularly  to  request,  that,  as  this  an- 
swer is  given  in  confidence,  no  intimation 
thereof  shall  be  made  to  Hugh  Templeton. 
"  I  am  yours,  sincerely, 

"W.  Dryhope." 

This  letter  was  dispatched,  and  Dry- 
hope  thought  he  had  executed  a  most 
notable  scheme  of  clever  circumvention. 

Unfortunately,  he  had  hitherto  been  too 
successful.  Templeton,  having  been 
doubtful  of  the  intentions  of  Moorfield  in 
regard  to  him,  had  been  visiting  Miss 
Whitten  with  the  intention  of  exciting  the 
jealousy  of  Gertrude  Harvey,  and  thus 
working  on  the  father,  through  the  pain 
and  anxiety  of  the  daughter.  He  had 
been,  however,  heard  to  say  that  he 
could  fancy  Miss  Whitten  ;  and,  in  the 
event  of  not  getting  Miss  Harvey,  he 
would  pay  his  serious  addresses  to  her. 
The  visit  of  Dryhope,  however,  put  an  end 
to  Templeton's  hopes  in  the  family  of  Ec- 
cleshall ;  and  it  was  equally  efficacious  in 
expelling  from  that  house,  Walter  Tait ; 
for  Eccleshall,  seeing  no  motive,  on  the 
part  of  Dryhope,  for  making  the  state- 
ments he  had  done  regarding  these  two 
gentlemen,  unfortunately  considered  them 


472 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


to  be  true  ;  and  his  manner  at  their  next 
visit  having  partaken  of  his  feelings,  soon 
exhibited  to  his  visitors  that  their  company 
was  not  desired.  They  accordingly  gave 
up  visiting  Eccleshall ;  but  they  were  left 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  that  cold- 
ness on  the  part  of  their  host,  which  had 
rendered  it  imperative  on  them  to  cease 
their  visits  to  his  house. 

Driven  from  that  resource,  Tait  called 
more  frequently  at  Corbetfield,  where  he 
was  received  by  Dryhope  with  the  greatest 
attention,  and  treated  with  the  most  syco- 
phantish  adulation.  The  efforts  of  the 
father,  however,  would  have  had  little 
effect  on  the  visitor,  if  the  smiles  of  the 
daughter  had  not  reached  the  heart  of  the 
lover,  Tait  loved  Maria,  and  his  love 
was  requited.  He  hated  old  Dryhope  for 
his  low  cunning  and  duplicity ;  and  he 
loved  his  daughter  for  her  beauty  and 
simplicity.  Dryhope  saw  the  courtship 
advancing  with  singular  pleasure  ;  for  he 
flattered  himself  that  he  was  the  match- 
maker, and  that  Tait  was  merely  acting 
upon  the  springs  which  moved  his  various 
puppets.  He  hugged  himself  in  the  idea, 
that,  if  he  had  not  poisoned  the  ear  of 
Eccleshall  against  him,  he  would  have 
married  Miss  Whitten ;  thus  enhancing 
the  merit  of  his  work,  by  contemplating 
what  might  have  happened,  if  he  had  not 
brought  his  genius  to  play  in  that  particu- 
lar direction. 

To  add  to  his  joy,  it  was  announced  in 
the  newspapers,  that  Hugh  Templeton  had 
led  to  the  altar,  Gertrude  Harvey  ;  and 
the  floating  breath  of  public  gossip  embel- 
lished the  statement  with  the  fact,  that 
the  bridegroom  had  got  paid  down  to  him 
15,000  merks,  as  the  tocher  of  the  damsel. 
This  completed  the  coup  de  main  of  the 
ambidextrous  Dryhope.  All  he  had  now 
to  do,  was  to  get  payment  of  his  bond; 
but,  before  having  recourse  to  any  mea- 
sures in  that  quarter,  he  wished  to  get  the 
marriage  completed  between  Tait  and  his 
own  daughter,  Maria,  Tait  was  quite 
aoreeable    that  it  should   be  solemnized 


immediately  ;  and  Maria  had  no  objections 
to  urge.  Dryhope  conceived  that,  after 
what  had  passed  between  him  and  jVIoor- 
field,  it  might  save  his  faith,  if  he  assigned 
away  his  bond  to  some  third  party  ;  and 
a  better  opportunity  for  effecting  this 
purpose  could  not  be  found  than  in  the 
marriage  of  his  dauofht^r  with  Tait. 

He  took,  accordingly,  the  first  oppor- 
tunity of  having  a  conversation  with  his 
expected  son-in-law,  on  the  subject  of  the 
contract. 

"  Ye  ken,  Walter,"  began  the  ambi- 
dexter, "  that  I  hae  but  little  lyin  money, 
and  canna,    therefore,  gie  ye   ony  great 
portion  wi'  Maria ;  but   I   can  maybe  do 
better  than  gie  ye  cash,  o'  which  ye  stand 
in  nae  great  need.      Ye  ken   I  hae  a  bond 
for  10,000  merks  frae  Templeton,  wha  is 
just  noo  married  to  Gertrude  Harvey,  the 
heiress  o'  Moorfield,  wha  has  brought  him 
15,000  merks,  and  wha,  when  her  father 
dies,  will  hae  a  right  to  his  property,  ana 
o'  the  best  in  these   parts.     Noo,  1  ken 
that  ye  hae  lang  had  an  ee  on  Templeton, 
owre   which  ye   hauld  a  bond  for    4,000 
merks.     The   property  lies  weel  into  ye, 
and,  nae  doubt,  would  mak  a  bonny  ad- 
dition to  yer  ain.     Ye  canna  get  it,  how- 
ever, wi'  the  mere  pith  o'  yer  ain  security  ; 
but,  wi'   the  assistance   o'  mine,  ye  may 
hae  some  chance  o'  prevailin  on  Temple- 
ton, to  resign  it  to  ye  upon  a  fair  bargain, 
payin  ye,  at  the  same  time,  the  difference 
atween  its  price  and    the   amount  o'  the 
twa  bonds.     Noo,  I'll  gie  ye  my  bond  if 
ye  will  pay  me  4,000  merks,  and  provide 
the  half  o'  the  rents  o'  yer  property  as  a 
jointure  to  Maria." 

This  statement  appeared  to  Tait  to  be 
fair  enough  ;  for  he  would  much  rather 
take  the  bond  than  the  money,  for  the 
very  reasons  stated  b}'  Dryhope,  who  had 
indeed  fathomed  the  wishes  of  his  son-in- 
law,  and  laid  his  schemes  to  suit  them  in 
the  way  stated.  Tait  told  him  that  he 
had  no  objection  to  the  terms  he  proposed, 
and,  in  a  short  time,  the  marriage  con- 
tract was  drawn  out  and  signed,  and  the 


THE   SCHEMER. 


473 


marj-iage  solemnized.  Dryliope  took  care 
to  receive  liis  4,000  meiks,  leaving  to 
lait  the  recovery  of  the  money  from 
Temj^leton  in  the  best  way  he  could,  re- 
commending to  him,  however,  to  pursue 
Templeton,  while  he  was,  as  he  said,  flush  ; 
and  especially,  and  by  all  means,  to  seize 
him,  when  under  the  dementing  influence 
of  the  honeymoon,  when  he  would  rather 
pay  than  pine  in  prison. 

In  the  meantime,  Hector  Dryhope  was 
taken  by  his  father,  and  introduced  to  a 
rich  lady  of  color,  who  lived  in  the  neigh- 
boring town,  with  a  view  to  his  courting 
her.  and  securing  her  fortune  with  her 
cream-colored  person.  Hector  went  to 
please  his  father  ;  but  he  had  no  intention 
of  complying  with  his  request. '  He  had  a 
choice  of  his  own,  which  he  did  not  intend 
to  renounce  ;  at  least  he  could  see  nothing 
in  the  West  Indian  to  make  him  forget 
his  own  fair  country-woman.  His  choice 
came  out  sooner  than  was  expected. 

His  father,  while  one  day  walking  at  a 
little  distance  from  Corbetfield,  met 
Hector  and  Miss  Whitten  walking  to- 
gether. The  young  couple  seemed  to  be 
caught  ;  and  truly  they  were,  for  the  old 
man  went  abruptly  up  to  them,  and  asked 
his  son,  in  the  presence  of  the  mistress  of 
his  afiections,  who  the  lady  was  with 
whom  he  presumed  to  walk,  after  he  had 
introduced  him  to  his  future  wife.  Stung 
to  the  quick  by  this  remark,  made  in  the 
presence  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  had  made 
honorable  proposals,  the  young  man  for- 
got his  filial  duties,  and  turning  suddenly 
on  his  father,  with  fiery  eyes,  and  a  coun- 
tenance flushed  with  anger,  told  him  that 
this  lady,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  was  the 
mistress  of  his  heart,  and  would  be  the 
sharer  of  his  fortunes.  Dryhope  imme- 
diately answered,  that  he  would  cut  him 
off  with  a  shilling,  if  he  presumed  to 
marry  that  lady,  or  any  other  lady, 
against  his  advice  and  approbation. 

For  a  long  time  the  son  and  father 
would  not  speak.  Dryhope  was  here 
caught  in  his  own  snare  ;  for,  by  turning 


Tait  and  Templeton  from  JNIr.  Whitten's 
house,  he  had  kept  his  daughter  free  for 
the  addresses  of  his  own  son.  There  was 
no  money  to  be  had  with  Miss  Whitten  ; 
and,  if  Hector  married  her,  one  of  his 
schemes  would  be  frustrated.  In  the  heat 
of  his  anger  he  flew  to  Eccleshall,  and 
found  the  laird  in  his  study. 

"  1  am  come,  Ecclesha',"  said  Dryhope, 
bowing,  "  to  put  ye  on  yer  guard  against 
the  evil  intentions  o'  my  neer-do-weel 
son.  Hector,  wha  I  understand,  is  courting 
your  daughter.  1  think  it  proper  to  gie 
you  premonition  o'  the  fack,  which  I 
proved  by  the  testimony  o'  my  ain  senses 
some  days  syne,  in  the  birk  wood,  at  the 
foot  o'  the  priest's  mound.  A  son  wha 
disobeys  his  ain  faith er  winna  be  dutiful 
to  the  faither  o'  his  wife  ;  and  a  bad  son 
canna  mak  a  ofuid  husband.  Hector  is  a 
spendthrift,  as  the  holes  in  my  exchequer 
may  we  el  testify  ;  and  I  wad  be  sorry  to 
think  that,  after  having  robbed  a  parent, 
he  should  extend  his  practices  to  the 
strong  boxes  o'  my  neighbors.  Deny  him 
yer  dochter's  hand,  and  ye  will  benefit 
yersel,  yer  dochter,  my  son,  and  me  !" 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Dryhope,"  said  Eccles- 
hall, "  can  you  tell  me  whether  I  am  to 
place  confidence  in  a  man's  words,  or  in 
his  actions }  If  Walter  Tait  was  too 
debauched  for  my  daughter,  why  was  he 
pure  enough  for  yours  }  If  Hugh  Tem- 
pleton was  unfit  for  my  daughter,  why 
was  he  by  you  considered  proper  for 
Gertrude  Harvey  }  These  are  questions 
to  which  I  require  an  answer,  before  I  pay 
any  attention  to  the  character  you  have 
now  given  your  son." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Dryhope,  in 
his  anger,  that  Eccleshall  had  this  good 
answer  to  make  him.  He  was  taken  by 
surprise,  and  all  his  attempts  at  a  proper 
justification  resolved  into  mutterings  and 
exclamations,  and  a  mass  of  unmeaning 
jargon.  Eccleshall  did  not  deign  to 
answer  him.  Having  rung  the  bell,  he 
ordered  his  servant  to  see  Dryhope  to  the 
door — an  order  very  speedily  obeyed. 


474 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


As  he  went  down  the  same  avenue  where 
he  had  formerly  indulged  in  such  vehement 
expressions  of  joy  in  the  supposed  success 
of  his  schemes,  he  now  exhibited  a  very 
different  appearance.  He  bit  his  lips  and 
clenched  his  hands,  muttering  impreca- 
tions loud  and  deep,  exclaiming  that  he 
would  rather  have  seen  both  Tait  and 
Templeton  married  to  EccleshalPs  daugh- 
ter, if  the  laws  would  have  permitted  it, 
than  his  son  should,  by  marrying  a  proud 
beggar,  sacrifice  the  prospects  held  out  to 
him  in  the  match  which  he  had  taken  so 
much  pain.s  to  settle  and  mature.  On 
arriving  at  home,  his  frenzy  knew  no 
bounds.  He  even  struck  his  son,  who, 
well  disposed  and  even  kind  to  his  parent, 
received,  with  sorrow,  the  outpourings  of 
his  indignation. 

Next  day,  and  while  yet  his  anger  was 
burning  with  nearly  unabated  fury,  he  got 
a  call  from  Moorfield's  agent,  who  inform- 
ed him  that,  if  Walter  Tait,  his  son-in- 
law,  endeavored  to  make  good  the  bond 
for  10,000  merks  against  Templeton,  he, 
Moorfield,  would  sue  Dryhopefor  damages, 
under  his  letter  of  guarantee  written  by 
him,  on  the  occasion  of  Templeton's  mar- 
riage with  Gertrude  Hervey.  At  the 
intimation  of  this  intention,  Dryhope 
stared  at  the  man,  speechless,  as  if  he  had 
been  struck  with  a  sudden  attack  of  palsy. 
Having,  in  some  degree,  recovered  from 
the  effects  of  the  shock,  he  denied  that  he 
had  ever  written  Moorfield  any  letter  of 
guarantee,  and  told  the  agent  to  carry  to 
his  client  his  mortal  defiance. 

This  was,  however,  the  mere  bravado 
of  a  terrified  man.  Dryhope  began  to 
think  of  the  terms  of  his  letter.  Every 
word  of  it  was  impressed  on  his  memory, 
and  every  word  was  again  scanned  with 
the  eye  of  cunning  and  apprehension.  As 
his  investigation  proceeded,  his  fears  were 
allayed.  The  critical  interpretation  of 
the  letter  admitted  of  no  such  construction 
as  that  attempted  to  be  put  upon  it  by 
Moorfield  or  his  agent.  He  had  merely 
written,  that   young  Templeton  had  not 


signed  any  bond  to  him.  Was  not  this 
true  ?  And  if  so,  why  should  a  man 
suffer  for  the  truth  }  I\o  doubt  he  ^ave 
also  an  opinion  that  Moorfield  might  safely 
dower  his  daughter  to  Templeton.  Was 
not  that  a  mere  opinion  r  May  not  every 
man,  whose  opinion  is  asked  about  the 
propriety,  or  safety,  or  danger,  of  a  mar- 
riage, be  equally  liable  to  be  called  upon 
to  make  up  to  the  father  the  tocher  of  his 
daughter.  The  whole  matter  appeared, 
to  him,  to  be  rank  nonsense,  and  ought 
not  to  have  the  effect  of  deranging  the 
slightest  feeling  or  idea  of  the  mind  of  any 
man  of  common  sense. 

This  reasoning  did  not,  however,  pre- 
vent Dryhope  from  getting  a  summons 
from  Moorfield,  to  make  good  to  him 
10,000  merks — part  of  the  15,000,  paid 
by  him  to  his  son-in-law,  on  Dr3^hope's 
authority.  The  appearance  of  a  summons 
produces  always  a  curious  effect  upon  a 
man  who  relies  upon  his  own  thoughts  for 
a  conviction  that  he  is  not  liable  to  satisfy 
a  claim,  or  pay  a  debt.  It  is  something 
like  the  doctor's  apparatus  to  the  man 
who  will  not  believe  that  he  carries  in  his 
body  a  stone.  Dryhope  saw  the  matter 
had  now  a  serious  aspect ;  and,  relying 
no  further  upon  the  advice  of  his  country 
attorney,  went  to  Edinburgh,  to  consult 
Counsellor  Shillinglaw,  a  famous  advocate 
in  those  days,  taking  with  him  his  docu- 
ments, and  the  number  of  guineas  neces- 
sary to  make  the  oracle  speak. 

He  found  Shillinglaw  sittino;  in  his 
library,  dictating  a  paper  to  his  clerk,  who, 
though  apparently  sleeping,  was  making 
the  pen  skip  over  the  sparse  pages  with  a 
celerity  equal  to  the  motion  of  the  coun- 
sellor's tongue. 

"  Be  seated,  sir,"  said  the  man  of  law 
to  Dryhope.  "  In  what  manner  can  I 
assist  you,  sir." 

"  I'm  no  sure  if  ye  can  assist  me  ava, 
Mr.  Shillinglaw,"  said  Dryhope,  "  if  a' 
that  this  very  impolite  paper  has  tauld  me 
be  true  ;"  holding  out  the  summons. 

"  Oh  !  a  summons  on  a  L  tter  of  e;uaran- 


THE  SCHEMER. 


475 


tee,"  said  the  advocate,  glancing  over  the 
paper.  "  Where  are  the  letters  ?  I  see 
they  are  copied  in  the  libel.  Are  they 
correctly  copied  ?" 

^'  1  believe  there's  nae  great  error 
there,"  said  Dryhope.  "  I  fear,  if  a'  our 
hope  rests  on  the  discrepancy  o'  a  word 
or  twa  between  the  letters  and  the  copies 
o'  them  in  the  summons,  wehae  nae  great 
case  ;  an'  I  may  gie  up,  for  my  hope  will, 
in  that  event,  be,  as  my  name  implies,  dry 
enough." 

The  counsellor  kept  reading  the  paper  ; 
and,  after  taking  down  some  large  folios, 
and  looking  slightly  into  them,  asked 
Dryhope  some  questions,  eliciting  the  facts 
which  have  been  already  detailed  ;  and 
without  giving  him  any  reply,  resumed 
again  his  search  for  authorities  to  clear  up 
some  doubt  that  hung  about  his  mind. 
^'  Ay,  ay,"  thought  Dryhope,  "  is  there 
sae  meikle  doot  o'  my  case,  as  to  require 
the  touchstane  o'  thae  ponderous  law 
bibles  ^  In  a  law  plea,  doot  is  defeat  ; 
for  the  expense  o'  unravelling  it  is  aften 
mair  than  the  plea  is  worth." 

"  These  letters  which  passed  between 
you  and  Moorfield,  you  say,  are  correctly 
copied,"  began  the  lawyer.  "  You  also 
tell  me  that  old  Templeton  was  due  you 
10,000  merks,  by  a  bond  executed  by  him. 
Young  Templeton  was  his  heir,  and  so 
liable  to  pay  that  bond.  He  was,  in  truth, 
your  only  debtor.  You  had  no  other.  It 
would  seem  capable  of  proof,  too,  that  you 
called  on  Moorfield,  and  stated  to  him 
that  Templeton  was  not  in  debt ;  at  least, 
you  have  not  contradicted  this  part  of  Mr. 
Harvey's  letter.  But,  adhering  more  to 
the  documents,  it  seems  quite  imperative 
on  judge  or  jury,  to  view  Mr.  Harvey's 
letter  as  a  fair  legitimate  inquiry  at  you, 
as  the  supposed  creditor  of  Templeton, 
whether  he  owed  you  the  ten  thousand 
merks.  His  letter,  notwithstanding  that 
he  asks  you  whether  young  Templeton 
signed  to  you  a  bond,  and  thus  in  one  part 
of  it  limited  his  inquiry,  requires  this  fair 
and  honest  construction.     jN^ow,  what  does 


your  letter  say  .?  In  the  first  place,  you 
take  no  notice  of  the  part  of  his  letter  re- 
garding your  previous  communing ;  and 
in  law,  in  certain  circumstances,  silence  is 
an  admission.  You  then  give  a  categori- 
cal answer  to  the  question  put  to  you  ; 
and  your  answer  is  true,  for  young  Tem- 
pleton never  signed  the  bond,  though  he 
was  your  only  debtor  in  it.  Then — which 
is  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  your 
letter — you  assure  Mr.  Harvey  that  he  is 
safe  to  dower  his  daughter  with  15,000 
merks  to  Templeton — meaning,  of  course, 
that  the  safety  consisted  in  his  intended 
son-in-law  being  free  from  debt ;  and  you 
warrant  this.  The  plain  and  common- 
sense  import,  therefore,  of  your  letter, 
taken  in  connexion  with  Mr.  Harvey's, 
is,  that  you  led  him  to  believe  that  Mr. 
Templeton  was  not  burdened  with  the 
debt  of  10,000  merks  in  his  father's  bond; 
and  you  did  this  in  answer  to  a  letter 
stating  that  your  answer  would  decide 
whether  Mr.  Harvey  would  or  would  not 
pay  down  with  his  daughter  the  15,000 
merks,  or  indeed  give  his  daughter  to 
Templeton  at  all.  Then,  by  your  own 
admission,  it  appears,  that  you  assigned 
your  bond  to  your  son-in-law,  who  has 
forced,  or  is  forcing  Templeton  to  pay  the 
amount  of  it  out  of  the  very  dower  which 
you  said  Mr.  Harvey  was  safe  in  giving  to 
his  son-in-law.  The  next  inquiry  is,  cui 
bono,  what  was  your  object  in  this  proceed- 
ing. That  is  perfectly  clear.  You  want- 
ed payment  of  your  bond,  and  you  thought 
you  could  not  get  it  unless  your  debtor 
got  a  large  dowry  with  his  wife.  On 
putting  all  these  things  together,  I  am 
quite  clear  that  a  court  of  law  would  at 
once  find  that  you  have  practised  a  decep- 
tion ;  (excuse  my  freedom,  but  lawyers' 
tongues  are  like  surgeons'  knives)  ;  and 
it  is  a  principle  of  our  law,  as  it  is  of  that 
of  nature,  that  no  man  shall  enrich  him- 
self at  the  expense  of  his  neighbor." 

As  the  lawyer  had  taken  care  to  use  no 
fact  in  his  argument,  but  what  was  fm'- 
nished  by  Dryhope  himself,  the  astounded 


476 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ambidexter  had  nothing  to  say  for  himself. 
There  was  no  shame  in  his  constitution  to 
prevent  him  replying  ;  but  there  was  dis- 
comfiture and  disappointment  so  intense 
that  he  wished  for  nothing  more  ardently 
than  to  get  out  of  the  house,  and  vent  his 
curses  in  the  open  air.  Muttering  a  few 
words  to  the  lawyer  about  his  obligations 
to  him  for  his  opinion,  he  took  up  his  pa- 
pers, and  hurried  out.  Before  he  fully 
recovered  from  the  shock  produced  by  the 
opinion,  he  had  wandered  considerably 
out  of  his  way.  In  the  midst  of  his  anger, 
he  resolved  on  consulting  another  authori- 
ty, and  accordingly  proceeded  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Crosbie.  He  received,  how- 
ever, no  encouragement.  The  deception 
practised  by  him,  was  the  foundation  of 
the  opinions  that  were  given  against  him  ; 
and  all  his  critical  subtleties  about  con- 
structions and  readings  of  the  letters,  went 
for  nothing. 

Still,  however,  he  would  not  pay.  A 
discomfiture  to  a  cunning  man,  when  pro- 
duced by  the  sharpness  of  his  own  weapons 
turned  ascainst  himself,  contains  all  the 
elements  of  the  most  unmitigated  misery. 
The  mere  loss  of  anything,  by  a  slight 
carelessness,  annoys,  beyond  the  usual  ef- 
fects of  an  equal  loss  produced  by  means 
beyond  one's  power  ;  but  to  lose  in  the 
pride  of  an  expected  unjust  gain — to  have 
it  proved  that  one  has  robbed  his  own 
purse  and  fooled  his  own  judgment  at  the 
same  time — and  to  be  doomed  to  bear  at 
once  disappointment,  remorse,  shame,  and 
loss,  rising  in  a  united  array  against  one 
— is,  perhaps,  the  greatest  refinement  of 
mere  mental  agony  that  a  selfish,  cold- 
blooded man,  is  capable  of  experiencing 
in  this  world.  Dryhope  could  not  stand 
this,  and  resolved  to  try  the  question  in 
court. 

The  case  was  accordingly  tried.  Many 
other  facts  came  out  in  the  investigation. 
His  manoeuvres  with  Eccleshall,  Walter 
Tait,  and  Mr.  Harvey,  were  all  proved, 
and  a  clear  case  of  deception  completely 
established.     The  case  went  a2;ainst  him. 


and  he  was  obliged   to  pay  Moorfield  the 
whole  sum. 

The  exposure  of  Dryhope,  in  this  ne- 
farious business,  produced  no  effect  upon 
him  in  the  way  of  amendment  ;  but  it  was 
peculiarly  felt  by  his  daughter  Maria. 
She  was  so  much  affected,  that  she  could 
not  be  prevailed  upon  to  visit  at  any  of 
the  neighboring  houses.  Shame  preyed 
upon  her  spirits,  and  produced  a  delicate 
state  of  health.  The  consequences  might 
not  have  been  felt  in  an  ordinary  condi- 
tion of  body,  but  they  told  heavily  against 
her  on  the  occasion  of  her  bearing  her  first 
child.  She  relapsed — and,  in  a  very  short 
time,  died ;  and  her  child,  being  sent  to  a 
strange  nurse,  experienced  the  fate  of  the 
mother.  Dryhope's  expectations  in  that 
quarter  were  thus  disappointed,  partly  by 
his  own  proceedings  ;  for  it  was  only  after 
the  exposure  of  her  father  that  Mrs.  Tait 
betrayed  any  symptoms  of  bad  health. 

Upon  the  death  of  his  daughter,  Dry- 
hope  endeavored  to  prevail  upon  Waltei 
Tait  to  repay  him  the  6,000  merks  he  got 
with  his  daughter.  The  marriage  having 
proved  unavailing,  he  ought,  said  DryhopOy 
to  place  matters  on  their  former  footing, 
and  pay  him  back  the  tocher.  Walter 
Tait  saw  neither  law  nor  justice  in  this 
appeal,  and  refused  to  comply  with  the 
old  miser's  request.  But  Dryhope  had 
two  objects.  If  he  could  not  get  the  toch- 
er, he  might  get  Walter  Tait  still  to  marry 
Miss  Whitten,  and  take  her  from  his  son. 

"  This  is  hard,  Walter,"  said  Dryhope  ; 
"  I  wadna  hae  used  you  in  the  same  man- 
ner, if  I  had  been  placed  in  your  situation. 
But  maybe  ye  want  the  6,000  marks  to 
stand  in  place  o'  the  portion  o'  Eccles- 
ha's  daughter.  I'm  tauld  she's  vera  par- 
tial to  ye ;  an'  her  faither  said  to  me,  nae 
farther  gane  than  yesterday,  that  he  is  vera 
sorry  that  ye  took  offence  at  something  in 
liis  conversation  and  manner  athegither 
unkenned  to  himsel,  and  ceased  visitin  his 
house  as  weel  as  speakin  to  his  dochter. 
I  wish  the  family  every  blcssin,  and  ye 
ken   my   feelings   towards  yersel.       If    I 


THE  SCHEMER. 


477 


tbocht  ye  wad  resume  yer  auld  love,  and 
benefit  that  worthy  family  by  pittin  in  the 
place  o'  my  Maria,  Ecclesha's  dochter,  I 
wad  vera  freely  wish  ye  every  joy  o'  the 
tocher  ye  got  wi'  mine." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  wed  again,"  said 
Tait,  who  saw  the  drift  of  Dryhope  ;  "  but 
there's  one  thing  1  have  made  up  my  mind 
to,  and  that  is,  to  assist  your  excellent 
son  Hector  in  getting  a  good  wife.  I 
understand  he  is  on  the  point  of  marriage 
with  EccleshalPs  daughter,  who  I  know 
to  be  a  very  accomplished  and  kind- 
hearted  girl.  They  will  make  an  excel- 
lent couple  ;  and  as  1  understand  you  are 
averse  to  the  marriage,  and  intend  to  cut 
off  Hector  with  a  shilling,  while  Eccleshall 
has  very  little  to  give  his  daughter,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  make  a  present  to 
Hector  of  his  sister's  dower.  It  will  stand 
in  place  of  a  portion  with  his  wife,  and 
screen  them  against  the  effects  of  your 
anger  and  parsimony.  I  do  not  wish  any 
remarks  made  on  ray  conduct,  and  there- 
fore we  shall  change  this  subject,  and,  if 
you  please,  speak  upon  something  else." 

Dryhope,  however,  could  speak  on  no- 
thins;  else.  His  efforts  at  restraining  his 
passion  were  unavailing.  He  broke  out 
in  a  torrent  of  abuse  upon  Tait,  who  was 
latterly  obliged  to  call  up  his  servant  and 
show  his  worthy  father-in-law  to  the 
door. 

Tait  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Eccles- 
hall had  agreed  to  give  his  daughter  to 
Hector  Dryhope  ;  and  upon  their  mar- 
riage, which  took  place  as  soon  after  Ma- 
ria's death  as  custom  and  decency  would 
permit,  Tait  paid  to  Hector  the  6,000 
merks  which — being  a  large  sum  of  money 
in  those  times — when  joined  to  4,000  more 
which  an  uncle  of  the  young  lady  agreed 
to  pay  down,  formed  a  very  handsome 
fortune  to  the  couple,  who  were,  besides, 
blessed  in  possessing  the  pure  affections  of 
each  other. 

These  repeated  disappointments  soured 
the  temper  of  old  Dryhope.  The  neigh- 
boring lairds  shunned  his  society.     Books 


had  no  charms  for  him,  and  his  children 
were  dead  or  estranged  from  him.  There 
was  nothing  left  to  him  but  the  counting 
of  his  gold,  an  operation  which  grew  so 
delightful  to  him,  that  he  could  not  feel 
in  his  heart  to  make  a  will,  destinino-  it  to 
a  remote  heir  or  to  a  charitable  institu- 
tion, even  though  he  ardently  wished  to 
cut  off  his  son.  There  was  a  something 
in  the  giving  away,  by  the  mere  operation 
of  writing,  to  take  effect  after  his  death, 
of  so  much  money,  which  had  occupied  so 
much  time  in  collecting,  and  which  yield- 
ed so  much  pleasure  in  counting,  that  he 
could  not,  though  he  repeatedly  sent  for 
his  attorney  for  the  purpose,  bring  his 
mind  to  perform  the  act.  He  put  it  off 
from  day  to  day,  his  procrastination  being, 
by  every  move,  strengthened  by  the  weak- 
ness of  his  mind,  and  the  increase  of  his 
sordid  affections. 

Having  followed  this  course  for  many 
years,  still  keeping  up  his  enmity  towards 
his  son,  he  gradually  declined  into  dotage, 
and  became  unable,  from  the  decay  of  his 
faculties,  to  dispose  of  his  property.  The 
only  idea  that  remained  on  his  mind  with 
any  life  or  vividness,  was  that  of  hie 
wealth.  So  long  as  he  could  move,  he 
visited  his  coffers  ;  and  even  when  he  was 
confined  to  bed,  he  gratified  his  sole  re- 
maining feeling  by  getting  his  green  char- 
ter-chest into  his  bed,  where  he  amused 
himself  with  turning  over,  and  endeavoring 
to  read,  the  dry  monuments  of  his  riches. 
As  his  long  bony  fingers  fumbled  through 
the  cracking  parchment,  and  his  dry  lips 
muttered  the  sums,  and  debts,  and  lands 
he  possessed,  he  realized  an  image  which 
the  pencil  of  the  painter  and  the  pen  of 
the  poet,  successful  as  these  have  been, 
have  not  been  able  hitherto  to  portray.  It 
was  now  in  vain  to  think  of  making  a  set- 
tlement.  The  attorney  declared  that  the 
time  was  past,  and  no  power  on  earth 
could  now  prevent  Hector  Dryhope  from 
enjoying  the  property  of  his  ancestors. 

In  a  short  time  the  old  man  died  ;  and 
his  sou.  with  his  amiable  wife,  took  pos- 


478 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


session  of  the  bouse  and  property.     The  |  misfortunes  o'  oor  neebors."     Hector  re- 
fauits   of  his  father  were  tower-lights   to  !  collected  it ;  but  he   sighed  to  think  that   | 
the  son,  which  he  did  not  lose  the  advan-  {  the   word    *'  father'^    should   occupy   the  : 
tao-e  of.     It  used  to  be  a  proverb  of  the     place  of  the  corresponding  word   in  the 
father,  that  "  It  is  guid  to  learn  frae  the     adage. 


^.^>«- 


DIAMOND     CUT     DIAMOND. 


It  is  said  that  there  is  honor  amongst 
thieves  ;  and,  for  the  credit  of  the  corps, 
we  would  willingly  believe  it ;  but  the  fol- 
lowing story,  we  think,  will  show  that  in- 
stances of  bad  faith  have  been  sometimes 
known  to  occur  even    amongst  them,  to 
great  scandal  of  the  profession  generally. 
At  the  period  when  the  lucrative  trade 
of  thieving  was  in  its  high  and  palmy  state 
on  the  Borders,  there  flourished  a  certain 
pair  of  gentlemen  of  the  road,  called  Wal- 
ter Laidlaw,  or  Watty  o'  the  Dykes,  and 
Richard  Armstrong,  or  Halting  Dick— a 
soubriquet,  this,  which  he  derived  from  a 
slight  lameness  in  one  of  his  leirs.     These 
two    worthies  were  sworn  brothers ;    yet 
neither  of  them  would  trust  the  other  the 
length  of  a  stirrup  leather.     They  knew 
each  other  too  well  for  that ;  but,  as  this 
was  a  mutual  understanding,    it  was    no 
cause  of  quarrel ;  and  they  got  on  remark- 
ably well,  in  defiance  of  political  econo- 
mists, without  the  smallest  particle  of  con- 
fidence beius:  between  them.     The   busi- 
ness  they  did  in  the  way  hinted  at — for 
we  feel  a  delicacy  in  employing  broader 
terms  in  speaking  of  Walter  and  his  friend 
Dick — was  rather  of  a  small  kind  ;  some- 
where about  fourth  or  fifth -rate,  perhaps  ; 
although    they    certainly   did    sometimes 
make  hits  that  would  have  done  credit  to 
the   proudest   chieftain    on   the    Borders. 
What  trade,  however,  they  did  carry  on, 
whether  great  or   small,  was,  as  often  as 
possible,  done  jointly  ;  that  is,  their  de- 


predations— we  find  we  must  use  these 
ugly  terms  after  all — were  committed  in 
partnership  ;  but  the  proceeds  were  regu- 
larly divided,  and  appropriated  by  each 
separately  ;  and,  as  they  acted  on  all  oc- 
casion with  perfect  unanimity,  were  ex- 
tremely active  and  industrious,  and  rarely 
called  in  any  of  the  other  brethren  to  as- 
sist in  their  operations,  their  gains  were 
considerable.  Over  and  above  all  this,  so 
loving  were  this  worthy  couple,  that  when- 
ever the  one  heard  of  a  promising  thing, 
or  had  hit  upon  a  good  idea,  he  always 
gave  notice  of  it  to  the  other  ;  and  the  two 
generally  set  out  together  to  see  what 
could  be  made  of  it. 

On  one  occasion,  however,  it  happened 
that  Walter  found  it  inconvenient  to  ac- 
company Dick  on  a  certain  predatory  ex- 
pedition of  high  promise,  of  which  the  lat- 
ter had  given  him  the  hint ;  and  Dick 
was  therefore  under  the  necessity  of  go- 
ing alone.  This  he  did ;  and  the  result, 
after  all,  was  most  satisfactory.  He  se- 
cured a  score  of  excellent  well-conditioned 
sheep.  These,  Dick  drove  homewards 
during  the  night,  from  a  distance  of  a  good 
many  miles  ;  but,  notwithstanding  all  the 
expedition  he  could  use,  morning  threat- 
ened to  break  upon  him  before  he  could 
reach  his  own  house  ;  and  in  this  dilemma 
he  determined,  though  not  without  much 
reluctance,  to  quarter  them  with  his  friend 
Walter,  whose  domicile  lay  in  the  way, 
until  the  following  evening. 


DIAMOND  CUT  DIAMOND. 


479 


It  was  with  great  reluctance,  as  we  liave 
said,  that  Dick  came  to  this  resolution  ; 
for  he  had  sore  misgivings  with  regard  to 
their  safety  in  Walter's  possession — in 
other  words,  he  by  no  means  felt  sure  that 
he  would  ever  get  them  out  of  his  hands 
again,  as  he  had  the  highest  opinion  of  his 
friend's  ingenuity  in  appropriating  other 
people's  goods,  and  of  his  tenacity  in 
holding  them  when  once  in  his  grasp, 
whether  they  belonged  to  friend  or  foe. 
But,  on  this  occasion,  there  was  no  other 
course  left  him  ;  so  he  deposited  the  sheep 
with  Walter,  who  congratulated  him  on 
his  success,  and  promised  to  keep  them 
snug  and  safe  for  him  till  he  came  for 
them  on  the  following  night. 

On  the  following  night,  Dick  came  and 
demanded  his  sheep. 

''  Sheep  !  "  exclaimed  Walter,  with 
well-affected  astonishment.  "  What 
sheep,  Dicky,  my  man,  do  ye  mean  ?" 

"  What  sheep,  Watty,  do  I  mean  .?" 
said  Dick,  in  real  amazement.  "  The 
sheep  I  left  wi'  ye  last  night,  to  be 
sure." 

"  Sheep  ye  left  wi'  me,  Dicky !"  re- 
plied Walter.  "  The  deil  a  cloot  o' 
sheep  o'  yours  ever  I  saw.  The  man's 
gite  !" 

*'  Are  ye  in  jest  or  earnest,  Watty  .?" 
inquired  Dick,  with  increased  amazement. 

"  Never  was  mair  in  earnest  in  my  life," 
said  W^atty,  coolly. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  deny  that  I  left  a 
score  o'  sheep  wi'  ye  last  night,  and  that 
ye  promised  to  keep  them  safe  for  me  till 
I  cam  for  them  .?  Do  ye  mean  to  deny 
that  .^"  said  Dick,  emphatically. 

*'  Most  stoutly,"  replied  Watty,  with 
the  utmost  composure.  "  I  canna  confess 
to  what's  no  true.  My  conscience  forbids 
me  to  do  that.  I  haena  now,  nor  ever  had 
a  tail  belangin  to  ye  Dick." 

"  And  ye  mean  to  stan'  by  that,  through 
thick  and  thin  .'''  said  Dick,  with  one  of 
blankest  looks  imaginable  ;  for  he  saw  that 
his  sheep  were  gone  gear. 

"  That  I  do,"  replied  the  other.  "  Tak 


my  word  for  that.  The  deil  a  sheep  yese 
get  frae  me  on  ony  sic  silly  pretence  as 
that  ye  hae  mentioned." 

By  this  time,  Dick  had  recovered  a  lit- 
tle ;  and,  moreover,  by  this  time,  also,  a 
brisrht  idea  had  struck  him. 

"  Vera  weel,  Watty — vera  weel,"  he 
said,  with  a  sudden  cheerfulness  of  man- 
ner, that  not  a  little  surprised  Watty  him- 
self;  "  you  and  I'll  no  quarrel  about  twa 
or  three  sheep.  Keep  them,  in  gude's 
name,  and  rauckle  guid  may  they  do  ye  !" 
And  during  the  short  time  thit  the  friends 
remained  together,  subsequently,  Dick 
made  no  further  allusion  to  the  sheep,  but 
spoke  on  indifferent  matters,  as  if  nothing 
whatever  had  happened. 

For  some  weeks  after  this,  matters  went 
on  with  the  two  friends  precisely  as  before. 
They  went  on  several  expeditions  together, 
and  were,  to  all  appearance,  on  as  friendly 
terms  as  ever  ;  neither  of  them  making 
the  slightest  allusion  to  the  small  matter 
of  the  sheep  that  was  between  them. 
About  the  end  of  this  period,  however, 
Dick  again  appeared  one  morning  early, 
at  Walter's  door,  with  another  score  of 
sheep,  and  besought  a  similar  favor  with 
that  he  had  asked  on  the  former  occasion 
— namely,  that  Walter  would  quarter  them 
till  the  following  night.  With  this  request, 
the  latter  readily  complied.  But,  on  this 
occasion,  Dick  was  accompanied  by  two 
or  three  assistants  of  the  same  kidney 
with  himself,  who  counted  over  the  sheep 
in  Walter's  presence,  and  saw  them  de- 
livered to  him. 

On  the  following  evening,  Dick  called 
for,  and  at  once  obtained  his  sheep,  for 
there  had  been  witnesses  to  the  delivery  ; 
and  Watty,  aware  of  this,  did  not  attempt 
a  denial,  as  he  had  done  before,  as  he  felt 
such  a  proceeding  would  endanger  his  re- 
putation with  the  craft. 

Having  got  possession  of  his  sheep,  Dick 
bade  his  friend  good  night,  and  went  re- 
joicing on  his  way. 

Next  night,  however,  Dick  again  called 
on  his  friend,  Watty,  and   carefully  con- 


480 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


cealing  all  expression  of  consciousness  of 
having  been  there  on  the  preceding  even- 
ing, demanded  his  sheep  over  again. 

"  Your  sheep,  Dick  !"  said  Watty,  in 
amazement.  "  Did  ye  no  get  them  a', 
every  tail,  last  night  .^" 

"  What  tails,  Walter,  my  man,  do  yc 
mean  ?"  said  Dick,  gravely. 

"  What  tails  should  I  mean  .-"  replied 
Walter,  now,  in  his  turn,  amazed  at  Dick's 
effrontery  ;  "  but  the  tails  o'  the  sheep  I 
delivered  to  ye  last  night." 

"  Sheep  ye  delivered  to  me,  Watty  !" 
said  Dick,  with  imperturbable  gravity. 
"  Deil  a  cloot  ye  gae  me,  last  night.  The 
man's  gite." 

"  Come,  now,  ye're  jokin,  Dicky,"  ex- 
claimed Walter,  with  a  most  rueful  ex- 
pression of  countenance. 

"  Never  was  mair  in  earnest  in  my  life," 
replied  Dick. 

"  What !  do  ye  mean  to  deny  that  I 
gied  ye  a  score  o'  sheep,  last  night  .^" 

"  Most  stoutly,"  answered  his  perse- 
vering, immovable,  and  determined  assail- 
ant.    "  1  canna  confess  to  what's  no  true. 


It  would  gang  against  my  conscience. 
War's  yer  witnesses  that  I  got  the  sheep  ? 
Ye've  nane  ;  while  I  can  prove  that  I  put 
a  score  under  yer  charge,  last  night,  and 
ye  canna  show  that  they've  been  returned 
to  me.  Thae  sheep,  therefore,  Watty,  I 
still  claim  ;  and  if  ye  refuse  them,  I'll  ex- 
pose ye,  and  ye'll  lose  a'  credit  wi'  the 
craft.  Sae,  frcen,  just  gie  me  up  another 
score  without  mair  ado,  and  then  you  and 
I'll  be  quits,  and  no  a  bit  waur  freens  than 
ever  we  war." 

Wat  o'  the  Dykes  saw  at  once  that  he 
was  in  a  dilemma — that  Dick's  ingenuity 
had  fairly  reversed  their  relative  positions, 
and  that  he  must  refund.  On  this  fact 
becoming  evident  to  him,  he  thought  for 
a  moment,  then  burst  out  a  lausrhin^  in 
his  friend's  face,  and  confessed  that  he 
was  "  clean  done  for."  This  admission 
he  followed  up  by  restoring  Dick's  sheep 
to  him,  and  it  was  never  understood  that 
this  little  breach  of  confidence  had  the 
slightest  injurious  effect  on  the  sincere 
friendship  which  subsisted  between  the 
two  worthies. 


-♦^♦^►^ 


THE  SCOTTISH  HUNTERS  OF  HUDSON'S  BAY. 


The  gloom  of  a  boisterous  winter  evening 
was  settling  over  one  of  the  wild,  inhospi- 
table tracts  which  lie  to  the  north  of  the 
St.  Lawrence.  The  earth,  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  was  covered,  to  the  depth  of 
many  feet,  by  a  continuous  sheet  of  frozen 
snow ;  over  which  the  bellying  clouds, 
heavily  charged  with  the  materials  of  a 
fresh  storm,  hung  in  terrible  array,  fold 
beyond  fold,  as  they  descended  on  every 
side  to  mingle  with  the  distant  horizon. 
On  the  one  hand,  a  frozen  lake,  deeply 
buried,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  landscape, 
stretched   its   flat,  unvaried   surface   for 


leagues  along  the  waste  ;  on  the  other,  a 
windint'^  shore,  covered  with  stunted  trees 
and  bushesj  alternately  advanced  into  the 
level,  in  the  form  of  low,  long  promonto- 
ries, or  retired  into  little  hollow  bays, 
edged  with  rock,  and  overhung  by  thick- 
ets of  pine.  All  was  sublimely  wild  and 
desolate.  The  piercing  north  wind  went 
whistling  in  sudden  gusts  along  the  frozen 
surface  of  the  lake,  dashing  against  cack 
other  the  stiff,  brittle  branches  of  the  un- 
derwood, and  shaking  off  their  icicles,  or 
whirlin<^'  the  licjhter  snow  into  huge  co- 
lumns^  that  ever  and  anon  went  stalking 


THE  SCOTTISH  HUNTERS   OF  HUDSON'S  BAY. 


481 


along  the  waste  like  giants,  and  seemed  at 
times  to  thrust  their  foreheads  into  the 
very  clouds.  Not  a  single  human  habita- 
tion— not  so  much  as  the  wigwam  of  an 
Indian,  or  aught  that  could  give  evidence 
of  even  the  occasional  visits  of  man — 
could  be  seen  in  the  whole  frozen  circle, 
from  the  centre  to  the  horizon.  All  seem- 
ed alike  uninhabitable  and  uninhabited — 
a  dreary  unpeopled  desert,  the  undisputed 
domain  of  solitude  and  winter. 

And  yet,  on  this  dismal  evening,  the 
landscape  was  enhvened  by  two  human 
figures.  They  were  mounted  on  a  rude 
sledge,  drawn  by  four  large  dogs,  that  now, 
as  the  evening  began  to  darken,  were  urg- 
ing their  way  at  full  speed  across  one  of  the 
wider  bays  of  the  lake.  The  keen,  pene- 
tratino;  wind  blew  riy;ht  a-head,  so  intense- 
ly  chill  that  it  felt  to  the  naked  hand  like 
a  stream  of  ice  ;  and  the  travellers,  who 
were  seated,  with  their  backs  to  the  blast, 
on  the  front  part  of  the  car,  and  who  from 
time  to  time  half  turned  their  heads  to 
direct  the  course  of  the  dogs,  drew  closer 
and  closer  together  as  they  felt  their  limbs 
stiffening,  and  a  drowsy  torpor  stealing 
over  all  their  faculties,  under  the  deaden- 
ing influence  of  the  cold.  They  were 
dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  the  skins  of 
wild  animals,  with  hoods,  like  those  worn 
by  the  Esquimaux,  projecting  over  their 
faces,  and  long  strips  of  some  thick,  coarse 
fur  wrapped  in  a  spiral  fashion  round  their 
limbs.  One  of  them — a  robust,  dark- 
complexioned  young  man,  rather  above 
the  middle  size — had  an  Indian  blanket 
bound  round  his  shoulders ;  the  other — 
who,  though  tall  and  well-made,  was  of  a 
rather  slighter  form,  and  much  less  deeply 
bronzed  by  the  climate — was  closely  en- 
veloped in  the  thick  folds  of  a  Scotch 
plaid. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Sandy,  it's  all  over  with 
us,"  said  Innes  Cameron,  the  fairer  and 
handsomer  of  the  two  ;  "  I  have  been  dead 
asleep  for  the  last  ten  minutes — ah,  me  ! 
and  dreaming  of  Scotland  too,  and  of  one 
I  shall  never,  never  see  more.     Do  you 

VOL.  ir.  68 


think  there  can  be  any  chance  of  our  yet 
reaching;  the  log-house  .^" 

"  I  have  been  more  than  half  asleep 
too,"  said  Sandy  Munro,  the  more  robust 
traveller,  "  and  my  feet  are  ice  to  the 
ankles  ;  but,  if  we  can  hold  out  for  barely 
one  quarter  of  an  hour  longer,  we  are  safe. 
Pine  Creek  Point  is  quite  at  hand — see 
how  it  stretches  black  across  the  snow 
yonder,  not  four  hundred  3^ards  away  ;  and, 
hearken  !  you  may  hear  the  wind  whistling 
through  the  branches.  There  is  a  little 
bay  beyond  it,  and  the  log-house  is  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bay.  Just  strive  and  keep 
up  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  Innes,  and 
we  shall  get  over  this  night  with  all  the 
rest." 

The  sledge  reached  the  promontory, 
and  entered  the  wood.  It  was  thick  and 
dark ;  and  there  was  a  rustling  and  crack- 
ling on  every  side,  as  the  dogS  went 
boundincr  amons;  the  underwood — their 
ears  and  tails  erected,  and  opening  from 
time  to  time  in  quick,  sharp  barkings, 
sure  indications  that  they  deemed  them- 
selves near  the  close  of  their  journey. 
The  trees  began  to  open  ;  and,  descending 
an  abrupt  ice  declivity,  the  travellers 
found  themselves  on  the  edge  of  a  narrow 
creek,  that  went  winding  into  the  interior, 
between  steep  banks  laden  with  huge  piles 
of  snow,  which,  hollowed  by  the  blast  into 
a  thousand  fantastic  forms,  hung  bellying 
over  the  level.  A  log-house,  buried  half- 
way to  the  eaves  in  front,  and  overtopped 
by  an  immense  wreath  behind — resem- 
bling some  hapless  vessel  in  the  act  of 
foundering — occupied  an  inflection  of  the 
bank  opposite  the  promontory  ;  and,  in  a 
few  minutes,  the  travellers  had  crossed  the 
creek,  and  stood  fronting  the  door. 

"  Ah,  no  kindly  smoke  comes  frae  the 
lum,  Innes,"  said  Sandy,  leaping  out  of 
the  car;  "all  dark,  too,  as  midnight  at 
Yule  ;  but  we  maun  just  bestir  ourselves 
and  get  up  a  blaze.  Do  exert  yourself, 
my  bonny  man,  or  we  shall  perish  yet. 
Unfasten  the  dogs,  an'  be  sure  you  hang 
up  the  harness  out  of  their  reach,  or  the 


482 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


puir  hungry  wratches  will  eat  it  up,  every 
snap,  afore  morning.  Unfasten  the  door, 
too,  and  get  out  our  driest  skins  an'  driest 
tinder;  and  1,  meanwhile,  shall  provide 
you  with  brushwood  enough  to  keep  up  a, 
bonfire  till  morning." 

He  seized  an  axe,  and  began  to  ply 
lustily  among  the  underwood ;  while  his 
neighbor  unharnessed  the  dogs,  and,  clear- 
ing the  door,  entered  the  log-house,  which 
soon  began  to  throw  up  a  thick  steam 
through  the  snow.  We  shall  take  the 
liberty  of  following  him.  The  apartment 
was  about  ten  feet  square  ;  the  walls  form- 
ed of  undressed  logs,  and  the  roof  of  shin- 
gles. The  snow  peeped  in  a  hundred  dif- 
ferent places  through  the  interstices ;  and 
a  multitude  of  huge  icicles,  the  effects  of 
a  late  partial  thaw,  hung  half  way  down 
from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  and  now, 
glistened  in  the  light  as  the  flames  rose 
gaily  on  the  hearth.  The  dogs  were  whin- 
ing and  pawing  in  a  corner,  impatient  for 
their  evening  repast.  In  a  few  minutes 
Sandy  had  half  filled  the  apartment  with 
brush-wood,  and  then  set  himself  to  assist 
his  companion,  who  seemed  but  indifi"erent- 
ly  skilled  in  the  culinary  art,  in  preparing 
supper,  which  consisted  mostly  of  frozen 
fish  and  biscuit,  relished  by  a  dram  of  ex- 
cellent rum.  It  was  soon  smokinor  on  the 
floor,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  doo-s, 
soon  discussed ;  and  the  two  fiir-gatherers 
sat  indulging  in  the  genial  heat,  with  the 


lonar  dark 


before  them,  and  nei- 


ther of  them  in  the  least  disposed  to  re- 
tire to  the  bed  of  brushwood  and  skins 
which  they  had  formed  on  the  floor,  imme- 
diately behind  them. 

"  We  are  strange,  changeable  crea- 
tures," said  Sandy—"  the  bairn  sticks  to 
us  a'  life  lang  ;  an'  if  we  dinna  laugh  an' 
cry  just  in  the  ae  breath,  it's  no  that  the 
feelings  dinna  vary,  but  that  the  pride  o' 
consistency  winna  always  let  us  show  what 
we  feel.  Little  mair  nor  an  hour  aofo  we 
were  baith  perishing  in  the  bitter  oauld, 
half  resigned  to  die  that  we  might  escape 
frae  our  misery,  and  noo  here  we  are  as 


happy  as  if  there  were  no  such  things  as 
death  or  hardship  i'  the  warld.  !Man, 
what  a  bonny  fire  !  I  could  raaist  forget 
that  1  was  a  puir  Hudson's-Bay  fur" 
gatherer,  an'  that  kindly  Scotland  was 
four  thouvsand  miles  awa." 

"  What,"  said  his  companion,  "  could 
have  induced  a  steady,  sensible  fellow  like 
you,  Sandy,  to  indenture  with  the  Compa- 
ny }  'Tis  easy  to  divine  what  brought 
most  of  our  comrades  here — they  resem- 
ble David's  associates  in  the  cave  of  Adul- 
lum ;  but  you,  who  could  have  been  nei- 
ther in  debt  nor  distress,  and  who  are 
always  so  much  the  reverse  of  discontent- 
ed— I  could  never  guess  what  brought  you. 
Come,  now,  let  us  have  your  story ;  the 
night  is  long  and  tedious,  and  1  know  not 
how  we  could  pass  it  to  better  purpose." 

"But  I  do,"  replied  Sandy.  "My 
story  is  nae  story  ava.  I  am  but  a  rude 
man  amang  rude  men  like  mysel ;  but  you, 
Innes,  what  could  hae  brought  you  here  t 
You  are  a  gentleman  an'  a  scholar,  though 
ye  hae  but  sma'  skill,  maybe,  in  niifering 
brandy  an'  glass  beads  for  the  skins  o' 
foumarts ;  an'  your  story,  no  a  vera  gay 
one  I  fear,  will  hae  a'  the  interest  o'  an 
auld  ballad.  It's  but  fair,  however,  that 
ye  should  hae  mine,  such  as  it  is,  first. 
But  draw  just  a  wee  bittie  out  o'  the 
draught ;  for  there's  a  cauld,  bitter  win' 
soughin  ben  frae  the  door — an'  only  hear 
how  the  storm  rages  arout !" 

"  There's  a  curious  prejudice,"  con- 
tinued Sandy,  "  among  our  countryfolks, 
an',  I  suppose,  among  the  folks  o'  every 
other  country  besides,  against  some  par- 
ticular handicrafts.  It's  foolish  in  maist 
cases.  The  souters  o'  Selkirk  were  gal- 
lant fellows ;  an',  had  a'  our  Scottish 
knights  fought  half  as  weel  at  Flodden, 
our  country  would  hae  lost  a  battle  less ; 
an'  yet  you  canna  but  ken  how  our  auld 
poets,  o'  the  time — Dunbar,  an'  Kennedy, 
an'  Davie  Lindsay — ridicule  the  puir  sou- 
ters. They  say  that,  once  on  a  time,  the 
vera  deil  himsel  wadna  keep  company  wi' 
ane  o'  them  till  he  had  first  got  the  puir 


THE   SCOTTISH   HUNTERS   OP  HUDSON'S  BAY. 


483 


man  to  wash  himsel.  Noo,  the  prejudice 
against  tailors  is  hardly  less  strong  in  our 
ain  da^'s ;  an'  yet  a  tailor  may  ho  a  stal- 
wart fallow,  an'  bear  a  manly  heart.  I'm 
no  sure,  had  it  no  been  for  this  prejudice, 
that  I  would  noo  hae  been  a  fur-gatherer 
on  the  shores  o'  Hudson's  Bay." 

"  Would  to  Heaven,"  exclaimed  his 
companion,  interrupting  him,  ''  that  I  had 
been  bred  a  tailor  !  I'm  mistaken  if  any 
such  prejudice  would  have  sent  me  across 
the  Atlantic." 

"  We  can  be  a'  wise  enough  on  our 
neebor's  weaknesses,  Innes,"  said  Sandy; 
"but  to  the  story." 

"  I  come  frao  a  sea-port  town  in  the 
north  o'  Scotland,  no  twenty  miles  frae 
Inverness,  your  ain  bonny  half  Hieland, 
half  Lowland  home.  My  father,  who  had 
married  late  in  life,  was  an  old  grey-head- 
ed man  from  the  time  1  first  remember 
him.  He  had  a  sma'  family  ;  an',  in  his 
anxiety  to  see  us  a'  doing  for  oursels,  I 
was  apprenticed  to  a  tailor  in  my  tenth 
year.  Weel  do  I  mind  wi'  what  a  discon- 
solate feelino;  I  left  the  twa  cows  I  used 
to  herd  on  a  bonny  brae-side  speckled  wi' 
gowans  an'  butter-cups,  to  be  crumpled 
down  on  the  corner  o'  a  board  hardly  big- 
ger than  an  apron,  amang  shreds  an' 
patches  o'  a'  the  colors  o'  the  rainbow, 
wi'  an  outlook  through  a  dusty  window  on 
the  side  wa's  o'  an'  auld  warehouse.  An' 
then  my  comrades  were  such  queer  fal- 
lows, fu  o'  a  droll,  little,  wee  sort  o'  con- 
ceit that  could  ride  on  the  neck  o'  a  new 
button,  an'  a  warld  o'  fashions  bits  o' 
tricks,  nae thing  sae  guid  as  the  tricks  o' 
a  jackanapes,  but  every  grain  as  wicked  ; 
an'  aften  hae  they  played  them  aff  on  the 
puir  simple  laddie.  There  are  nane  o'  oor 
craftsfolks,  Innes,  but  hae  some  peculiari- 
ty to  mark  them  that  grows  up  oot  o' 
their  profession,  an'  there's  nae  class  mair 
marked  than  the  class  1  belong  to." 

"  I  have  read  Lamb  on  the  melancholy 
of  tailors,"  said  Innes,  "  and  remember 
laughing  heartily  at  the  quaint  humor  of 
some  of  his  remarks  ;  but  I  never  wasted  a 


thought  on  the   subject  after   laying  him 
down.'' 

"Ah,  Lamb,  wi'  a'  bis  bonny,  bairn- 
like humor  an'  simplicity,"  said  Sandy, 
"  is  but  a  Cockney  feelosopher  after  a', 
an'  kent  nacthino;  o'  the  matter.  Melan- 
choly  o'  tailors,  forsooth  !  Why,  man,  a 
Hieland  tailor  is  aye  the  heartiest  cock, 
an'  has  aye  the  maist  auld  stories  in  the 
parish.  But  I  maun  gie  you  the  feeloso- 
phy  o'  the  thing  at  some  ither  time. — I 
got  on  but  ill  wi'  my  companions,"  con- 
tinued Sandy  ;  "  an'  the  royitous  laddies 
outside  used  to  jibe  me  wi'  no  being  a  man 
sax  years  afore  I  ceased  being  a  boy.  Is 
it  no  hard  that  tailors  should  lose  the 
reputation  o'  manhood  through  a  stupid 
misconception  o'  the  sense  o'  an  auld- 
warld  author  ?  He  tells  us  the  tailor  can- 
na  make  a  man,  just  in  the  spirit  that 
Burns  tells  us  a  king  canna  mak  an  honest 
man.  An'  instead  o'  the  pith  o'  the  re- 
mark beinn;  brousjht  to  bear  on  the  beau 
an'  the  coxcomb,  wha  never  separate  the 
human  creature  frae  his  dress,  it's  brought, 
oot  o'  sheer  misapprehension,  to  bear 
against  the  puir  artisan." 

"  I  see,  Sandy,"  said  Innes,  with  a 
smile,  "  you  are  still  influenced  by  Vesprit 
de  corps.  If  you  once  get  back  to  Scot- 
land, you  wdll  take  to  your  old  trade,  and 
die  a  master  tailor." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  I  were  there  to 
try !"  replied  Sandy.  "  But  the  story 
lags  wofully.  I  got  on  as  I  best  could — 
longing  sadly,  i'  the  lang  bonny  days  o' 
simmer,  to  be  oot  amang  the  rocks  o'  the 
Sutors  or  on  the  sea,  an'  in  winter,  think- 
ing o'  the  Bay  o'  Udoll,  wi'  its  wild  ducks 
an'  its  swans,  an'  o'  the  gran  fun  I  could 
hae  amang  them  wi'  my  auld  pistol — whan 
my  master  employed  an  auld  ae-legged 
sodger  to  work  wi'  him  as  a  journeyman. 
He  was  a  real  fine  fellow,  save  that  he 
liked  the  drap  drink  a  wee  owre  weel, 
maybee  ;  an'  he  had  wandered  owre  half 
the  warld.  He  had  been  in  Egypt  wi' 
Abercromby,  an'  at  Corunna  wi'  Moore, 
an'  o'er  a'  Spain  an'  at  Waterloo  wi'  Wei- 


484 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


lington,  an'  in  mony  a  land  an'  in  mony  a 
fio-ht  besides  ;  and  noo  he  had  come  hame 
wi'  a  snug  pension,  an'  a  budget  o'  first- 
rate  fine  stories,  that  made  the  ears  tingle 
an'  the  heart  beat  higher,  to  live  an'  die 
amang  his  freends.  Oh,  the  delight  I 
have  taen  in  that  man's  company  !  Why, 
Innes,  at  pension  time,  though  I  never 
cared  muckle  for  drink  for  its  ain  sake, 
I  have  listened  to  his  stories  i'  the  public- 
house  till  I  have  felt  my  head  spinning 
round  like  a  tap,  an'  my  feet  hae  barely 
saired  to  carry  me  hame.  I  have  charged 
Bonaparty's  Invincibles  wi'  him,  fifty  an' 
fifty  times,  an'  helped  him  to  carry  off 
Moore  frae  beside  the  thorn  bush  where 
he  fell,  an'  scaled  wi'  him  the  breach  at 
St.  Sebastian;  an',  in  short,  sae  filled  was 
I  wi'  the  spirit  o'  the  sodger,  that,  had 
the  wars  no  been  owre,  I  would  hae  broken 
my  indentures,  an'  gane.  awa  to  break 
heads  an'  see  foreign  countries.  As  it 
was,  however,  I  learned  to  like  my  em- 
ployment ten  times  waur  nor  ever,  an'  to 
break  a  head,  noo  an'  then,  amang  the 
town  prentices.  Spite  o'  my  close,  in- 
door employment,  I  had  grown  stalwart 
an'  strong ;  an'  1  mind,  on  ae  occasion, 
beating  twa  young  fallows  who  had  twitted 
me  on  being  but  a  ninth.  Weel,  the  term 
o'  my  apprenticeship  cam  till  an  end  at 
last ;  an',  flinging  awa  my  thimble  wi'  a 
jerk,  and  sending  my  needle  after  it  like 
an  arrow,  I  determined  on  seeing  the 
warld.  My  crony,  the  auld  veteran, 
advised  me  to  enter  the  army.  I  was 
formed  baith  in  mind  an'  body,  he  said, 
for  a  sodger ;  an'  if  I  took  but  care — a 
thing  he  never  could  do  himsel — I  micht 
dee  a  sergeant.  But  whatever  love  I 
micht  hae  for  a  guid  fecht,  I  had  nane  for 
the  parade,  an'  my  through  dread  and  de- 
testation o'  the  halberds  o'er-mastered 
ony  little  ambition  I  micht  hae  indulged 
in  when  I  dreamt  o'  a  battle.  I  thoct  o' 
a  voyage  to  Greenland — o'  ganging  a- 
sodgering  wi'  Lord  Byron  to  Greece — o' 
emigrating  to  New  South  Wales  or  the 
Cape — o'  turning  a  farmer  in  the  back- 


woods— o'  indenturing  for  a  Jamaica  over- 
seer— o'  going  oot  to  Mexica  for  a  miner 
— ay,  an'  o'  fifty  ither  plans  besides — 
whan  an  adverteesment  o'  the  Hudson's- 
Bay  Company  caught  my  notice  an'  de- 
termined me  at  once.  I  needna  tell  ye 
what  the  Directors  promised  to  active 
young  men  :  a  paradise  o'  a  country  to  live 
in— the  fun  o'  huntino;  and  fishin?:'  frae 
Monday  to  Saturday  nicht  for  our  only 
wark,  an'  pocketfu's  o'  money  for  our  pay. 
I  blessed  my  stars,  an'  closed  wi'  the 
agent  at  ance.  An'  noo,  here  I  am,  In- 
nes, in  the  seventh  year  o'  my  service — 
no  that  meikle  disposed  to  contemn  my 
auld  profession,  an'  mair  nor  half  tired  o' 
huntinsr,  fishing,  and  seeinsf  the  warld. 
But  just  twa  months  mair,  my  boy,  an'  I 
am  free.  An'  noo,  miiy  I  no  expect  3'our 
story  in  turn .'" 

The  wind,  which  had  been  rising  since 
nightfall,  now  began  to  howl  around  the 
lofif-house  and  throuo;h  the  neio-hborins: 
woods,  like  the  roar  of  the  sea  in  a  storm. 
There  was  an  incessant  creaking  among 
the  beams  of  the  roof,  and  the  very  floor 
at  times  seemed  to  rise  and  fall  under  the 
foot,  like  the  deck  of  a  vessel,  which,  after 
having  lain  stranded  on  the  beach,  has  just 
begun  to  float.  The  storm  which  had 
been  so  long  impending  burst  out  in  all  its 
fury,  and  for  some  time  the  two  fur-gath- 
erers, impressed  by  a  feeling  of  natural 
awe,  sat  listening  to  it  in  silence.  The 
sounds  rose  and  fell  by  intervals — at  times 
sinking  into  a  deep,  sullen  roar,  when  all 
was  comparatively  still  around  ;  at  times 
swelling  into  thunder.  In  a  pause  of  the 
blast,  Sandy  rose  and  flung  open  the  door. 
Day  had  sunk  more  than  two  houi'S  before, 
and  there  was  no  moon,  but  there  was  a 
strong  flare  of  greenish-colored  li^ht  on 
the  snow  that  served  to  discover  the  ex- 
treme dreariness  of  the  scene  ;  and  throuirh 
a  bore  in  the  far  north,  resembling,  as  San- 
dy said,  the  opening  of  a  dark  lantern,  he 
could  see  that,  beyond  the  cloud,  the  hea- 
vens were  all  a  flame  with  the  aurora  bore- 
alis.     Earth  and  sky  seemed  mingled  •  the 


THE  SCOTTISH  HUNTERS  OF  HUDSON'S  BAY. 


485 


snow,  loose  and  fluctuating,  and  tossing  its 
immense  wreaths  to  the  hurricane,  resem- 
bled the  sea  in  a  storm,  when  the  waves 
run  highest ;  the  ice,  though  so  deeply 
covered  before,  lay  in  some  places  dark 
and  bare,  while  in  others,  beneath  the 
precipices,  the  drift  had  accumulated  over 
it  to  the  depth  of  many  fathoms.  Again 
the  blast  came  roaring  onwards  with  the 
fury  of  a  tornado,  and  Sandy  shut  and 
bolted  the  door. 

"  Ane  o'  the  maistfrighfu  nights,  Innes," 
he  said,  "  1  ever  saw  in  America.  It  will 
be  weel  if  we're  no  baith  buried  a  hunder 
feet  deep  afore  morning,  wi'  the  log  house 
for  our  coflfin.  The  like  happened,  aboot 
twenty  years  syne,  at  Badger  Hollow, 
where  twa  puir  cheilds  were  covered  up 
till  their  skulls  had  grown  white  aneath 
their  bannets.  But,  though  alane  an'  in 
the  desert,  we're  no  oot  o'  the  reach  o' 
Providence  yet." 

"  Ah,  no,  my  poor  friend,"  said  Innes, 
"  1  do  not  feel  in  these  days  that  life  is 
highly  desirable  ;  but  nature  shrinks  from 
dissolution,  and  I  am  still  fain  to  live  on. 
A  poet,  Sandy,  would  view  our  situation 
at  present  with  something  like  complacen- 
cy ;  but  I  am  afraid  he  would  deem  your 
story,  amusing  as  it  is,  little  in  keeping 
with  the  scene  around  us,  and  a  night  so 
terrible  as  this.  I  can  scarcely  ask  a  tai- 
lor if  ho  remembers  the  little  bit  in  '  Thala- 
ba,'  where  the  cave  of  the  Lapland  sorcer- 
ess is  described  1  The  lono;  nisht  of  half 
a  year  has  closed,  and  wastes  of  eternal 
snow  are  stretching  around  ;  while  in  the 
midst,  beside  her  feeble  light  that  seems 
lost  in  the  gloom  of  the  cavern,  the  sor- 
ceress is  seated,  ever  drawing  out  and  out 
from  the  revolving  distaff  the  golden  thread 
of  destiny. 

"  I  mind  better,"  replied  Sandy, 
"  Jamie  Hogg's  wild  story  o'  my  brother 
craftsman,  Allan  Gordon,  an'  hoo  he  win- 
tered at  the  Pole  in  the  cabin  o'  a  whomilt 
Greenlandman,  wi'  Nannie  an'  a  rum  cask 
for  his  companions.  Dear  me,  hoo  the 
roarino-s    o'   the    bears    outside    used    to 


amaze  the  puir  cheild  every  time  he  was 
foolish  enough  to  let  himsel  grow  sober  ! 
But,  Gudesake,  Innes,  what's  that .?" 

There  was  something  sufficiently  fright- 
ful in  the  interruption.  A  fearfully  pro- 
longed howl  was  heard  outside,  mingling 
with  the  hurricane,  and,  in  a  moment  af- 
ter, the  snorting  and  pawing  of  some  ani- 
mal at  the  door.  Sandy  snatched  up  his 
musket,  hastily  examined  the  pan,  to  as- 
certain that  his  powder  had  escaped  the 
damp,  and  setting  it  on  full  cock,  pointed 
it  to  the  place  whence  the  noises  proceed- 
ed. Innes  armed  himself  with  a  hunting 
spear.  The  sounds  were  repeated,  but  in 
a  less  frightful  tone  :  they  were  occasioned 
evidently  by  a  dog  whining  for  admittance. 
"  Some  puir  brute,"  said  Sandy,  '^  who 
has  lost  his  master."  And,  opening  the 
door,  a  large  Newfoundland  dog  came 
rushing  into  the  hut.  With  more  than 
brute  sagacity,  he  flung  himself  at  the  feet 
of  the  fur-gatherers,  as  if  imploring  pro- 
tection and  assistance ;  and  then,  spring- 
ing up  and  laying  hold  of  the  skirts  of 
Sandy's  blanket,  he  began  to  tug  him  vio- 
lently towards  the  door. 

"  Let  us  follow  the  animal,"  said  Innes  ; 
"  it  may  be  the  means  of  rescuing  a  fellow- 
creature  from  destruction ;  his  master  I 
am  convinced,  is  perishing  in  the  snow.'' 

"  I  shall  not  fail  you,  Innes,"  exclaimed 
Sandy  ;  and,  hastily  wrapping  their  plaids 
around  them,  and  snatching  up  the  one  a 
loaded  musket,  the  other  a  bottle  of  spirits, 
the  fur-gatherers  plunged  fearlessly  into 
the  storm  and  the  darkness. 

A  greenish-colored  light  still  glimmered 
faintly  from  the  north,  through  the  thick 
drift  and  the  falling  snow,  too  faint  indeed 
to  enable  them  to  catch  the  outlines  of 
surrounding  objects,  but  sufficient  to  show 
them  the  dog  moving  over  the  ice  a  few 
yards  before  them,  like  a  little  black  cloud. 
They  followed  hard  in  his  track  towards 
the  bottom  of  the  creek.  The  steep  banks 
on  either  hand  contracted  as  they  advanced, 
till  at  length  they  could  see  their  shagged 
summits  high  above  them  in  the  darkness, 


486 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


and  could  hear  the  storm  ragiug  in  the 
pines,  though  it  had  become  comparatively 
calm  in  the  shelter  below.  The  creek  at 
length  terminated  in  a  semicircular  recess, 
surrounded  by  a  steep  wall  of  precipices. 
The  dog  bounded  forward  to  a  fissure  in 
the  rock — and  there,  at  the  edge  of  a  huge 
wreath  of  snop,  which  half  shut  up  the  en- 
trance, lay  what  seemed,  in  the  uncertain 
light,  the  dead  body  of  a  man.  The  dog 
howled  piteously  over  it,  breathed  hard  in 
the  face,  and  then  looked  up  im23loringly 
to  the  fur -gatherers.  lunes  leaped  over 
the  wreath  followed  by  Sandy,  and,  on 
raising  up  the  body  found,  though  the  ex- 
tremities were  stiff  and  cold  as  the  ice  on 
which  it  lay,  that  life  was  not  yet  extinct, 

"  Some  unlucky  huntsman,"  said  San- 
dy ;  "  we  maun  carry  him,  Inncs,  to 
the  log-house  :  life  is  sweet  even  anions; 
the  deserts  o'  Hudson's  Ba3\"  The  per- 
ishing hunter  muttered  a  few  syllables, 
like  a  man  in  the  confusion  of  a  dream. 

''  It  grows  dark,  Catherine,"  ho  said, 
"  and  I  am  sick  at  heart  and  cold." 

"  Puir,  puir  fellow  !''  exclaimed  Sandy 
— "  he's  thinking  o'  his  wife  or  sweetheart ; 
but  he'll  no  perish  this  time,  Innes,  if  we 
can  help  it.  Pity,  man,  for  the  car  an' 
dogs ;  but  minutes  are  precious,  an'  we 
maun  just  lug  him  wi'  us  as  we  best  may.'' 
Rolling  their  plaids  around  the  almost 
lifeless  stranger,  the  fur-gatherers  bore 
him  away  over  the  ice,  the  dog  leaping 
and  barking  with  very  joy  before  them  ; 
and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  they  had  all 
reached  the  loff-house. 

The  means  of  restoring  suspended  ani- 
mation with  which  the  casualties  of  so 
many  Hudson's-Bay  winters  had  made 
Sandy  well  acquainted,  were  resorted  to 
on  this  occasion  with  complete  success  ; 
and  the  stranger  gradually  recovered.  He 
proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  trusted  and 
influential  of  the  Company's  managers — a 
native  of  Scotland,  and  much  loved  and 
respected  among  the  inferior  retainers  of 
the  settlement,  for  an  obliging  disposition 
and  great  rectitude  of  principle.     He  was 


a  keen  sportsman,  and  had  left  his  place  of 
residence  in  the  morning,  on  a  solitary  hunt- 
ing excursion,  accompanied  only  by  his  dog. 
But,  trusting  to  his  youth,  and  strength, 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  hunter  had  drawn 
him  mile  after  mile  from  home  ;  and,  on 
the  breaking  out  of  the  storm,  he  had  lost 
his  way  among  the  interminable  bays  and 
creeks  of  the  lake.  On  his  recovery,  he 
was  profuse  in  his  expressions  of  gratitude, 
and  meant  all  that  he  said.  He  was,  per- 
haps, not  much  afraid  to  die,  he  remarked, 
but  then  he  had  many  inducements  to  live, 
and  there  were  more  than  himself  who  had 
a  stake  in  his  life,  and  who  would  feel 
grateful  to  his  preservers. 

"  Compose  yourself,"  said  Innes  ;  "  you 
have  been  strangely  tried  to-night,  and 
your  spirits  are  still  much  flurried.  Set 
yourself  to  sleep,  for  never  had  man  more 
need ;  and  my  companion  and  I  shall 
watch  beside  you  during  the  night.  Re- 
member you  are  our  patient,  and  entirely 
under  our  control."  The  manager  good- 
humoredly  acquiesced  in  the  prescription, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  after  was  fast 
asleep. 

"  Noo,  Innes,"  said  Sandy,  "  as  there's 
to  be  no  bed  for  us  to-night,  you  maunna 
forget  that  you're  pledged  to  me  for  your 
story.  Remember,  my  bonny  man,  our 
bargain  when  ye  got  mine." 

"  I  do  remember,"  replied  Innes  ;  "  but 
I  well  know  you  will  be  both  tired  and 
sleepy  ere  I  have  done." 

"  1  have  long  had  a  liking  for  you,  San- 
dy," continued  Innes — "  I  knew  you  from 
the  first  to  be  a  man  of  a  different  cast 
from  any  of  our  fellows  ;  and,  ever  since  I 
saw  you  take  part  with  the  poor  Indian, 
whom  the  two  drunken  Irishmen  attempted 
to  rob  of  his  rum  and  his  wife,  1  have  wished 
for  your  friendship.  It  is  not  good  for^en 
to  be  alone,  and  I  have  been  by  much  too 
solitary  since  I  entered  with  the  Company. 
You  were,  when  in  Scotland,  the  victim 
of  a  silly  prejudice  against  an  humble,  but 
honest  calling,  but  you  could  have  lived 
in  it  notwithstanding,  had  not  a  love  for 


THE   SCOTTISFI   HUNTERS   OF   HUDSON'S  BAY 


487 


wandering  drawn  you  abroad.  I,  on  tlio 
contrary — tliougli,  liko  the  hare  with  many 
friends,  I  was  a  favorite  with  every  one — 
was  literally  starved  out  of  it  My  father 
was  a  gentleman  farmer,  not  thirty  miles 
from  Inverness,  whom  the  high  war  prices 
of  cattle  and  grain  had  raised  from  com- 
parative poverty  to  sudden,  though  short- 
lived affluence.  No  man  could  be  more 
sanguine  in  his  hopes  for  his  children. 
He  had  three  boys,  and  all  of  us  were  edu- 
cated for  the  liberal  professions,  in  the  full 
belief  that  we  were  all  destined  to  rise  in 
the  world,  and  become  eminent.  Alas  ! 
my  brother,  the  divine,  died  of  a  broken 
heart,  a  poor  overtoiled  usher  in  an  Eng- 
lish academy ;  my  brother,  the  doctor, 
perished  in  Greenland,  where  he  had  gone 
as  the  surgeon  of  a  whaler,  after  waiting 
on  for  years  in  the  hope  of  some  better  ap- 
pointment ;  and  here  am  I,  a  lawyer — 
prepared  to  practise,  as  soon  as  we  get 
courts  established  among  the  red  men  of 
Hudson's  Bay.  But  I  anticipate.  I  am 
not  sure  nature  ever  intended  that  I  should 
stand  high  as  a  scholar  ;  but  I  was  no  tri- 
fler,  and  so  passed  through  the  classes 
with  tolerable  eclat.  I  am  not  at  all  con- 
vinced, either,  that  I  possess  the  capabili- 
ties of  a  first-rate  lawyer  ;  but  I  am  cer- 
tain I  have  seen  men  rise  in  the  world 
with  not  more  knowledge,  and  with,  per- 
haps, even  less  judgment  to  direct  it. 
What  1  chiefly  wanted,  1  suspect,  was  a 
genius  for  the  knavish  parts  of  the  pro- 
fession. Will  you  believe  me  when  I  say 
I  have  known  as  mucli  actual  crime  com- 
mitted in  the  office  of  a  pettifogging  coun- 
try lawyer,  as  I  ever  saw  tried  in  a  Sheriff 
Court.  Oh,  what  finished  rascality  have 
I  not  seen  skulking  under  shelter  of  the 
statute-book  ! — what  remorseless  blacken- 
ing of  character,  for  the  sake  of  a  paltry 
fee  ! — what  endless  breaches  of  promise  ! 
— what  shameless  betrayals  of  trust !  — 
what  reckless  waste  of  property  !  Sandy 
JNiunro,  I  am  a  poor  Hudson's  Bay  fur- 
gatherer,  and  can  indulge  in  no  other  hope 
than  that  I  shall  one  day  lay  my  bones  at 


the  side  of  some  nameless  creek  or  jungle  ; 
but  rather  that,  a  thousand,  thousand 
times,  than  affluence,  and  influence,  and  re- 
spectability— ay,  respectability — through 
the  wretched  means  by  which  1  have  seen_ 
all  these  secured  I" 

"  You  are  an  honest  cheild,  Innes," 
said  Sandy,  grasping  him  by  the  hand.  "  I 
have  had  a  regard  for  you  ever  since  I  first 
saw  you  ;  an'  the  mair  I  ken  o'  you  the 
mair  my  respect  rises." 

"  My  father,"  continued  Junes,  "  was 
respectably  connected  ;  I  had  a  turn  for 
dress,  a  tolerably  genteel  figure,  and  was 
fond  of  female  society ;  and,  during   the 
four  years  I  served  with  the  lawyer  in  In- 
verness, I  found  myself  a  welcome  guest  in 
all  the  more    respectable    circles    of  the 
place.   Scarcely  a  tea-drinking  or  dancing 
party  was  got  up  among  the  elite  of  the 
burgh,  but  I  was  sure  of  an  invitation.     I 
danced,  played  on  the  flute,  handed  round 
the  tea  and  the  sweetmeats — all^ar  excel- 
lence— and  was  quite  an  adept  in  the   art 
of  speaking   a  great  deal  without  saying 
anything.     In  short,   I  became  a  most  ac- 
complished trifler — an   effect,  perhaps,  of 
my  very  imperfect  love  of  my  profession. 
The  men  who  rise  to  eminence,  you  know, 
rarely  begin  their  course  as  fine   fellows  ; 
and,  were   it   not  for   a   circumstance   to 
which  I  owe   more   of  my  happiness  and 
more    of  my   misery  than    to  any  other,  T 
would  have  had  to  attribute  ray  failure  in 
life  less   to   an   untoward  destiny  than  to 
the  dissipation  of  this  period.     But  I  was 
taught  diligence  by  the  very  means  through 
which  most  young  people  are  W7itaught  it. 
I  fell  in  love.     There  was  a*  pretty,  simple 
lassie,  the  daughter  of  one  of  the   bailies 
of  the  place,  whom   J   used  frequently  to 
meet  with  in  our  evening  parties,  and  with 
whose    appearance   1   was  mightily  taken 
from  the   moment   I  first  saw  her.     She 
united,  in  a  rare  degree,  all  the  elegance 
of  the  young  lady  with  all  the   simplicity 
of  the  child  ;  and,  with  better   sense  than 
falls  to  the  share  of  nineteen  twentieths  of 
her  sex,  was  more  devoid  than  any  one  1 


488 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


ever  knew  of  their  characteristic  cunning. 
You  have  heard,  I  dare  say,  that  young 
ladies  are  anxious  about  getting  husbands  ; 
but,  trust  me,  it  is  all  a  mistake.  The 
anxiety  is  too  natural  a  one  to  be  experi- 
enced by  so  artificial  a  personage  as  the 
mere  young  lady.     It  is   not  persons  but 


things 


she  longs   after- 


■settlements,   not 


sweethearts.  1  have  had  a  hundred  young- 
lady  friends  who  liked  my  youth  and  gen- 
tility, and  who  used  to  dance,  and  romp, 
and  chat  with  me,  with  all  the  good  will 
possible,  but  who  thought  as  little  of  me 
as  a  sweetheart  as  if  1  were  one  of  them- 
selves. Thoughts  of  that  tender  class 
were  to  be  reserved  for  some  rich  Indian, 
with  a  complexion  the  color  of  a  drum- 
head, and  a  liver  like  a  plum-pudding. 
This  bonnie  lassie,  however,  was  born — 
poor  thing  ! — with  natural  feelings.  We 
met,  and  learned  to  like  one  another — we 
sang  and  laughed  together — talked  of 
scenery  and  the  belles  lettres — and,  in 
short,  lost  our  hearts  to  one  another  ere 
we  so  much  as  dreamed  that  we  had  hearts 
to  lose.  You  must  be  in  love,  Sandy,  ere 
all  I  could  tell  you  could  give  your  ade- 
quate notions  of  the  happiness  I  have  en- 
joyed with  that  bonny,  kind-hearted  lassie. 
Love,  1  have  said,  taught  me  diligence,  I 
applied  to  my  profession  anew,  determined 
to  be  a  lawyer,  and  the  husband  of  Cathe- 
rine. I  waded  through  whole  tomes  of 
black-letter  statutes,  studied  my  way  over 
forty  folios  of  decisions,  and  did  what  I 
suppose  no  ona  ever  did  before — read  j 
Grigor  on  the  game-laws.  Not  half-a-  j 
dozen  practitioners  in  the  country  could  ; 
draw  out  a  deed  of  settlement  with  equal  I 
adroitness — not  one  succeeded  in  putting 
fewer  double  meanings  into  a  will.  My 
master  used  to  consult  me  on  convey- 
ancing ;  and,  when,  at  the  expiry  of  my 
term,  1  left  his  office  and  set  up  for  my- 
self, you  will  not  wonder  it  was  with  the 
hope  that  my  at  least  average  acquirements 
would  secure  for  me  an  average  portion  of 
success.  You  will  see  how  that  hope  was 
realized.     *'  The  father  of  my  sweetheart 


was,  as  I  have  said,  an  Jnvernoss  ba'lie  ; 
he  was  extensively  engaged  in  trade,  and 
all  deemed  him  a  rising  man  ;  but  the  case 
was  otherwise.  An  unlucky  speculation, 
and  the  unexpected  failure  of  a  friend, 
involved  him  in  ruin  ;  and  I  saw  his  office 
shut  up  not  three  weeks  aft<3r  1  had  opened 
my  own.  A  week  after  brought  me  the 
intelligence  of  my  father's  death.  He  had 
been  sinking  in  the  world  for  years  before  ; 
getting,  much  against  his  will,  into  ar- 
rears with  every  one  ;  and  now,  imme- 
diately on  his  death,  all  his  eflfects  were 
seized  by  the  laird.  He  was  an  easy- 
tempered,  obliging  man — credulous  and 
confiding — and  hence,  perhaps,  his  mis- 
fortunes. You  will  deem  me  cold  and 
selfish,  Sandy,  to  speak  in  this  way  of 
my  father  ;  and  yet,  believe  me,  1  felt 
as  a  son  ought  to  feel ;  but  repeated 
blows  have  a  stupifying  efiect,  and  1  can 
now  tell  you,  with  scarcely  a  twinge,  of 
hopes  blighted  and  friends  lost.  All  my 
hopes  of  rising  by  my  profession  soon 
failed  me.  ISo  one  entered  my  office. 
Though  not  without  some  confidence  in  my 
acquirements,  as  you  may  see,  I  have  ever 
had  a  sort  of  shamefaced  bashfulness  about 
me,  that  has  done  me  infinite  harm.  People 
were  afraid  to  trust  their  cases  with  one  who 
seemed  to  mistrust  himself — the  forward, 
the  impudent,  and  the  unprincipled  car- 
ried off  all  the  employment,  and  I  was 
left  to  starve." 

''  Honest,  unlucky  cheild  I"  ejaculate  d 
Sandy,  with  a  profound  yawn.  "  One 
might  guess,  by  the  way  ye  bargain  wi' 
the  Indians,  that  ye  hae  a  vast  deal  owre 
little  brass  for  makin  a  fortune  by  the  law. 
But  what  came  o'  your  puir  simple  lassie, 
Innes,  when  her  father  broke  .'" 

"  Ah,  dear,  good  girl,"  replies  Innes, 
"  with  all  her  simplicity,  she  was,  by 
much,  better  fitted  for  making  her  way 
through  the  world  than  her  lover.  She 
was  highly  accomplished,  drew  beautifully, 
read  Chateaubriand  in  the  original,  and 
had  a  pretty  taste  for  music.  Through 
the  recommendation  of  a  friend,  she  was 


THE  SCOTTISH  HUNTERS  OF  HUDSON'S  BAY. 


489 


engaged  as  governess  in  the  family  of  a 
Highland  proprietor,  in  which,  when  I 
left  Scotland,  she  continued  to  be  em- 
ployed— well,  I  trust,  for  her  own  happi- 
ness— usefully,  1  am  sure,  for  others.  I 
shall  forget  many  things,  Sandy,  ere  1  for- 
get the  day  1  passed  with  her  on  the  green 
top  of  Tomnahurichy  ere  we  parted,  as  it 
proved,  for  ever.  You  know  that  beau- 
tiful hill — the  queen  of  all  our  Highland 
Tomkans — with  the  long  winding  canal  on 
the  one  side,  and  the  brattling  Ness  on 
the  other,  and  surrounded  by  an  assem- 
blage of  the  loveliest  hills  that  ever  dressed 
in  purple  and  blue.  It  was  a  beautiful 
day  in  early  spring,  and  the  sun  shone 
cheerily  on  a  hundred  white  cottages  at 
our  feet,  each  looking  out  from  its  own 
little  thicket  of  birch  and  laburnum,  and 
on  the  distant  town,  with  its  smoke-wreath 
resting  over  it,  and  its  two  old  steeples 
rising  through.  The  world  was  busy  all 
around  us  :  we  could  see  the  ploughman 
following  his  team,  and  the  mariner  warp- 
ing onward  his  vessel ;  the  hum  of  eager 
occupation  came  swelling  with  the  breeze 
from  the  far-off  streets — and  yet  there 
was  I,  a  poor  supernumerary  among  the 
millions  of  my  countrymen,  parting  almost 
broken-hearted  from  her  whom  I  loved 
better  than  myself,  just  because  there  was 
no  employment  for  me.  Oh,  the  agony  of 
that  parting  !  But  'tis  past,  Sandy,  and 
'tis  but  folly  thus  to  recall  it.  No  one,  as 
I  have  already  told  you,  ever  thought  of 
entering  my  office — no  one,  save  my 
landlord  and  the  old  woman  with  whom  I 
lived ;  and  you  may  believe  there  was 
little  of  comfort  in  their  visits.  I  was  in 
arrears  to  the  one  for  rent,  and  to  the 
other  for  lodging.  So  far  was  I  reduced, 
that,  in  passing  through  the  old  woman's 
room,  I  have  been  fain  to  take  a  potato 
from  off  her  platter,  and  that  single  potato 
has  formed  my  meal  for  the  time.  On  one 
occasion  1  was  for  two  days  together  with- 
out food." 

*'  Goodness  !     gracious  !"     exclaimed 
Sandy — "  what    came    o'    a'    the    grand 


freends  that  used  to  gie  ye  the  teas  and 
suppers  ?     Had  they  nae  bowels  ava  .^" 

"  I  would  sooner  have  starved,  Sandy, 
than  have  made  my  wants  known  to  the 
best  of  them.  But  there  was  one  on 
whom  I  had  a  nearer  claim,  to  whom  I 
applied  in  vain  ;  a  brother  of  my  father — 
a  close  old  hunks,  who,  though  he  had 
realized  thousands  as  a  ship-broker  in 
London,  had  not  heart  enough  to  part 
with  a  shilling  for  the  benefit  of  his  poor 
nephew.  But  I  believe  the  wretched  man 
was  well-nigh  as  unkind  to  himself  as  he 
was  to  me,  and,  in  the  midst  of  his  wealth, 
liired  nearly  as  ill.  You  are  getting  sleepy, 
Sandy,  and  I  daresay  'tis  little  wonder  you 
should ;  but  I  find  a  melancholy  satisfac- 
tion in  thus  retracing  the  untoward  events 
of  the  past,  which  I  am  certain  I  could  not 
feel,  did  conscience  whisper  that  my  mis- 
fortunes were  in  any  great  degree  owino-  to 
myself.  Well,  but  to  conclude.  I  be- 
came squalid  and  shabby;  all  the  ladies 
sent  me  to  Coventry,  and  all  the  gentle- 
men spurned  me  as  a  fellow  of  no  spirit. 
I  had  mistaken  my  profession,  it  was  said  ; 
and  blockheads,  who  had  been  guiltless  of 
a  single  new  idea  all  their  lives  long,  used 
to  repeat  from  one  another  that  my  father, 
in  making  a  wretched  lawyer  of  me,  had 
spoilt  a  good  ploughman.  I  could  bear  no 
longer.  The  Hudson "s-Bay  Company  had 
an  agent,  you  know,  at  Inverness.  I 
called  on  him  one  evening  after  a  day  of 
listing  and  miserable  low  spirits — and  now 
here  I  am  in  the  second  j^ear  of  my  ser- 
vice with  the  Company." 

"  But  hoo,  Inncs,  man,"  inquired  San- 
dy, "  could  ye  hae  found  heart  to  leave 
Scotland,  without  seeing  the  puir  lassie, 
your  sweetheart?  Do  ye  ken  aught  o' 
her  noo  ?" 

"  Know  of  her  !"  exclaimed  Innes  ; 
''  alas  !  I  too  surely  know  i  have  lost  her. 
The  last  thing  but  one  that  I  did  ere  I 
sailed  from  Stromness,  was  to  write  her, 
to  say  how  I  had  fallen  from  all  my  hopes 
regarding  her,  and  to  bid  her  forget  me  ; 
the  very  last  thing  I  did  was  to  cry  over  a 


490 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


kind,  cheerful  letter,  which  had  followed 
mo  all  the  way  from  Inverness,  and  in 
which  she  ur2;ed  me  to  keep  up  my  heart, 
for  that  all  would  yet  be  well  with  us. 
Little  did  she  know,  when  writing  it,  that 
I  was  on  the  eve  of  becoming — a  poor 
vagabond  fur-gatherer  on  the  wild  shores 
of  Hudson's  Bay.  Dear,  generous  girl ! 
I  trust  she  is  happy." 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  the  manager,  who, 
unknown  to  the  two  fur-gatherers,  had  lain 
awake  for  some  time,  listening  to  the  nar- 
rative, ''  may  I  ask  if  you  are  not  Innes 
Cameron,  late  of  Inverness,  only  surviving 
son  of  Colin  Cameron  of  Glendocharth}?-, 
and  nephew  of  the  lately  deceased  ?vlalachi 
Cameron,  of  Upper  Thames  st.,  London  .^" 

"  1  am  that  Innes  Cameron,"  said  the 
fur-gatherer  ;  "  and  so  my  poor  old  uncle 
is  dead  .^" 

"  And  having  died  intestate,"  continued 
the  manager,  "you,  as  heir-at-law,  suc- 
ceed to  his  entire  estate,  personal  and 
real,  consisting  of  a  property  of  a  few  hun- 
dred acres  in  the  vicinity  of  Inverness,  and 
twenty  thousand  pounds  vested  in  the  three 
per  cents.  A  considerable  remittance  from 
London  has  been  waiting  you  for  the 
last  month,  at  the  Hawk  River  Settlement, 
and,  what  you  will  deem  very  handsome 
in  the  circumstances,  a  free  discharge  from 
the  Company  for  your  five  remaining 
years'  servitude.  I  am  actino;  manao-er  at 
the  River,  and  to  my  care  the  whole  has 
been  committed." 

Innes  seemed  astounded  by  the  intel- 
ligence ;  his  gayer  companion  leaped  up 
and  performed  a  summerset  on  the  floor. 

*'  Innes,  Innes,  Innes  !"  he  exclaimed — 
"  why  are  3^0  no  dancing  } — why  are  ye 
no  dancing  ;  Did  I  no  ken  ye  were  born 
to  be  a  gentleman  }  I  maun  hae  a  double 
glass  to  drink  luck  to  ye  ;  and  Pm  sure 
the  manager  winna  say  no.  Goodness, 
man,  it's  the  best  news  I  have  heard  in 
America  yet !" 

Morning  at  length  broke — a  calm,  clear 
morning,  for  the  clouds  had  passed  away 
with  the  storm,  and  the  travellers,   after 


j  sharing  in  an  ample,  though  not  very  de- 
licate repast,  prepared  to  set  out  on  their 
journey.  The  dogs  were  harnessed,  and 
the  car  laden.  The  manager,  who,  from 
the  fatigue  and  exhaustion  of  the  previous 
night,  still  felt  indisposed,  was  mounted  in 
front ;  the  two  fur-gatherers  were  lacing 
on  their  snow-shoes  to  follow  on  foot.  At 
length  the  sun  rose  far  to  the  south, 
through  a  deep  frosty  haze,  that  seemed  to 
swaddle  the  horizon  with  a  broad  belt  of 
russet,  and  the  travellers  set  out  in  the 
direction  of  a  distant  promontory  of  the 
lake.  The  snow  all  around,  the  woods 
that  rose  thick  over  the  level,  the  over- 
hano-inof  banks  of  the  lake,  the  hills  in  the 
far  distance,  were  all  bathed  in  one  rich 
glow  of  crimson,  that  more  than  emulated 
the  blush  of  a  summer's  evening  at  sunset ; 
the  shadows  of  the  travellers,  as  they 
stretchedfor  many  fathoms  across  the  lake, 
had  each  a  moonlifrht  halo  round  the  head, 
like  the  glory  in  an  old  painting  ;  and  the 
very  air,  laden  with  frost  rhime,  sparkled 
to  the  sun,  like  the  gold  water  of  the  che- 
mist. The  scene  was  altogether  strangely, 
I  had  almost  said  unnaturally  beautiful  ; 
it  was  one  of  those  which,  once  seen,  are 
never  forgotten. 

"  You  have  been  silent,  Innes,"  said 
Sandy,  "  for  the  last  half  hour,  an'  look 
as  wae  an'  anxious  as  if  some  terrible  mis- 
chanter  had  befallen  ye.  I'll  wad  the 
best  quid  in  my  spleuchan,  ye  hae  been 
thinking  about  Catharine  Roberts,  an'  0' 
your  chance  0'  finding  her  single.  Pd 
advise  ye,  man,  just  for  fear  0'  a  disap- 
pointment, to  marry  the  manager's  sister  ; 
she's  ane  0'  the  best,  bonny  lassies  I  ever 
saw,  an'  plays  strathspeys  an'  pibrochs  like 
an  angel.  Oh,  had  ye  but  heard  her  at 
'  Lochaber  no  more,'  an'  the  '  Flowers  0' 
the  Forest,'  ye  wad  hae  grat  like  a  bairn, 
as  I  did.  Dear  me,  but  she's  a  fine  lassie  ! 
Had  I  as  many  thousands  as  ye  hae,  In- 
nes, I  wad  marry  her  myseP." 

"  How  came  3'ou  to  hear  her  music  V* 
asked  Innes, in  atone  that  showed  he  took 
but  little  interest  in  the  query. 


THE  SCOTTISH  HUNTERS  OF  HUDSON'S  BAY 


491 


"  Ah,  there's  a  story  belongs  to  that 
question,"  replied  Sandy.  "  It's  about  a 
month  or  twa  mair  nor  a  twelvemonth 
noo,  sin  Tam  M'Intyre  an'  I  set  out  frae 
Racoon  Settlement,  on  ane  o'  the  weariest 
an'  maist  desperate  journeys  I  have  yet 
taen  in  America.  About  Christmas,  a 
huntsman,  in  passing  the  settlement,  tauld 
us  there  was  to  le  a  gran'  ball  on  New 
Year's  Day  at  the  Hawk  River,  an'  that 
there  were  to  be  four  Scotch  lassies  at  it, 
who  had  come  owre  the  simmer  afore, 
forby  a  bonny  young  leddie,  the  manager^s 
sister.  The  river,  ye  ken,  is  no  mickle 
aboon  twa  hundred  miles  frae  Racoon 
Settlement,  an'  Tam  M'Intyre  an'  I,  who 
for  five  years  hadna  seen  a  living  creature 
liker  a  woman  than  an  Indian  squaw,  re- 
solved on  going  to  the  ball,  to  see  the 
lassies.  We  yoked  our  sledges  on  a  snell 
frosty  morning,  s-et  out  across  the  great 
lake,  an'  reached  the  log-house,  at  Bear's 
Point,  about  dark.  We  got  up  a  rousing 
fire,  an'  drunk  maybe  a  glass  or  twa  extra 
owre  our  cracks  about  Scotland  an'  the 
lassies  ;  but  I'll  tak  my  aith  on't  there  was 
neither  o'  us  meikle  the  waur.  But,  how- 
ever it  happened,  about  midnight  we  baith 
awakened  mair  nor  half  scomfisht,  an' 
there  was  the  roof  in  a  bright  lowe  aboon 
our  heads.  MTntyre  singed  a'  his  whis- 
kers an'  eebrees  in  getting  out ;  I  was 
luckier,  an'  escaped  wi'  the  loss  only  o' 
my  blanket  an'  our  twa  days'  provisions. 
But  we  just  couldna  help  it ;  an'  yokin 
our  dogs  by  the  light  o'  the  burnin,  off  we 
set,  weel  aware  that  we  wad  baith  miss  our 
breakfasts  ere  we  reached  the  Hawk  River. 
We  travelled  a'  that  day  an'  a'^  the  next 
night,  the  dogs  hearty  an'  stronof,  puir 
brutes,  for  we  had  been  lucky  enough  to 
get  the  hinder  half  o'  a  black  fox  in  a  trap 
— the  other  half  had  been  eaten  by  the 
wolves  ;  but  ourscls,  Inncs,  were  like  to 
famish.  When  morning  came,  we  were 
within  thirty  miles  o'  the  Hawk  River. 
There  was  little  wind,  but  the  frost  burned 
like  het  iron.  I  dinna  remember  asneller 
morning.     M'Intyre  had  to  thaw  his  nose 


three    times,  an'  my  chin   an'   ears  had 
twice  got  as  hard  as  bits  o'  stockfish.    We 
had  rubbed  off  a'  the  skin  in  trying  to  mak 
the  blood  circulate,  an'  baith  our  faces  had 
so  swelled  out  o'  the  size,  an'  shape,  an' 
color  o'  humanity,  that,  when  we  reached 
the  settlement,  we  were  fain  to  steal  into 
an  outside  hut,  just  that  the  lassies  mightna 
see  us,     Man,  but  it  was  a   sair  beg-eck  ! 
The  ball  night  came^  an'  we  were   still 
uglier  than  ever,   an'  I  thought   I  would 
hae  gane  daft  wi'   vexation.     We   could 
hear  the  noise  o'  the  fiddles,  an'  the  dancin 
— an'  that  was   just  a'.     M'Intyre    had 
some  thoughts  o'   hanging  himsel  oot  o' 
spite.     Just  when  we  were  at  the  warst, 
however,  a  genteel  tap  comes  to  the  door  ; 
an'   there  was  a  smart   bonny  lassie  wi' 
a  message   to  us  frae   her  mistress,  the 
manager's  sister.      We  were  asked  down, 
she  said  ;  her  mistress,  hearing  o'  our  mis- 
luck,  and  that  we  had  baifh  come  frae  the 
north  country,  had  got  up  a  snug  little 
supper  for  us,  where  there  would  be  none 
to  ferlie  at  us,   an'  was  noo  waiting  our 
eominor.      Was  this   no  kind,   Innes }     I 
made  a  veil  o'  my  plaid  as  I  best  could, 
MTntyre  mufQed  himself  up  in  a  napkm, 
an  aff  we  went  to  the  manager's.     But,  O 
man  !  sic  kindness  frae  sae  sweet  a  leddy ! 
She  sang  an'  played  till  us — an'  weel  did 
it  set  her  to  do  baith  ;  an'  mixed  up  our 
toddy  for  us — for  we  were  gey  blate,  as  ye 
may  think  ;  an',  on  taking   our  leave,  she 
shook  ban's  wi'  us,  as  gin  we  had  been 
her  equals.      I've  never  been  fule  eneugh 
to  be  in  love,  Innes — begging  your  pardon 
for  saying  sae — but  I  feel  I  could  lay  down 
my  life   for  that  bonny  lassie    ony   day. 
Weel,  but  kindliness  is  a  kindly  thing  !" 

"  What  is  the  young  lady's  name  .'"'  in- 
cj^uired  Innes,  with  some  eagerness,  as  a 
sudden  thought  came  across  him.  "  Her 
brother,  1  think,  calls  her  Catharine." 

"  Ah,  no  your  Catharine,  though,"  said 
Sandy;  "  the  manager's  name  is  Pringle, 
ye  ken,  an'  that's  no  Roberts." 

"  1  am  a  fool,"   replied  Innes,  with  a 


sigh  ;  ''^  and  you  see  it,  Sandy." 


492 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


The  track  pursued  by  the  party,  which 
had  hitherto  lain  along  the  edge  of  the 
lake,  now  ascended  the  steep  wooded  bank 
which  hung  over  it,  and,  after  winding  for 
several  miles  through  a  series  of  shaggy 
thickets,  with  here  and  there  an  interven- 
ing swamp,  opened  into  an  extensive  plain, 
A  few  straggling  clumps  of  copsewood 
served  to  enliven  the  otherwise  unvaried 
surface,  and,  in  the  far  distance,  there  was 
a  range  of  snowy  hills  that  seemed  to  rise 
directly  over  a  deep  narrow  valley  in 
which  the  plain  terminated.  There  was  no 
wind,  and  a  column  of  smoke,  which  issued 
from  the  centre  of  a  distant  wood,  arose 
majestically  in  the  clear  sunshine,  till 
reaching  a  lighter  stratum  of  air,  it  spread 
out  equally  on  every  side,  like  the  foliage 
of  a  stately  tree. 

"  Some  Indian  settlement,"  said  the 
manager.  "  There  is  much  of  beauty  in 
this  wild  scene,  Mr.  Cameron — beauty 
merging  into  the  sublime  ;  and  the  poor 
red  men,  its  sole  inhabitants,  form  exactly 
the  sort  of  figures  one  would  choose  to  in- 
troduce into  such  a  landscape.  I  am  now 
much  more  a  lover  of  such  scenes  than 
before  my  sister  joioed  me." 

"  A  taste  for  the  wild  a-nd  savage  seems 
to  be  an  acquired  one,"  remarked  lunes ; 
*'  a  taste  for  the  beautiful  is  natural. 
Certainly  the  first  comes  kter  in  life  to  the 
individual,  aad  it  is  scarcely  ever  found 
anions;  the  uueducated.  One  of  the  finest 
wild  scenes  m  Ross- shire — a  deep,  rocky 
ravine,  overhung  with  wood,  and  with  a 
turbulent  Highland  stream  roarinjif  throuc;;h 
it — is  known  by  all  the  countr^^-folks  i*n 
neighborhood  by  the  came  of  the  Ugly 
Burn." 

"  The  remark  chimes  in  with  my  expe- 
rience," said  the  manager.  "  I  ever  ad- 
mired the  beautiful ;  but  it  was  Catharine 
who  first  taught  mc  to  admire  the  sublime. 
There  is  a  savagely  wild  scene  before  us, 
where  I  can  now  spend  whole  hours  in  the 
fine  summer  evenings,  but  which  I  used  to 
regard,  only  a  few  years  ago,  as  positively 
•a.   disagreeable    one.     But    such    scenes 


make  ever  the  deepest  impression,  whe- 
ther the  mind  be  cultivated  or  no." 

"  A.y,  Mr.  Pringle,"  remarked  Sandy  ; 
"  an'  frae  that  I  draw  my  main  consolation 
for  having  spent  sae  mony  o'  my  best 
years  in  gathering  skins  for  a  wheen  Lon- 
don merchants." 

"  How  .^"  inquired  the  manager. 

"  Why,  I  just  find  that  I  am  to  bring 
hame  wi'  me  recollections  and  impressions 
enough  to  ser'  me  a'  my  life  after  ;  recol- 
lections o'  mony  a  desert  prairie,  an'  mony 
a  fearful  storm — o'  encounters  wi'  wild 
beasts,  and  wild  men — o'  a'  that  we  deem 
hardship  noo,  but  which  we  will  find  it 
pleasure  to  dwell  on  afterwards.'' 

"  Thank  you  for  the  remark,  Sandy  !" 
said  Innes  ;  "  I  find  I  am  to  bring  home 
with  me  something  of  that  kind,  too." 

Towards  the  close  of  the  day,  the  course 
of  the  travellers  had  lain  along;  the  banks 
ef  the  river  ;  the  waters  were  bound,  from 
side  to  side,  with  a  broad  belt  of  ice,  but, 
at  the  rapids,  they  could  hear  them  growl- 
ing beneath,  like  a  wild  beast  in  its  den  ; 
and,  just  as  the  evening  was  beginning  to 
darken,  they  descended  into  a  deep  hollow, 
surrounded  by  immense  precipices  and 
overhung  by  trees,  into  the  upper  part  of 
which  the  stream  precipitated  itself  in  one 
unbroken  sheet  of  foam,  which  had  resist- 
ed the  extreme&t  influence  of  the  frost. 
Innes  thought  he  had  never  before  seen  a 
scene  of  wilder  or  more  savage  grandeur. 
There  was  a  loft}'  amphitheatre  of  rock  all 
around  ;  the  centre  was  occupied  by  a  dark 
mossy  basin,  in  which  the  waters  boiled 
and  bubbled  as  in  a  huge  caldron  ;  a  broad, 
level  strip,  edged  with  trees  and  bushes, 
lay  immediately  under  the  precipices ; 
and,  directl}^  beneath  the  cataract,  there 
was  a  fantastic  assemblage  of  tall  riven 
peaks,  ladcQ  with  icicles,  that  seemed  in 
the  gloom  a  conclave  of  giants.  A  deep, 
gloomy  cavern,  whose  echoes  answered 
incessantly  to  the  roar  of  the  torrent, 
opened  behind  and  under  it ;  while,  im- 
mediately in  front,  there  rose  a  large  cir- 
cular mound,  roughened  with  a  multitude 


THE   SCOTTISH  HUNTERS   OF   HUDSON'S  BAY. 


493 


of  lesser  hillocks,  and  now  wrapt  up,  like 
all  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  in  a  deep 
covering  of  snow." 

"  'Tis  an  Indian  burying-place,"  said 
the  manager,  pointing  to  the  mound ; 
"  wild  and  savage,  you  see,  as  the  people 
who  have  chosen  it  for  their  final  resting- 
place.  These  hillocks  are  sepulchral 
cairns.  My  sister  spends  most  of  her 
summer  evenings  here — for  we  are  now 
little  more  than  a  mile  from  the  settlement ; 
and  she  has  taught  me  to  be  well  nigh  as 
fond  of  it  as  herself.  Should  she  die  in 
this  country,  I  am  pledged  to  lay  her 
among  the  poor  Indians.  There  are 
strange  stories  among  them  of  yonder 
cave  and  cataract — the  one  is  a  place  of 
purification,  they  say  ;  the  other,  a  way  to 
the  land  of  spirits.  I  am  certain  you  will 
feel  much  interest,  Mr.  Cameron,  in  dis- 
cussing with  Catharine  what  she  terms  the 
beginnings  of  mythology,  as  illustrated  by 
this  place.  She  had  naturally  an  original 
and  highly  vigorous  mind,  and  her  father 
(by  the  way,  she  is  but  a  half-sister  of 
mine)  spared  no  pains  in  cultivating  it. 
But  now  that  we  have  gained  the  ridge, 
yonder  is  the  settlement :  see — that  higher 
lio;ht  comes  from  Catharine's  window. 
Trust  me,  you  may  calculate  on  her 
warmest  gratitude  for  what  her  brother 
owes  you." 

Hawk-River  Settlement  is  situated  in 
the  middle  of  a  valley,  surrounded  by  low, 
swelling  hills,  with  a  river  in  front,  and  a 
deep  pine-wood  behind.  It  forms  a  small 
straggling  village,  composed  mostly  of 
loo--housos,  with  a  range  of  stone  and  lime 
buildings — the  store-places  of  the  Com- 
pany— rising  in  the  centre.  On  reaching 
the  manager's  house — a  handsome  erection 
of  two  stories — Innes  and  his  companion 
were  shown  into  a  small,  but  very  neat 
parlor.  There  were  books,  musical  in- 
struments, and  drawings.  The  very 
arrano-ement  of  the  furniture  showed  the 
delicate  and  nicely-regulated  taste  of  an 
accomplished  female.  The  shutters  were 
fast  barred,  there  were  candles  burning  on 


a  neat  mahogany  table,  and  the  cheerful 
wood-fire  glowed  through  the  bars  of  a 
grate,  and  threw  up  a  broad  powerful 
flame  that,  in  the  intense  frost,  roared  in 
the  chimney. 

"  Ah,"  said  Innes  to  the  manager, "  your 
neat,  Scotch-looking  parlor  brings  Scot- 
land to  my  mind,  and  my  old  evening 
parties  ;  it  reminds  mc,  too,  that  a  dress 
of  skins  is  not  quite  the  fittest  for  meet- 
ing a  young  lady  in.  Can  you  not  indulge 
me  with  a  change  of  dress.'" 

''  Ah  !  how  stupid  1  am,  replied  the 
manager,  "  not  to  have  thought  of  that ! 
Attribute  it  all  to  my  eagerness  to  intro- 
duce you  to  Catharine.  There  is  a  whole 
chestful  of  clothes  from  London  waiting 
you  below.  Come  this  way.  We  shall 
join  you,  Sandy,  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes,  when  Mr.  Cameron  has  made  his 
toilet ;  and  Catharine,  meanwhile,  will 
find  what  amusement  for  you  she  can." 
On  their  return,  Catharine  and  the  fur- 
eatherer  were  engao-ed  in  conversation. 

She  was  a  lady  of  about  two  and 
twenty ;  paler  of  cheek  and  sparer  of 
form  than  she  had  been  once  :  for  there 
was  an  indescribable  something  in  her  ex- 
pression that  served  to  tell  of  suiferings  long 
endured,  and  exertions  painfully  protract- 
ed ;  but  she  was  still  eminently  beautiful , 
and  there  was  an  air  of  mingled  spirit  and 
good-nature  in  the  light  of  her  fine  black 
eyes,  and  the  smile  that  seemed  lurking 
about  her  mouth,  that  might  well  be  term- 
ed fascinating.  Sandy  had  evidently  felt 
its  influence  ere  his  companion  entered  the 
room. 

"  And  what,"  eagerly  inquired  the  lady^ 
as  the  manager  opened  the  door,  "  is  the 
name  of  your  companion — the  man  to 
whom,  with  you,  my  brave,  warm-hearted 
countryman,  I  owe  the  life  of  my  bro- 
ther.^" 

"Good   Heavens!"  ejaculated   Innes, 

springing  forward,  "  can  it  be  possible  .' — 

Catharine  Roberts  !  the  best,  truest,  dear- 

1  est  of  all  my  friends  !" 

I      "  Innes  Cameron  !''  exclaimed  Catha- 


494 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


rinG.  And  in  one  moment  of  intense,  life- 
invigorating  joy,  whole  years  of  suffering 
were  forgotten.  But  why  lengthen  a  story 
rapidly  hastening  to  its  conclusion,  in  the 
vain  attemj^t  to  describe  what,  from  its 
very  nature,  must  always  elude  descrip- 
tion f  Never  was  there  a  happier  evening 
passed  on  the  shores  of  Hudson's  Bay. 

It  has  Ions:  since  become  a  truism, 
that,  when  fortune  ceases  to  persecute  a 
man,  his  story  ceasos  to  interest.  It  was 
certainly  so  with  Innes  Cameron  and  his 
story.  Few  men  could  be  happier  than 
he  for  the  two  months  he  remained  at 
Hawk-River  Settlement.  When,  however, 
the  ice  broke  up,  and  vessels  began  to 
arrive  from  Europe,  he  had  become  hap- 
pier still ;  and  when,  about  the  middle  of 
summer,  he  sailed  for  Stromness  in  the 
good  ship  Falcon,  accora pained  by  Miss 
Roberts  and  his  old  comrade,  Sandy,  there 
was  yet  a  further  accession  to  his  happi- 
ness. An  old  file  of  Inverness  newspa- 
pers, from  which  1  manage  to  extract  a 
good  deal  of  amusement  in  the  long  winter 
evenings — for  no  one  writes  more  pleas- 
iuo-ly  than  Carruthers — shows  me  that  his 
enjoyments  were  not  wholly  full,  until 
after  his  arrival  in  Scotland,  when  he  was 
married,  says  the  paper,  "  at  Belville 
Cottage,  by  the  Rev.   Dr  Rose,   to  the 


beautiful  and  highly  accomplished  Miss 
Catharine  Roberts."  I  find,  in  a  more 
recent  number  of  the  same  newspaper,  a 
very  neat  description  of  a  masonic  pro- 
cession in  one  of  our  northern  towns. 
"  There  is,  to  a  native  of  Scotland,"  says 
the  editor,  *'  something  very  pleasing  in 
the  contemplation  of  a  goodly  assemblage 
of  Scotchmen,  powerful  in  muscle  and 
sinew — suited  either  to  repulse  or  in- 
vade— to  preserve  the  fame  of  their 
country  or  to  extend  it ;  and  this  feeling 
was  of  general  experience  among  the  peo- 
ple of  Sutor creek  on  Friday  last.  After 
the  brethren  had  paraded  the  streets,  they 
returned  to  their  lodge,  where  dinner  was 
prepared  for  them,  and  where,  after  choos- 
insx  Mr.  Alexander  Munro,  late  of  Hud- 
son's  Bay,  as  their  master  for  the  ensuing 
year,  they  spent  the  evening  in  meet  cor- 
diality." And  here  my  story  ends.  The 
lives  of  a  country  gentleman,  of  superior 
talent  and  worth,  and  a  shrewd,  honest 
mechanic — varied  only  by  those  migra- 
tions which  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  de- 
scribes— migrations  from  the  blue  room  to 
the  brown,  or  from  the  workshop  to  the 
street — however  redolent  of  happiness 
and  comfort  to  themselves,  furnish  the 
writer  with  but  little  scope  for  either 
narrative  or  description. 


-»-«^M 


THE     WEDDING 


On  a  certain  vacation  day  of  August — 
of  which  I  have  still  a  vivid  recollection — 
I  fished  in  Darr  Water  ;  and  with  so  much 
success  that  nio-ht  had  o-athered  over  me 
ere  1  was  aware.  1  was  at  this  moment 
fully  fifteen  miles  from  home,  in  a  locality 
unmarked  by  one  single  feature  of  civiliza- 
tion ;  for  here  neither  plough,  nor  sickle, 


nor  spade  had  ever  made  an  impression. 
For  anything  1  knew  to  the  contrary,  there 
was  not  a  human  habitation  nearer  than 
ten  miles.  I  was  loaded  down  to  the  very 
earth  with  fish,  and  not  a  little  fatigued  by 
the  forenoon's  travel  and  sport.  It  be- 
hoved me,  however,  at  all  events  and  risks, 
to  set  my  face  homewards  ;  and,  although 


THE  WEDDINa 


495 


I  might  have  followed  the  Darr  till  it 
united  with  the  Clyde,  and  thus  made  my 
way  with  a  certainty  home  at  last,  yet  I 
preferred  retracing  my  steps,  and  saving 
at  least  a  dosen  of  miles  of  mountain 
travel.  But  the  mist  was  close  and  crawly, 
lying  before  me  in  damp,  danky  obscurity  ; 
and  the  wind,  which  during  the  day  had 
amounted  to  a  breeze,  was  now  wrapt  up, 
and  put  to  rest  in  a  wet  blanket.  Ail  was 
still,  except  the  voice  of  the  plover,  myre- 
snipe,  and  peese-weep.  The  moss  or 
moor,  or  something  partaking  of  the  na- 
ture of  both,  and  rightly  neither,  was  lone, 
uniform,  and  unmarked  ;  it  was  like  sail- 
ing without  star  or  compass  over  the 
Pacific.  Meanwhile,  day — which  seemed 
to  be  desirous  of  accelerating  its  depar- 
ture— disappeared,  and  I  was  left  nlone  in 
my  wilderness.  J  could  not  even  lie  down 
to  rest ;  for  the  spongy  earth  gave  up  its 
moisture  in  jets  and  squirts.  I  hurried 
on,  however,  following  my  breath,  which 
smoked  like  a  furnace  amidst  the  mountain 
mist ;  and  trailing  my  fish,  in  a  large  bag, 
after  me.  I  had  killed  somewhere  about 
sixteen  dozen.  At  last  I  gained  a  small 
stream,  and  as  I  have  an  instinctive  likino; 
for  all  manner  of  streams,  I  was  led  by  the 
ear  along  its  course,  till  I  found  mjself  in 
a  close  ravine  or  dell,  surrounded  on  each 
hand  by  sleep,  grassy  asjents,  scars,  and 
rocks.  1  kept  by  the  voice  of  the  water, 
which  now  fell  more  contractedly  over 
gullet  and  precipice,  till  at  last,  to  my 
infinite  delight,  I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard, 
the  bark  of  a  dog  ;  and,  in  a  few  seconds, 
one  of  these  faithful  animals  occupied  the 
steep  above  me,  giving  audible  intimation 
of  my  unlooked-for  presence.  The  shep- 
herd's voice  followed  hard  behind  ;  and  I 
never  was  happier  in  my  life  than  on  the 
recognition  of  a  fellow-creature.  My  tale 
was  soon  told,  and  as  readily  understood 
and  believed.  To  travel  home  on  such  a 
night  was  out  of  the  question,  so  I  was 
conducted  to  the  shepherd's  shelling — ^to 
that  covert  in  the  wilderness  in  which  there 
is  mere  downnght  shelter,  comfort,  and 


happiness  than  in  town  palaces  ;  for  comfort 
and  happiness  are  inmates  of  the  bosom 
rather  than  of  the  home. 

My  entrance  was  welcomed  by  the 
shepherd's  wife  and  an  only  daughter. 
There  was  likewise  a  young  lad,  of  about 
twelve  years,  who  was  the  younger  of  two 
sons,  the  elder  being  dead.  Servants 
there  were  none  ;  for,  where  all  serve 
themselves,  there  is  no  need  of  what  the 
Americans  call  "helps."  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  kind  hospitalities  of  this  family 
— the  very  dogs,  with  a  couple  of  young 
puppies,  gathered  round  me.  They  licked 
the  wet  from  my  legs  and  clothes,  and 
seemed  sufiiciently  satisfied  even  with  a 
look  of  approbation.  My  supper  was  the 
uncelebrated,  but  unequalled  Dumfries- 
shire feast,  champit  potatoes.  I  slept  sound- 
ly till  morning  ;  and,  after  a  breakfast 
of  porridge— "  Scotland's  halesome  food" 
— and  learning  that  the  young  and  beauti- 
ful woman,  the  shepherd's  daughter,  was 
to  be  married  on  Saturday  eight  days — I 
bent  my  way  homewards,  to  hear  and  bear 
merited  reproof  for  the  anxiety  which  mj 
absence  (which  was,  however,  luckily  at- 
tributed to  a  stolen  visit  to  an  aunt)  had 
occasioned. 

Saturday  eight  days  dawned,  and  by  this 
time  I  had  induced  my  fishing  preceptor 
and  companion,  Willie  Ilerdeman,  to  ac- 
company me  to  the  mountains,  thinkino-  to 
decoy  him,  as  it  were,  to  the  neighborhood 
of  the  wedding,  and  there  to  treat  him 
with  a  view  of  the  happy  party  and  bloom- 
ing bride.  1  kept  my  own  secret — and 
we  were  within  a  mile  of  the  sheilino-  ere 
I  disclosed  it.  It  was  then  about  two 
o'clock,  and,  so  far  as  we  could  guess, 
precisely  the  marriage  dinner  hour,  Willie, 
who  was  an  old  soldier,  had  no  objection 
to  join  in  the  merriment,  nor  to  drink  a 
glass  to  the  future  happiness  of  the  young 
folks.  So  on  we  trudged,  our  lines  rolled 
up,  and  our  fishing  wallet  (for  baskets  we 
had  none)  properly  adjusted.  We  soon 
caught  the  descending  stream — and,  at  a 
pretty  sharp  turning,   came,   all  at  once. 


496 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


within  view  of  the  hospitable  cottage  ;  but 
to  our  surprise,  there  was  neither  noise 
nor  cavalcade — all  was  desolation  and  si- 
lence around.  The  very  dogs  rather  seem- 
ed to  challenge  than  to  invite  our  advance, 
and  neither  smoke  nor  bustle  indicated  any 
preparation.  At  first  I  thought  that  I  had 
mistaken  my  way,  and  was  upon  the  point 
of  entering  to  ascertain  the  fact,  when  the 
shepherd  presented  himself  in  the  door- 
way. I  then  could  hear  the  voice  of  mourn- 
ing— "  Rachel  weeping"  within,  and  the 
boy  lying  across  a  half-demolished  hay- 
rick, crying  and  sobbing  as  if  his  heart 
would  burst.  The  face  of  the  shepherd 
was  blank  and  awful — it  was  as  if  by  a 
sudden  concussion  of  the  brain  he  had  lost 
all  recollection  of  the  past.  He  stood 
leaning  against  both  lintels  of  the  door, 
and  neither  advanced  nor  retreated.  At 
last,  hearing  the  voice  of  lamentation  wax 
louder  and  louder  behind  him,  he  turned 
suddenly  round  and  disappeared.  Impress- 
ed with  the  belief  that  something  terrible 
had  happened,  but  not  knowing  the  nature 
or  extent  of  it,  I  advanced  to  the  boy,  with 
whom,  as  a  fellow-fisher  in  the  mountain 
streams,  I  had  made  up  an  acquaintance 
at  the  former  meeting,  and,  taking  him 
firmly  by  the  shoulder,  endeavored  to  turn 
his  face  towards  me  ;  but  he  kept  it  con- 
cealed in  the  hay,  and  refused  either  com- 
miseration or  comfort.  The  very  dogs 
seemed  aware  of  the  calamity,  and  one  of 
them  howled  mournfully  from   the  corner 


of  a  peat-stack  adjoining.  At  last  a  woman, 
with  whom  I  was  totally  unacquainted, 
emerged  from  the  door-way  and  informed 
us  of  the  cause  of  all  this  lamentation. 
She  had  been  sent  for  as  a  relation  from  a 
distance,  and  had  only  arrived  a  few  hours 
before.  The  particulars  were  as  follows  : 
— Two  days  previous  to  the  day  set  apart 
for  the  marriage,  the  young,  light-hearted 
and  blooming  bride  had  been  employed  in 
building  a  rick  or  stack  of  bog- hay,  for 
winter-fodder  to  the  cow.  She  was  in  the 
act  of  completing  the  erection,  and  stand- 
ing on  the  contracted  apex,  vrhen  her  foot 
slipped  and  she  fell  head  foremost,  and  at 
once  dislocated  her  neck.  Had  there  been 
immediate  medical  assistance  (as  had  been 
injudiciously  communicated  to  the  family) 
the  fatal  accident  might  have  been  reme- 
died ;  but  alas  !  there  was  not,  and,  long 
ere  surgical  aid  could  be  procured,  the  ill- 
fated  bride  had  ceased  to  breathe  ! 

The  first  thought  of  the  household  had 
been  directed  towards  the  bridegroom, 
who  had,  ever  since  the  fatal  tidings,  lost 
his  reason  and  become  apparently  fatuous, 
ever  and  anon  insistino-  that  the  weddins 
should  take  place   "  for  a'  that  !^' 

We  did  not  deem  it  proper,  nor  would 
it  have  been  so,  to  inflict  our  presence 
upon  such  a  household.  And  for  months 
after,  I  never  slept  without  dreaming  of 
this  incident,  and  of  the  distressed  family 
— of  whose  future  fortunes  I  know  nothing 
further. 


THE     HEIRESS     OF    INSANITY. 


Amidst  the  many  evils  incident  to  hu- 
manity, it  may  well  be  questioned  whether 
there  is  any  calamity  entitled  to  the  de- 
nomination of  fortuitous,  so  appalling  in 
its  magnitude  and  efi"ects  as  hereditary 
madness.     All  language  breaks  down  and 


becomes  feeble  in  the  effort  to  give  any 
description  of  it,  which,  however,  aided 
by  figures  of  thought  or  speech,  can  con- 
vey a  truer  or  stronger  idea  of  its  horrors 
than  can  be  produced  from  the  bare  con- 
templation of  the  subject,  as  it  is  present- 


THE   HEIRESS  OF  INSANITY. 


49: 


ed  to  ordinary  minds.  It  is  not,  however, 
after  the  disease  has  laid  hold  of  its  victim, 
and  reason  is  hurled  from  her  throne, 
that  the  form  of  the  calamity,  however  it 
may  harrow  the  feelings  of  beholders, 
presents  its  strongest  claims  upon  the 
sympathies  of  mankind.  There  is  reason 
to  suppose,  though  we  know  little  of  the 
true  feelings  of  insane  persons,  that  the 
heir  expectant  is  a  much  more  miserable 
creature  than  the  heir  in  possession.  The 
tendency  of  the  human  mind  to  apprehend 
evil — even  where  it  is  distant,  and  entire- 
ly out  of  the  view  of  all  moral  calculation 
— is  well  known,  and  cannot  be  better 
exemplified  than  by  the  effect  produced 
in  the  minds  of  healthy  individuals,  by  a 
continued  perusal  of  medical  books.  In 
the  case  of  heirs  of  insanity,  if  we  were  to 
calculate  the  intensity  of  misery  produced 
by  the  apprehension  of  their  natural  here- 
ditary enemy — by  the  increase  of  risk 
over  the  ordinary  chance  of  any  disease 
capable  of  producing  fear  of  its  onset — we 
would  arrive  at  an  amount  of  pain  under 
which  human  nature  would  sink  and  ex- 
pire. Fortunately  for  these  children  of 
misfortune,  the  proportion  does  not  hold 
equally  in  both  cases  ;  but,  after  making 
all  the  allowances  that  may  be  required,  a 
sum  of  misery  remains  to  him  who  sees 
his  brothers  and  sisters  cut  down  before 
him^by  the  sword,  which,  when  suspended, 
is  hung  like  that  of  Damocles,  over  his 
head,  sufficient  to  make  us  wonder  at  the 
ways  of  Providence,  which  tempers  the 
blast  to  the  shorn  lamb.  Our  wonder  is 
increased,  when  we  know  that  these  un- 
fortunates derive  from  their  very  calamity 
a  susceptibility  which  often  shrinks  from 
the  first  breath  of  misfortune.  Doubtless 
the  amount  of  pain  and  apprehension  ex- 
perienced is  dreadful,  as  the  case  I  am 
about  to  describe  sufficiently  shows  ;  but 
the  question  is  difficult  to  be  solved,  how 
nature  works  in  the  production  of  a  result 
BO  strange  as  that  such  a  misfortune  can 
at  all  be  borne. 

For  many  years  I  attended,  as  medical 

VOL.  If.  69 


adviser,  the  family  of  Mr.  Warden,  who, 
having  renounced  business  as  a  merchant 
in  which  he  had  amassed  a  large  fortune, 
retired  to  a  country  seat  about  two  miles 
from  town,  where  he  intended  to  pass  the 
remainder    of    his    life.     He    had    other 
reasons  for   this  retirement    besides    the 
ordinary  love  of  ease   in  advanced  age  ; 
for  a  misfortune  of  an   extraordinary  na- 
ture had  befallen  his  family,  which,  though 
absolutely  beyond  the  powers  of  mitiga- 
tion possessed  by  the  art  of  man,  might  at 
least  be  rendered  less  insupportable,  by 
being  removed  from  the  reach  of  the  offi- 
cious sympathy  of  a  gazing  world.     This 
misfortune  was  no  other  than  the  appear- 
ance in  his  family  of  a  most  inveterate  and 
unsparing     hereditary    insanity — an    evil 
which  seems  to  stand  in  solemn  mockery 
of  triumph  over  all  the  other  extraordinary 
visitations  of    heaven.     He  had  married 
his  wife  in  ignorance  of  a   circumstance 
which,   however,  might  not,  although  he 
had  been  aware  of  it,  have  overcome  his 
affection    or    determination    to  wed — the 
insanity  of  her   mother  and  grandfather, 
besides  that  of  several   collaterals.     The 
disease  had  not   appeared  in  her   till  she 
had  arrived  at  an  advanced  age  ;  but,  at 
the  period  of  Mr.  Warden's  retirement, 
she  was  confined    in  a    private    asylum, 
where  there  were  also  two  of  her  daugh- 
ters,  Elizabeth  and  Mary,  young  women 
who  could  at  one  time  boast  of  very  con- 
siderable personal  attractions  and  mental 
accomplishments.      I    had  witnessed   the 
first   outbreakings   of  the   disease   in  the 
youngest    daughter,  IMary ;    and    having 
been  thence  led  to  make  inquiry  into  the 
history  of  their  mother's  relations,  soon 
saw  the  danger   (immediately  afterwards 
realized)  which  impended  over  the  whole 
members  of  the  family.     Elizabeth,  who 
was    about    nineteen    years  of    age,  was 
seized  after    her    sister  ;    and    then    the 
mother  shared  the  fate  she    had  uncon- 
sciously been  the  means  of  producing  to 
her  daughters. 

It  was  with  considerable  difficulty  that 


498 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


I  could  prevail  upon  Mr.  Warden  to  con- 
sent to  the  removal  of  Ins  wife,  from  the 
house  she  had  rendered  to  him  a  sanctu- 
ary   of  peace   and    happiness ;    but    the 
violent  type  of  her  disease  reconciled  him 
to  a  step  which,  when  it  was  first  proposed 
to  him,  appeared  to  be  beyond  the  powers 
of  his  resolution  and  will.      I    consulted 
the  good  of   the  unfortunate  individuals 
themselves  in  suggesting  the  place  of  their 
confinement ;  but  there  were  others  whose 
peculiar  situation  demanded  imperatively 
the  absence  of  the  living  monuments  of 
that  fate  which  impended,  with  threaten- 
ing aspect,  like  the  stone  of  Tantalus,  over 
their  own  devoted  heads  ;    and  the  very 
spectacle  of  which,  embodied  in  the  mad- 
ness of  dear  friends,  might  be  the  means 
of- stimulating  the  hereditary  poison  which 
lurked    in    their    bosoms.       Two    other 
daughters  remained    in    the    house  with 
their  father  after    the  removal    of   their 
mother  and  sisters  ;  one  of  them,  named 
Martha,  of  a  saturnine  temperament,  and 
very  liable  to  share  the  fate  of  her  sisters  ; 
and  the  other,  Isabella,  the  most  beautiful 
and  accomplished  of  the  family,  and   one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  young  ladies  I 
have  ever  met  with.     I  received  from  the 
unfortunate  father — whose  solicitude   for 
the  health  of  his  two  remaining  daughters 
was  proportioned  to  the  grief  he  had  ex- 
perienced in  the  loss  of  the  others — the 
most  anxious  instructions  to  do  all  that 
could  be  done  for  their  safety  and  preser- 
vation from   the   hereditary   evil,   which, 
like  an  insidious  serpent,  lay  coiled  up  in 
their    vitals,  ready  to    start    into    living 
action  on   the   application   of  any   extra- 
ordinary cause  of  disturbance.     The  one, 
Martha,  1  had,  from  the   beginning,  little 
hope  of  being  able  to  save  from  the  fate 
of   her   sisters,    who,   previous    to    their 
seizure,   exhibited   fewer  of  the   signs   of 
hereditary    insanity   than    could   by    the 
most  unobservant  person  have  been  de- 
tected in  her  dull   eye,  which   seemed  to 
prefer  resting  on  insanity  to  obeying  in- 
telligent impulses,  or  in  her  fits  of  melan- 


choly and  abstraction,  into  which,  even  in 
the  midst  of  conversation,  she  was  continu- 
ally in  the  habit  of  falling.  My  anticipa- 
tions were  too  soon  realized  :  about  two 
years  after  the  removal  of  the  mother,  the 
fourth  victim  was  added  to  this  implacable 
power,  and  Isabella,  the  remaining  daugh- 
ter, was  all  that  was  left  to  the  father  of 
one  of  the  finest  families  in  that  part  of 
the  country. 

A  calamity  like  that  which  I  have  here 
plainly  stated,  produces  a  feeling  of  sur- 
prise   greater   than    might    be    expected 
from  what  in  this  country  is  by  no  means 
an  unfrequent   occurrence.     Every  effort 
is  taken,  and  naturally  resorted  to,  for  the 
purpose  of  concealing  the   ravages  made 
by  our  national   scourge,  scrofula,  on  the 
minds  and  bodies  of  the  inhabitants  of  this 
kingdom,  where  the  demon  seems  to  hold 
his  high  court.     I  am  satisfied  that   I  am 
much  within   the  mark  when  I   say,  that 
not  one  victim  out  of  ten  is   ever  known 
to  the  public  as  being  under  the  dominion 
of  this   fell  power.     Parents  who    have 
large  families,  have,  besides  their  natural 
wish,  a  deep   interest   in  the  concealment 
of  a  fact  which,  in   addition  to   rendering 
their    daughters     unmarriageable,    often 
makes  them  objects  of  pity.     In  my  expe- 
rience, I  have  known  instances  where  sons 
and  daughters,  upon  being  consigned  to  a 
madhouse,  have  been  represented  as  sent 
to  foreign  parts  ;  and,  where   the  foct  of 
the    disease  will   not    otherwise  conceal, 
some    scheme    is   generally   devised   for 
giving  it  a  false  name,  so  that  the  credit 
of  the  family  may  remain   unaffected  by 
the  disparaging  and  destructive  influence 
ofthis/a/«a  malissi ma  which  attaches  to 
it.      I  say  nothing  of  the  effects  produced 
by   this   system    of  concealment    on    the 
fortunes  and  happiness  of  the   individuals 
who,  in  ignorance,  are  united  to  the  rela- 
tives of  the  unfortunate  beings.     That  is 
a  question  of  social  polity.     1  mean  mere- 
ly to  give  a  reason  why  the  extraordinary 
fate  of  the  family    of   Mr.  Warden  may 
excite  a  feeling  of  surprise,  which  would 


THE   HEIRESS   OF  INSANITY. 


499 


not  interfere  with  the  province  of  pity,  if 
the  frequency  of  such  an  eifect,  from  a 
cause  in  daily  operation,  were  better 
known. 

The  remaining  daughter  of  Mr.  Warden 
was,  as  I  have  said,  a   very  extraordiiiary 
young  woman.      I  am  not  confident  of  ray 
powers  of  presenting  an  adequate  descrip- 
tion of   her  ;    for,    independently  of  her 
peculiar   natural  attributes,  the  unusual, 
if  not  fearful   situation  in   which  she  was 
placed,  reared    up   in    her   emotions   and 
feelings    of   a    factitious    nature,    which 
modified  her  original  disposition,  and  pro- 
duced a  hind  of  being  apart  from  ordinary 
mortals,  and  very  difficult  to  be  described 
or  understood.      She    inherited  from  her 
mother  a  very  tall,  commanding  person, 
remarkably  handsome   and  well  formed. 
The  saturnine  constitution  which  prevail- 
ed, more  or  less,  throughout   the   family, 
had  fallen  also,  though  not   to   an  equal 
extent  with  her  sisters,  to  her  lot ;  but,  in 
place  of  producing  the   dark  melancholy 
aspect  which  I   had  observed  in  the   rest 
of  the  fiimily,  it  imparted  to  her  merely  a 
paleness    which     contrasted    remarkably 
with  an  eye   in   which  the    enthusiasm  of 
the  inspiration  of  genius    seemed  to   be 
continually    burning.     Her    face    was    a 
regular  oval ;  and  every  feature,  from  the 
eyebrows  to  the  lips,  seemed  to   have  re- 
ceived the  last  touch  of  the  fastidious  hand 
which  had  resolved  upon  producing  the 
most  perfect  effort  of  the  chisel.      In  en- 
deavoring to  give  some  idea  of  the  beauty 
of  this  young  woman,  I  am  only  afraid  of 
appearing  to  depart  from  the  sober  reason 
which  should  regulate  the  burin  employed 
to   delineate  the  every  day  truth  of  life. 
I  cannot  be  going  too  far,   however,  when 
I  say  that  I  never   saw  what  appeared  to 
me  a  more   perfect  model  of  the  female 
countenance — comprehending,  as  I  do  by 
that  phrase,  the   physical  lineaments,  and 
that  continual  and  inexpressible  modifica- 
tion of  them  produced  by  a   highly  intel- 
lectual and   sentimental   mind,  moulding 
them  into  forms  suited  to  its  own  inherent 


sense  of  beauty.  The  chance  of  the  oc-  j 
cm-rencc  of  so  perfect  a  co-ordination  and  j 
agreement  between  the  highest  conditions 
of  the  moral  and  physical  attributes  of 
human  nature  must  be  small  indeed,  when 
I  am  constrained  to  admit  that  I  never, 
before  or  since,  saw  any  individual  in 
which  I  could  say  I  had  found  them  in 
such  absolute  perfection. 

The    enthusiasm    of  this    young  lady, 
which  imparted  to  her  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings   a  higli    tone    and  an    impassioned 
character   was,  however,   nearly  allied   to 
the    excitement    which,    taking    another 
form,  had  produced  the    insanity  of  her 
family.     The  thin  partition  which   sepa- 
rates o-enius  from  madness  has  been  often 
noticed,  and,  in  this   instance,  it   seemed 
as  if  the  one  might  be   seen   passing  into 
the   other.     She    had  exhibited  an  early 
taste  for  poetry  of  that  kind  which  accord- 
ed with  the  bold  and  intellectual  caste  of 
her  mind  ;  and  I   often    remarked,  as   I 
conversed  with    her,  that    her    ordinary 
speech-  when  it  embraced  an  exalted  sub- 
ject, presented  many  of  the  features  of  the 
expression   of   genius.     She  was    in   the 
habit,  as  she  confessed  to  me,  of  sending 
fugitive  pieces  to  the  public  prints  ;  and  I 
have  seen  some  of  her  effusions  on  which 
great  praise  was   bestowed  by  those  who 
were  entirely  ignorant  of  the  writer,  and 
which  appeared  to  mj^self  to  be  beautiful 
in  a  very  eminent  degree.     Her  imagina- 
tion was  remarkably  vivid  and  strong,  and 
the  excitability  of  her  feelings  so   tender 
and  acute,  that  she  was  continually  suffer- 
in  «■  the  greatest   pain  from   the   slightest 
occurrences,  at  the  very  time  that  she  was 
exposed   to   misfortunes,  nearly  unparal- 
leled in  point   of  extent,   as  well   as  the 
peculiarity  of  their  kind. 

J  witnessed  successively  the  effects  pro- 
duced upon  the  mind  of  one  so  peculiarly 
constituted,  by  the  calamities  which  befell 
her  mother  and  sisters,  all  of  whom  she 
loved  with  even  greater  enthusiasm  than 
she  displayed  in  the  expression  of  the 
most    cherished    of    her    feelings.     The 


500 


TALES    OF    THE   BORDERS. 


hereditary  poison  carried  in   the  veins   of  | 
her  mother,  had  been  very  industriously  j 
concealed  from  the  daughters  ;  and  when  ! 
Mary  first  exhibited  the  undoubted  symp-  I 
toms  of  the  disease,  Isabella   looked  upon  j 
the   circumstance,   in    the  midst  of   her  j 
grief,  as  altogether  unconnected  with  any  j 
taint  of  the  blood.     When  Elizabeth  ex-  j 
perienced  the   fate  of  Mary,  her    mind, 
quick  and  keen  in  the  search  of  causes  of 
extraordinary  events,  began    to  work,  and 
she  soon  saw  the  extent  of  the  awful  truth, 
which,  in  a  short  time  after,  was  confirm- 
ed by  the  madness  of  her  mother  and  of 
her  remainino:  sister,  Martha.      It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  extraordinary  that  one  so  con- 
stituted could  have  withstood,  as  she  did, 
the  fearful  onset  of  these  repeated  misfor- 
tunes ;    but,  though  they  did    not  cause 
that  madness   they  exemplified,  they  pro- 
duced a   state  of  mind  perhaps  not    less 
painful,  either   to  the    victim    herself   or 
those  who  were  forced  to  witness  the  work- 
ings of  a  settled  conviction,  accompanied 
with  a  continual  apprehension,  of  follow- 
ing the  fate  of  the  other  members  of  her 
family. 

At  Mr.  Warden's  request,  I  regularly 
visited,  twice  a-week,  this  interesting  and 
unfortunate  creature.  The  effect  pro- 
duced on  her  by  the  fate  of  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  was  not  attempted 
by  her  to  be  concealed.  She  spoke  open- 
ly to  her  father  and  to  me  of  the  proba- 
bility, nay,  certainty,  of  becoming  a  vic- 
tim to  the  same  relentless  power,  which 
she  said  she  felt,  though  in  a  dormant 
state,  within  the  penetralia  of  her  own 
constitution.  I  myself  was  conscious  that 
she  spoke  the  truth  ;  but,  if  I  had  been 
called  upon  to  say  why  I  was  of  that 
opinion,  I  am  not  certain  if  I  could  have 
given  any  other  reason  for  my  belief,  than 
simply  that  the  enthusiasm  of  her  mind, 
though  not  greater  than  that  of  indivi- 
duals of  genius,  came  unfortunately  in  aid 
of  the  presumption  against  her,  arising 
from  the  hereditary  taint.  Mr.  Warden 
was  secretly  of  the  same  opinion  ;  but  the 


thousht  of  seeing  a  creature  so  hiirhlv, 
indeed  wonderfully  gifted  with  personal 
and  mental  beauties  and  accomplishments, 
changed,  as  her  sisters  had  been,  into  the 
raving  maniac  or  drivelling  idiot  (for  in 
both  these  types  the  disease  had  shown 
itself  in  the  others),  transcended  appar- 
ently all  his  remaining  powers  of  endur- 
ance, and  he  confessed  to  me,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes,  that,  if  Isabella  followed  the 
fate  of  her  sisters,  he  was  afraid  he  would 
be  driven  to  the  extremity  of  attempting 
his  own  life.  His  entreaties  to  me  were 
incessant,  that  I  should  devote  as  great  a 
portion  of  my  time  as  was  in  my  power 
towards  endeavoring  so  to  regulate  the 
personal  and  mental  functions  of  his 
daughter,  as  to  ward  from  him  and  her 
the  calamities  they  respectively  dreaded. 
I  felt  too  much  anxiety  and  interest  for  the 
interesting  object  herself — whose  conver- 
sation delighted  me,  while  her  elevated 
sentiments  and  manners  dignified  human 
nature  itself — to  require  entreaties  to 
quicken  my  professional  energies  in  her 
behalf;  but  I  knew  too  well  how  little  was 
in  my  power,  and  I  could  plainly  see  that 
the  penetrating  mind  of  the  young  lady 
herself  placed  no  great  reliance  on  human 
powers,  to  rescue  her  from  the  perilous 
situation  in  which  she  was  placed. 

Her  greatest  danger  la}"-  in  that  perturba- 
tion of  mind  under  which  she  labored,  from 
the  excited  state  of  her  feelings.  I  have 
known  instances  of  violent  grief  ha\dng  the 
effect  of  stimulating  a  dormant  mania.  In 
the  present  instance,  the  grief  I^vliss  War- 
den experienced  on  the  access  of  her  fami- 
ly calamity,  was  of  the  peculiar  character 
of  the  remaining  victim  who  sees  before 
his  eyes  the  process  of  the  immolation  of 
his  colleagues,  at  the  moment  he  is  listen- 
ing to  hear  the  knell  of  his  own  condem- 
nation to  a  similar  fate.      Terror  beino- 

o 

generall}^  a  more  powerful  disturbing  cause 
than  grief,  is  often  able  to  expel,  for  a  time, 
the  latter  feeling  from  the  mind,  and  I  have 
always  found  it  a  stronger  agent  in  the  ex- 
citement of  this  hereditar}-  disease.     So 


THE  HEIRESS  OF  INSANITY. 


501 


long,  therefore,  as  the  apprehension  of  a 
siraihir  fate  occupied  the  mind  of  my  pa- 
tient, I  had  reason  to  tremble  every  day 
for  an  attack ;  and  my  first  efforts  were 
naturally  directed  towards  producing  a 
conviction  that,  so  long  as  the  ordinary 
state  of  the  body  and  mind  could  be  kept 
up — the  one  free  from  any  derangement  of 
its  economy,  and  the  other  tranquil  and 
natural — every  hope  might  be  reasonably 
indulged  of  being  able  to  perpetuate  an  ex- 
emption from  the  calamity  she  feared.  I 
produced  to  her  many  instances,  occur- 
ring in  my  own  practice,  and  collected 
from  medical  books,  of  several  members 
of  a  family  being  saved  out  of  the  most 
inveterate  cases  of  confirmed  hereditary 
insanity  ;  and,  indeed,  in  the  very  worst 
and  most  aggravated  visitations,  I  had  often 
remarked  the  curious  fact,  that  there  is  gene- 
rally an  exemption  to  some  extent,  if  it 
should  be  limited  even  to  one  solitary  in- 
dividual. I  added,  that  I  had  been  often 
led  to  meditate  on  this  striking  example 
of  the  providence  of  Fate  in  the  midst  of 
the  sternest  of  its  vindications  ;  and,  though 
1  could  not  pretend  to  account  for  it,  on  any 
principle  that  would  be  received  as  satisfac- 
ry  by  professional  men,  I  could  rely  upon  it 
with  sufficient  confidence,  to  enable  me  to 
impress  my  opinions  with  the  seal  of  un- 
doubted sincerity,  when  I  led  her  to  believe, 
that  she  had  every  reason  to  expect  the  de- 
sired exemption,  if  she  followed  my  pre- 
cepts in  keeping  up  an  equanimity  of  mind, 
and  ordinary  health  of  the  body. 

"  I  fear,"  she  replied,  shaking  her  head, 
"  when  you  ask  from  me  the  condition  of 
keeping  this  mind  tranquil,  you  desire 
what  these  illuminated  eyes  declare  never 
can  be  conceded,  by  that  which,  alas  !  has 
not  the  gift  to  bestow.  The  ardent  enthu- 
siasm of  my  mind,  and  my  morbid  excita- 
bility, are,  I  much  fear,  only  the  symptoms 
of  the  presence  within  me  of  the  same 
spirit  that,  once  roused,  dethroned  the 
reason  of  my  poor  sisters  and  mother,  and 
consigned  them  to  the  dismal  cells  where 
they  now  lie,   weeping  and  tearing   their 


hair,  and  yet  unconscious  of  the  extent  of 
their  calamity.  I  do  not  doubt  your  word 
when  you  tell  nie  that  you  have  often  seen 
members  of  a  family  spared  from  the  most 
inveterate  visitations  of  this  disease  ;  but 
I  cannot  place  much  faith  on  what  I  do  not 
understand,  even  were  I  farther  to  admit 
that  there  may  be  some  reason  for  suppos- 
ing the  existence  of  a  law  against  the  oc- 
currence of  that  ^  fell  swoop'  which  clears 
root  and  branch,  the  entire  stock,  and 
leaves  not  a  leaf  to  tell  where  the  tree 
grew.  Faith  in  a  good  Providence  rather 
prompts  the  question.  Why  should  I  be 
saved,  to  transmit  misery  to  my  descend- 
ants ?  But  my  heart,  with  an  impatient 
pulse,  decides  the  question  of  my  fate.  I 
feel  that  I  must  obey  the  power  that  exerts 
its  fearful  dominion  over  our  house.  The 
illumination  of  my  fancy,  when  it  is  fired 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  burning  spirit, 
appears  to  me  often  as  the  first  flash  of 
the  scorching  light,  thrown  forward  by  the 
Fiend,  to  blind  reason  and  make  her  a 
more  easy  prey.  I  know  you  are  my  friend  ; 
and  I  claim  the  privilege  of  asking  you  to 
tell  me  frankly  when  my  enemy  comes, 
rather  than  deceive  me  by  assurances  that 
he  who  is  sent  by  a  higher  power  will  never 
come.  Oh  !  who  knows  what  it  is  to  have 
reason  to  doubt  his  reason  !" 

The  eloquence  she  thus  displayed  in  her 
conversation  had  generally  the  effect  of 
silencing,  for  a  time,  my  prosaic  argu- 
ments ;  but  I  persevered  in  my  humane 
endeavors  ;  and  even  the  conversations  in 
which  I  engaged  with  her  blunted,  in  some 
degree,  the  edge  of  her  fears,  by  making 
the  subject  familiar  to  her,  and  thus  re- 
duced the  perturbation  which  a  silent 
brooding  over  apprehended  ill  might  have 
increased.  I  plainly  saw  that  my  efforts 
to  draw  her  from  the  subject  which  occu- 
pied her  mind  were  unavailing,  and  might 
even  be  productive  of  bad  effects,  and 
therefore  never  shrank  from  the  task  of 
fairly  meeting  her  impassioned  arguments 
with  an  open  and  unrestrained  explication 
of  my  thoughts  in  opposition  to  her  views. 


502 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


The  natural  enthusiasm  and  activity  of  her 
mind  sometimes  carried  her  away  to  her 
favorite  subjects  of  poetry  and  painting, 
and  afforded  her  some  relief  from  the  ap- 
prehension that  haunted  her  so  unremit- 
tingly ;  but  the  dominant  feeling  was  sure 
again  to  resume  its  authority  as  soon  as 
the  fit  of  enthusiasm  had  ended  on  the 
performance  which  had  exhausted  her 
new-born  energies. 

In  common  with  all  individuals  of  en- 
thusiastic temperaments,  I  found  her  often 
in  alternate  extremes  of  high  feeling  and 
deep  despondency — two  states  of  the  mind 
which,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  exist  almost 
always  as  counterparts  of  equal  though  an- 
tagonist powers,  and  are  seldom  if  ever 
found  (at  least  as  habits)  separate  and  un- 
connected. One  day,  a  supernatural  yet 
delightful  buoyancy,  adding  an  additional 
charm  to  beauties  of  the  first  order,  would 
have  triumphed  over  her  apprehensions, 
and  forced  her  to  give  egress  to  her  high- 
toned  feelings  in  some  exquisite  lines  of 
poetry,  or  in  the  flights  of  a  spirited  and 
sparkling  conversation,  which  charmed  and 
enchained  the  ear  of  the  individual  who 
was  fortunate  enough  to  be  her  compan- 
ion at  that  auspicious  time.  In  the  even- 
ing, again,  of  the  same  day,  the  genius 
would  have  been  found  fled,  and  her  som- 
bre spirit  brooding  over  the  prevailing 
feeling  of  apprehension,  which  seemed, 
while  this  state  of  her  mind  lasted,  to  have 
the  power  of  marshalling  all  her  thoughts 
and  feelings,  and  imparting  to  them  the 
atrabilious  hue  of  its  own  darkness. 

One  ev'^ening  when  1  called,  her  father 
informed  me  that  she  had,  during  the  fore- 
part of  the  day,  exhibited,  to  some  indi- 
viduals who  delighted  in  her  company, 
great  powers  of  sprightly  fascinating  con- 
versation ;  and  some  of  them  had  confessed 
to  him  that  they  did  not  conceive  that  it 
was  even  in  the  power  of  inspiration  to 
paint,  with  the  endless  colors  of  fancy — 
varying  the  tints  and  blending  the  delicate 
hues  into  one  beautiful  whole — the  various 
subjects  introduced  and  spoken  on,  in  the 


matchless  manner  she  had  that  day  ex- 
hibited. The  tear  of  pity  followed  close 
on  the  look  of  pride,  as  the  unfortunate 
father  added,  that  1  would  find  her  alto- 
gether changed.  I  went  into  the  room 
where  she  was  sitting,  and  saw  at  once  that 
she  was  in  one  of  her  deepest  fits  of  de- 
jection, with  her  accustomed  relentless 
apprehension  exercising  over  her  its  usual 
influence.  Her  brow  was  leant  upon  her  left 
hand,  and  before  her  lay  a  sheet  of  paper 
containing  some  writing,  over  which  she 
was  passing  occasionally  the  fingers  of  her 
right  hand,  on  which  some  brilliant  gems 
shone  brightly,  as  they  presented,  by  the 
motions,  different  angles  to  the  light.  She 
started  as  I  entered,  but  welcomed  me 
kindly  when  she  discovered  who  it  was 
that  had  thus  disturbed  her  reverie.  I 
asked  her  what  she  was  studying  so  in- 
tensely. 

"  This  forenoon, "  she  replied,  "  after 
the  departure  of  some  visitors,  I  took 
advantage  of  an  inspiration  which  my  con- 
versation with  them  had  produced,  and  sat 
down  and  composed  a  piece  which  1  intend- 
ed for 's  Mao-azine.      After  it  was 

finished,  my  thoughts  took  a  sudden  turn, 
and  became  entirely  absorbed  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  condition  of  my  mother 
and  sisters,  sitting  listless  and  miserable 
in  their  places  of  confinement.  I  have 
thought  of  this  melancholy  subject  day 
and  night  for  a  long  period  ;  but  I  do  not 
recollect  of  ever  having  presented  to  me 
with  the  same  startling  and  terrific  interest 
the  question — Why  am  I,  one  out  of  five, 
alone  exempted  from  this  hereditary  fate  .' 
1  cannot  describe  to  you  the  feeling  which 
accompanied  this  self-put  interrogation. 
So  strong  was  the  conviction  upon  me  that 
I  must  submit,  if  I  am  not  already  subject- 
ed to  the  grasp  of  the  same  power,  that  I 
even  applied  to  myself  the  term  *  fooP 
and  lau2;hed  a  hideous  lauojh  at  the  weak 
and  imbecile  confidence  J  sometimes  place 
in  the  hope  of  escaping  my  destiny.  The 
frightful  train  of  thought  has  continued  to 
this  hour      I  am  doubtful  of  myself,  and 


THE   HEIRESS   OF  INSANITY. 


503 


have  been  trying  to  discover  in  this  paper 
some  traces  of  a  wandering  mind.  Will 
you  read  it,  and  tell  me  honestly,  if  you 
find  in  any  part  of  the  composition  a  change 
in  the  sentiment,  or  the  want  of  a  link  in 
the  chain  of  thought.  I  know  I  can  trust 
you  as  a  friend,  and  the  reasons  for  my 
fears  are  too  strong  to  justify  any  suspicion 
that  I  am  hypochondriac  or  morbidly  fan- 
ciful." 

I  examined  her  eye  as  she  continued  her 
speech ;  but    saw  nothing   to   create    any 
alarm.     I  received  from   her    hands    the 
paper,  and  found  her  composition  to  be  a 
very  beautiful  impassioned  description  of 
the  various  sympathies  that  exist  through- 
out   nature,    ranged    according  to    their 
powers,  and  ending  in  an  ascending  scale 
with  love.     The  subject  was  delicatel}'  and 
beautifully  handled  ;  and  the  only   thing 
which  I  could  discover  as  being    peculiar 
in  the  composition,  viewed  as  coming  from 
her,  whoso  pieces  I  had  often  read  with 
delight,   was   that  it   embraced  a  subjeet 
she  had  generally  shown  a  wish  to   avoid. 
I  took  no  notice   of  this  peculiarity,  and 
confined  my  remarks   to  the    manner  in 
which  the  piece  was  handled.     I  had  no 
difficulty  in  assuring  her  that  the  spirit  of 
the  composition  was  continued  uniformly 
throughout,  without  lapse  or   failing,  and 
that,  whatever  turn  her  feclino;s  misiht  have 
taken    during    the  time   occupied  in   the 
work,  no  trace  could  be  discovered  in  the 
piece  itself  of  any  falling  off  of  the  spirit 
and  sentiment  which  dictated  the  first  no- 
ble line  of  it.     With  a  view  to  change  the 
current  of  her  thouo;hts,  I  enlaro-edon  the 
many  beauties  which  the  performance  un- 
doubtedly exhibited,  and  assured  her  that 
the  power   she   so   much   dreaded   would 
have  no  easy  task  to  perform,  in  breaking 
up  a  mind  in  which  the  elements  of  strength 
were  as  well  marked  as  those  of  taste  and 
beauty. 

"  You  know  I  held  your  promise,"  she 
said,  with  an  air  of  sombre  satisfaction, 
"  that  3^ou  would  watch  the  changes  of  my 
mind,  and   inform   me   honestly  of  those 


turns  of  which  we  are  often  entirely  uncon- 
scious, though  they  exhibit  the  first  strug- 
gles of  the  frightened  intellect,  as  it  shrinks 
from  the  aspect  of  the  dreadful  enemy  of 
reason.  I  am  assured,  by  what  you  say, 
that  he  is  not  yet  come  ;  though  1  fear  the 
visit  is  only  delayed.  When  will  this 
cease  }  What  I  am  for  ever  feelin<^,  all 
the  powers  of  inspiration  could  but  faintly 
delineate.  What  I  have  suffered  within 
this  hour,  I  defy  the  most  pregnant  fancy 
to  shadow  forth,  even  doubtfully.  Need 
I  say  more  than  that  I  was  under  the  con- 
viction that  I  was  as  my  sisters  and 
mother  are  }  My  terrors  produced  the 
confusion  they  feared.  I  scanned  that 
paper  till  the  words  reeled  before  my  eyes, 
and  sense,  reason,  and  intelligence  were 
lost  in  the  whirlpool  of  a  fancied  madness. 
I  held  out  my  hands  and  looked  around 
me  for  aid  ;  but  my  fevered  imagination 
could  discover  nothing  but  the  tenanted 
cells  of  that  place  of  confinement  where 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  me  lie  in  ao-o- 
ny  and  tears,  and  whither  I  fancied  myself 
dragged,  helpless,  and  powerless,  from  the 
binding  ropes  by  which  my  arms  were 
confined.  Now  I  feel  a  modified  relief 
again — and  thus  am  I  doomed  to  an  end- 
less succession  of  periods  of  enthusiasm, 
and  fits  of  melancholy  and  terror." 

I  was  not  in  any  degree  surprised  at  this 
eloquent  description  of  her  feelings  ;  for  I 
have  seen  instances  of  individuals  of  sober 
habits  of  thought,  who,  under  the  fear  of 
hereditary  insanity  to  which  they  were  ex- 
posed, fancied,  on  certain  occasions,  that 
they  were  truly  under  the  power  of  their 
enemy.  But  I  do  not  think  I  ever  had  a 
patient  who  possessed  so  many  claims  on 
my  feelings  as  this  child  of  genius  and 
misrortune  exhibited  with  such  unconscious 
power.  An  adverse  fate  had  furnished  a 
reason  for  her  apprehension  which  a  stoic 
philosopher,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  triumph 
over  the  feelings  of  human  nature,  could 
not  have  disregarded  ;  while  her  suscepti- 
bility, the  very  offspring  of  her  dangerous 
constitution,  and  itself  the  parent  of  so 


504 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


many    of  the    exquisite    beauties    of  her 
character,  kept  her  continually  either  on 
the  stretch  of  an  enthusiastic  excitement, 
which  made  near  approaches   to  the  state 
she  dreaded,  or  on  the  rack  of  a  false  con- 
viction that  she  was  deranged,  or  about  to 
lose  her  reason.     I  felt  acutely  the  misery 
of  her  situation ;  and,   as   she  sat  silently 
before  me,  after  having  poured  forth,  with 
the  volubility  of  her  genius,  the  speech  I 
have  hero  copied,  I  felt  myself  restrained, 
by  some  powerful  feeling  I  could  not  de- 
scribe, from  arraying  the   cold  arguments 
of  reason  against  the  impulses  of  a  feeling 
lying,  perhaps,   deeper  in  human  nature 
than    the    boasted  results  of  our  coolest 
judgments.      I  could  not,   however,  allow 
this  opportunity  to  escape  of  impressing 
her  with  a  proper  sense  of  the  fallacy   of 
those  indications  which  she  had  mistaken 
for  the  beginnings   of  the  disease  she  so 
much  feared,  and   of  satisfying  her  of  a 
circumstance  she  was  entirely  ignorant  of 
— viz.,   that  madness  carried  with  it  no 
conviction  of  its  presence  ;  but  rather,  on 
the  contrary,  a  scepticism   of  the   actual 
condition  of  the  patient,  and  a  false  confi- 
dence of  the  possession  of  reason.     This 
latter  circumstance,  which  she  received  at 
once  upon  my  authority  opened  up  to  her 
mind  some   new  views  of  her   condition. 
She  saw  at  once,  the   impossibility  of  her 
being  able  to  judge  of  the  change  she  an- 
ticipated ;  and  trembled  to  think  that  she 
might  go  mad  and  not  know  that  she  was 
in  the  same  melancholy  situation   as   her 
sisters  and  mother.     I  replied  to  her  state- 
ments on  this  subject,  that  she  might  ra- 
ther consider  it  an  amelioration  of  her  con- 
dition to  be  ignorant  of  tb.e  nature  of  her 
calamity — a  proposition  to  which  she  yield- 
ed a  qualified   assent ;  while   the    fearful 
doubt  which  it  threw  over  all  the  workings 
of  her  consciousness  seemed  to  add  to  the 
misery  of  her  feelings. 

The  new  views  of  her  situation  which 
she  drew  from  the  information  thus  pro- 
cured, changed  materially  the  aspect  of 
her  mind.     She  seemed  to  give  up   that 


continual  watch  over  the  rise  and  progress 
of  her  thoughts  she  had  persisted  in  for  a 
long  period  of  time  ;  but  the  fear   of  be- 
coming mad  did  not  abate  in  any  percep- 
tible degree.     I  noticed,  however,  some 
time  afterwards,  that,  in  place  of  showing 
an  anxiety  to  speakupon  the  subject  which 
occupied  her  mind,  and  produced  in  her 
so  much  alarm,  she  shrank  from  the  slight- 
est allusion  to  it.      She   gave  up  entirely 
all  mention  of  her  mother  and  sisters,  and 
did  not  even   ask  me  how  they  were.     It 
appeared  as  if  she  wished  the  melancholy 
catastrophe  concealed,  and  all  mention  of 
it  suspended   or  renounced.     I  was  much 
at  a  loss  to  account  for  this  change  ;  but 
I   thought  she   now   saw  the  propriety  of 
banishing  from  her  mind  all  thoughts   of 
the  fearful  subject  which  had  so  long  oc- 
cupied it — a  circumstance  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  her  ultimate  safety  ;  and  I 
was  hopeful  that,  if  she  kept  herself  active- 
ly occupied  by  her  mental  pursuits,  sho 
might  escape  the  fate  which  impended  over 
her.     I  mentioned  the  subject  of  this  fa- 
vorable aspect  of  his  daughter's  situation 
to  Mr.  Warden,  but  was  informed  by  him 
that,  while  he  was  also  well  pleased  with 
the  change  that  had  passed  over  her,  he 
was  inclined  to  attribute   it   to   a  different 
cause.     I  now  ascertained  that  an   Eng- 
lish gentleman,   of   considerable   fortune, 
had  some  time  before  been  introduced  to 
the  house,  and  having  been  struck  (as  in- 
deed every  individual  was  who  saw  her) 
with  her  transcendant  beauty  and  accom- 
plishments, had  paid  her  great  homage.    I 
had  met  the  individual  at  the  house  ;  and, 
on  casting  my  mind  backwards  on  some  cir- 
cumstances   that  had  occurred  in  my  pre- 
sence, I  became  satisfied  that  Mr.  Gordon 
had  been  for  some  time  enamoured  of  her  ; 
and  also  that  she  had  regarded  him  with 
tokens  of  greater  favor  than  she  had  award- 
ed to  many  visitors  who  seemed  to  vie  with 
each  other  in  their  claims  on  the  attention 
of  one  so  highly  gifted  with  the  powers  of 
communicating  delight  to  all  around  her. 
I  did  not  forget  in  my  reminiscences  the 


THE   HEIRESS   OF  INSANITY. 


505 


subject  of  the  literary  composition  which 
I  had  so  much  admired,  and  which  had 
been  to  herself  the  cause  of  so  much  men- 
tal disquietude.  It  occurred  to  me  that 
the  occasion  on  which  that  piece  was  com- 
posed had  been  the  first  impulse  of  her 
afiection — a  change  from  her  prior  state  of 
mind,  sufficiently  great  to  produce  the  illu- 
sion of  a  supposed  madness  under  which 
she  labored. 

On  the  occasion  of  my  next  interview 
with  her,  I  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  pos- 
sessing this  key  to  her  feelings.  I  found 
her  engaged  in  copying  a  miniature,  which 
she  excused  herself  for  not  exhibiting  to 
me.  I  could  now  trace  with  considerable 
certainty  the  operations  of  her  mind.  She 
had  clearly  contracted  an  affection  for  Mr. 
Gordon,  against  her  own  solemn  resolu- 
tions. In  her  prior  conversations  with 
me,  she  did  not  hesitate  to  avow  her  de- 
termination never  to  enter  into  the  state 
of  marriage — reprehending  warmly  the 
impolicy  and  cruelty  of  entailing  upon  a 
husband  and  a  family  all  the  effects  of  a 
hereditary  calamity,  which  ought  to  be 
terminated  in  one  generation.  These 
were  the  dictates  of  a  wise  judgment ;  but 
her  extreme  susceptibility  had  not  been 
consulted  when  she  formed  these  senti- 
ments and  resolutions.  The  appearance 
of  Mr.  Gordon,  a  gentleman  well  calcu- 
lated to  call  forth  the  affections  of  one 
who  had  so  much  love  to  bestow,  had  pro- 
duced an  effect  which  subverted  all  her 
principles  of  conduct,  and  even  overcame, 
at  least  for  a  time,  her  dreadful  terror  of 
becoming  a  victim  to  her  relentless  family 
disease.  I  now  saw  plainly  the  reason 
why  she  avoided  the  subject  which  used 
to  form  the  topic  of  our  conversation. 
While  her  mind  was  unoccupied  with  a 
stronger  feeling,  the  former  terror  reigned 
supreme  and  all-powerful ;  but,  after  the 
heart  had  taken  up  the  cause  of  nature 
and  instinct,  against  the  factitious  fears  of 
a  too  susceptible  mind,  the  right  of  domi- 
nation was  transferred  to  another  and  a 
gentler  tyrant,  whose  sway  was  necessarily 


exclusive  of  any  other  power.  Her  spirits 
now  seemed  to  be  in  the  highest  altitudes 
of  her  cxtremest  enthusiasm  ;  and,  while  I 
experienced  all  that  delight  I  had  so  often 
felt  in  the  conversation  of  one  so  pecu- 
liarly gifted,  I  wished  from  my  heart  that 
this  new  cause  of  excitement  might  not  be 
changed  into  an  evil,  the  effects  of  which 
might  reach  far  beyond  my  worst  antici- 
pations. 

Some  time  afterwards  she  sent  for  me. 
I  called,  and  found  her  confined  to  her 
room.  She  was  in  one  of  her  gloomy 
moods,  appeared  pale  and  spiritless,  and 
was  clearly  again  under  her  relentless  ap- 
prehension. She  beckoned  me  to  sit  near 
her. 

"  There  is  in  our  sex,"  she  said,  in  a 
slow  and  tremulous  voice,  "  a  delicacy 
which  covers  up  and  conceals — as  the 
pigeon  does  by  its  wing,  its  wounded  side 
— that  feeling  which  is  the  most  natural 
affection  of  the  heart.  A  woman  will  not 
confess  her  love,  till  it  be  either  gratified 
or  overcome.  A  week  asro  I  was  in  the 
situation  of  others  of  my  sex,  who  have 
felt  this  peculiarity  of  female  affection. 
You  found  me  on  your  last  visit  copying  a 
miniature  ;  but  no  power  on  earth  could 
have  dragged  from  me  then  the  admission 
that  my  heart  had  anticipated  my  pencil, 
and  treasured  up  the  lineaments  of  that 
face.  Since  that  day  a  change  has  come 
over  my  mind.  When  was  it  that  a  wo- 
man was  destined  to  tremble  at  her  own 
love  ?  When  were  the  workings  of  con- 
science  directed  against  the  purest  passion 
of  human  nature  ?  When  did  a  woman 
drag  from  her  heart,  in  opposition  to  the 
antagonist  energies  of  her  nature,  that 
most  sacred  of  all  secrets,  for  the  very 
purpose  of  destroying  it  by  that  poison  it 
shrinks  from,  and  fears  most  as  its  natural 
enemy — the  breath  of  popular  opinion  ? 
You  may  well  conceive  the  state  of  a  wo- 
man's mind  when  she  thus  confesses  an 
affection,  which,  in  its  still  youthful  vi- 
gor, clings  to  the  heart  and  will  not  quit 
it.    You  have  seen  Mr.  Gordon,  and  may 


506 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


have  perceived  that  he  was  worthy  of  the 
love  of  the  fairest  and  best  of  our  sex ; 
but  his  powers  over  the  heart  of  woman 
may  be  best  known  from  the  fact,  that  he 
overturned  for  a  time  the  resolution  of 
years,  and  banished  from  my  mind  all 
those  feelino-s  and  sentiments  which  have 
arisen  from  the  circumstances  of  my  ex- 
traordinary situation,  and  been  cherished 
and  nourished  by  my  enthusiasm  as  well 
as  by  reason.  The  new  impulse  staggered 
me  by  the  sweet  intoxication  of  its  instinc- 
tive power.  Like  a  criminal,  I  secreted 
the  gift  of  nature  as  a  thing  stolen  from 
man.  My  conscience  rebelled  against  the 
authority  of  my  heart ;  and  my  health  has 
suffered  from  the  struggle." 

She  paused,  apparently  with  the  view 
of  recovering  strength  to  proceed  with  her 
extraordinary  communication.  I  conceiv- 
ed that  I  now  possessed  an  opportunity  of 
declaring  my  opinion,  that  marriage,  in 
place  of  stimulating  the  lurking  mania, 
has  rather  a  tendency  to  subdue  it.  I  have 
always  found  celibates  more  exposed  to  an 
attack  of  hereditary  madness  than  married 
individuals — a  fact  which  may  not  be  con- 
sidered consistent  with  the  beneficence  of 
Providence,  in  so  far  as  it  tempts  to  a 
perpetuation  of  this  fearful  entail ;  but  we 
have  little  authority  to  speak  of  final 
causes,  while  we  remain  so  ignorant  as  we 
are  of  the  true  secret  of  the  most  common 
of  the  acts  of  nature.  I,  therefore,  con- 
scientiously assured  her,  that,  by  entering 
into  a  state  of  marriage  with  a  man,  and 
under  circumstances,  calculated  to  make 
her  happy  (which,  however,  I  did  not 
recommend),  she  had  many  additional 
chances  of  avoiding-  the  fate  oi  her  sisters. 
My  opinion  did  not  seem  to  have  much 
weight  with  her. 

"•  Then,"  said  she,  "  I  would  at  least 
have  but  a  chance  or  two  more  added  to 
a  case  nearly  desperate.  I  cannot  listen 
to  an  argument  whose  conclusion  is  so  im- 
potent. The  original  fact  is  insuperable. 
I  cannot  conceal  from  myself,  that  I  carry 
in  the  tame  veins  that  throb  with  this  un- 


fortunate love,  the  subtle  living  principle 
of  mania,  ready  and  eager  to  seize  the  op- 
portunity of  the  first  cerebral  disturbance 
(and  marriage  itself  might  produce  that) 
to  unseat  reason  and  drive  the  economy  of 
the  mind  into  anarchy,  rebellion,  and  ruin. 
Mr.  Gordon  has  had  the  art  to  make  me 
love  him  ;  but  I  am  betrothed  to  a  fate 
which  may  assert  its  prior  right,  and  drag 
me  from  his  arms,  a  maniac .  The  very 
love  which  I  have  felt  and  still  feel  for 
this  generous  stranger,  rebels  against  the 
cruel  purpose  of  allying  him  to  a  calamity 
of  such  a  fearful  magnitude  ;  and  is  it  not 
enough  that  I  carry  the  demon  coiled  up 
in  my  own  brain,  but  I  must  send  down 
through  my  blood  to  descendants,  for  ge- 
nerations, its  hereditary  poison,  to  madden 
innocent,  unconscious  beings,  and  quicken 
their  tongues  to  vain  cursings  of  their  cru- 
el, selfish  ancestress  ?  I  have  expressed 
these  sentiments  to  you  before ;  and,  O 
God  I  how  was  it  that,  in  the  intoxication 
of  a  new  feeling,  I,  for  a  time,  forgot  them ! 
But  they  rose  upon  me  in  my  first  calm 
moment ;  and  the  greatest  power  that  ever 
inspired  the  pen  which  has  often  deline. 
ated  to  your  declared  satisfaction  my  en- 
thusiastic emotions,  would  quail  at  the 
task  of  conveying  a  shadow  of  the  agony 
I  endured  in  the  struggle  between  my  feel- 
ings and  my  reason.  My  altered  looks 
have  more  eloquence  than  my  speech,  and 
the  madness  1  have  so  long  feared  may 
tell  with  its  Babel  tongue  what  reason  re- 
nounces in  despair." 

I  asked  her  whether  Mr.  Gordon  had 
declared  himself  to  her,  and  whether  he 
knew  of  the  peculiar  position  of  her  family. 

''  Great  delicacy,"  she  replied,  "  has 
prevented  him  hitherto,  hearen  be  praised  I 
from  declaring;  to  me  in  words  the  state 
of  his  heart.  He  asked  me  (doubtless  the 
device  of  a  delicate  lover),  to  copy  bis 
miniature  for  him.  Every  trace  of  my 
pencil  was  reflected  by  my  heart.  I  rose 
from  my  work  to  tremble  at  the  change 
which  had  come  over  me  ;  I  saw  the  dan- 
ger into  which  I  was  rushing,  dragging  with 


THE  HEIRESS  OP  MSANITY. 


507 


me  an  unconscious  victim  to  the  shrine 
of  our  family  Moloch,  and  called  up  for- 
titude enough  to  request  my  father  to  con- 
vey to  him  the  original  and  the  copy.  He 
is,  comparatively,  a  stranger  in  these 
parts,  and  may  be,  as  I  think  he  is,  igno- 
rant of  the  misfortune  that  haunts  our  un- 
happy house.  This  idea  stung  me  re- 
proachfully. I  looked  upon  myself  as  a 
deceiver,  occupied  in  throwing  the  toils 
round  the  body  of  a  generous  unsuspect- 
ing victim.  I  was  conscious  of  being  in- 
capable of  proceeding  to  any  serious  ex- 
tent without  informing  him  of  the  danger 
that  awaited  him  ;  but  I  shuddered  as  I 
thought  that  his  heart  might  already  be 
committed  in  ignorance  of  what  should 
ha'«'e  been  communicated  on  the  very 
threshold  of  his  affection ;  but,  oh  '  how 
fervently  have  I  returned  thanks  to  heaven 
for  the  timeous  interference,  for  his  safety 
and  mine,  of  the  powers  of  my  better  judg- 
ment !  Now  at  least  the  paramount  evil 
shall  be  eschewed,  whatever  may  beeome 
of  this  heart ;  and,  oh !  better  that  it 
should  break  with  the  grief  of  my  own 
stifled  passion,  than  with  the  agony  of  a 
husband  looking  with  eyes  that  know  not 
the  relief  of  tears  on  the  insane  heirs  of  a 
mad  mother." 

There  was,  generally,  in  all  the  conver- 
sations of  this  young  woman,  such  a  mix- 
ing up  of  strong  feelings  and  rational  ar- 
guments, that  1  was  always  at  a  loss  to 
answer  her  in  such  a  way  as  to  yield  sa- 
tisfaction either  to  myself  or  her.  No 
reason  appeared  of  much  importance  to 
her,  unless,  like  her  own  thoughts,  it  was 
accompanied  with  the  necessary  garnish 
of  feeling  or  sentiment.  In  the  present 
instance,  I  was  in  greater  difficulty  than  I 
had  ever  feit  in  ker  presence.  Her  own 
arguments  against  marriage  were,  besides 
being  deeply  rooted  in  her  mind,  too  well 
founded  in  reason  to  admit  of  my  con- 
scientiously endeavoring  to  refute  them; 
and,  besides,  I  bad  no  right  to  implicate, 
by  my  interforcacc,  the  rights  and  happi- 
ness of  a  third  individual,  Mr.  Gordon, 


who  had  perhaps  a  greater  interest  in  the 
affair  than  the  lady  herself.  On  the  other 
hand,  I  too  plainly  perceived  that  her 
heart  was  affected  by  a  strong  passion  ; 
and,  from  what  I  knew  of  her  mental  con- 
stitution, I  was  satisfied  that  the  greatest 
danger,  both  to  her  mind  and  body,  must 
inevitably  result  from  an  affection  of  so 
peculiar  a  nature  remaining  ungratified ; 
or  rather  being  attempted,  by  the  strug- 
gles of  an  opposing  reason,  to  be  stifled  in 
the  heart  itself.  The  excitement  pro- 
duced by  such  a  conflict,  or  the  depres- 
sion consequent  upon  the  death  of  the 
passion,  was  sufficient  to  realize  the  an- 
ticipated danger  of  her  hereditary  disease. 
There  was  thus  great  reason  for  the  ap- 
prehension of  evil  on  either  side  ;  and  I 
felt  that  all  that  I  could  safely  do  in  her 
behalf  was  to  endeavor  to  keep  her  mind 
as  calm  as  possible,  and  wait  the  issues  of 
time,  either  in  affording  her  new  lights,  or 
in  carrying  off  the  deep  impression  appa- 
rently made  on  her  heart  by  one  whose 
avocations  might  require  his  absence  from 
that  part  of  the  country.  I  endeavored, 
accordingly,  to  impress  her  with  the  ex- 
pediency of  keeping  her  mind  occupied ; 
and  recommended  to  her  several  subjects 
for  the  employment  of  her  pen,  in  execut- 
ing which  she  would  find  relief  from  the 
morbid  thoughts  that  oeeupied  her  mind. 
On  calling  tAvo  days  afterwards,  I  un- 
derstood from  her  father  that  Mr.  Gordon 
had  construed  the  return  of  his  miniature 
and  the  copy  through  the  hands  of  her 
parent  as  an  indication?  that  she  did  not 
regard  him  favorably,  and  had  accordingly 
returned  on  the  previous  day  to  England. 
This  fact  had  been  communicated  to  hor 
by  her  father.  I  was  unable  to  form  any 
probable  guess  of  the  effec-t  this  would 
produce  on  a  mind  so  peculiarly  consti- 
tuted. Her  father  seemed  to  be  rather 
well  pleased  at  the  circumstance,  and  was 
resolved  not  to  allow  his  dauEfhter  to  be 
again  exposed  to  the  action  of  feelings 
which  seemed  to  threaten  the  overthrow 
of  her  reason,.     I  was  inclined  to  be  of 


508 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDEPwS. 


opinion  that  the  absence  of  Mr.  Gordon 
mi'^ht  prove  beneficial ;  but  I  was  doubtful 
of  the  mode  of  his  withdrawal,  which,  being 
imputed  to  a  rejection  by  one  whose  heart 
was  altogether  occupied  by  a  strong  pas- 
sion for  him,  might  produce  a  feeling  of 
having  acted  cruelly  and  ungratefully — 
a  state  of  the  female  mind  too  favorable 
to  the  increase  of  an  affection. 

Upon  my  entering  the  apartment,  my 
fears  were  partially  realized.  She  was 
confined  to  bed.  She  was  ill:  a  high 
pulse,  flushed  face,  and  restless  eyes  be- 
tokened an  excitement  of  the  system  of 
the  greatest  danger  to  one  so  peculiarly 
situated. 

"  My  father  has  informed  me,"  she  said, 
almost  immediately  on  recognizing  me, 
"  that  Mr.  Gordon  is  gone  to  England. 
This  has  produced  in  me  a  mixed  feeling 
of  satisfaction  and  regret.  1  am  pleased 
I  have  escaped  the  danger  1  so  much 
dreaded,  of  visiting  on  the  heads  of  others 
and  perpetuating  a  calamity  that  ought  to 
end  in  one  generation  ;  but  I  am  grieved 
to  think  that  my  motives  should  have  been 
misconstrued  by  one  I  cannot  but  love 
and  admire.  He  has  imputed,  doubtless, 
to  a  feeling  of  unworthy  pride  and  disdain 
what  ought  to  have  been  attributed  to  af- 
fection and  generosity ;  but  he  is  innocent 
of  any  wish  to  misconstrue  my  conduct  or 
depreciate  my  motives  ;  and  he  is  now, 
perhaps,  suffering  the  pangs  of  a  rejected 
and  despised  affection,  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  am  tortured  by  the  thought  of  be- 
ing considered  ungrateful  and  cruel  to  the 
object  on  whom  my  heart  still  dotes.  Was 
ever  mortal  exposed  to  such  ingeniously- 
•contrived  misery  ?  Is  there  no  mode  by 
which  this  can  be  remedied  }  Is  it  not 
possible  yet  to  convey  to  him  the  time 
cause  of  my  rejection  of  his  proffered  suit 
— that  it  was  affection  itself  that  rose  in 
arms  against  the  cruelty  I  meditated 
against  a  noble,  generous-minded  man? 
Were  he  satisfied  of  this,  my  mind  would 
be  relieved ;  and  the  burning  fever  that 
threatens  to  stimulate   the   poison  of  my 


hereditary  disease,  may  be  quenched  be- 
fore reason  is  precipitated  from  her  throne. 
You  are  my  friend,  you  are  also  my  doc- 
tor ;  in  both  capacities,  I  ask  you,  I  im- 
plore you,  to  devise  some  means  of  taking 
from  my  brain  this  burden  which  threatens 
to  crush  it  to  ruins  as  bleak  and  terrible 
as  the  fragments  of  that  melancholy  wreck 
which  has  overtaken  the  minds  of  my  mo- 
ther and  sisters.  Know  you  the  part  of 
Enfijland  to  which  he  has  <:rone  ?  His  fa- 
ther's  seat  is  near  the  Borders.  He  may 
be  there.     What  can  I  su^trest  ?     I  can- 

CO 

not  ask  my  father  to  write  to  him — I  can- 
not write  myself.  Relieve  me  of  the 
thought  of  devising  a  remedy  for  this 
pressing  evil.  There  are  many  things 
which  the  kindness  of  friends  can  supply, 
when  no  powers  are  left  to  us  to  help  our- 
selves ;  and  I  rely  on  your  friendship, 
which  I  have  ever  found  sincere  and  un- 
changeable." 

I  told  her  that  I  would  consider  of  some 
means  of  relieving  her  mind  from  the  bur- 
den which  lay  upon  it.  She  seized  my 
hand  as  1  replied,  and  pressed  it  fervently, 
as  if  she  meant,  by  that  mode  of  expres- 
sion of  her  feelings,  to  impress  me  with 
the  deep  importance  of  the  commission 
with  which  she  had  intrusted  me.  I  was 
somewhat  at  a  loss  for  a  proper  construc- 
tion of  her  conduct.  I  was  aware  of  the 
effect  which  a  sense  of  ingratitude  would 
produce  upon  a  mind  so  generous  as  hers, 
and  so  frauo;ht  with  the  nicest  delicacies 
of  the  most  elevated  of  her  sex ;  and  yet 
I  secretly  imagined,  that  there  was  pre- 
sent, as  an  additional  cause  of  unhappi- 
ness,  the  regret  of  the  lover  at  the  loss  of 
the  object  of  her  affections — a  thought  that 
bore  in  upon  me,  in  spite  of  all  the  faith 
I  had  in  the  sincerity  of  her  views  regard- 
ing marriage,  and  in  the  generosity  of 
those  sentiments  that  dictated  the  wish  to 
avoid  implicating  another  in  the  calamity 
to  which  she  was  exposed.  I  went  and 
consulted  with  her  father  whether  her 
extraordinary  wish  should  be  complied 
with.     He  was  not  partial  to  an  exposure 


THE   HEIRESS  OF  INSANITY. 


509 


of  the  misfortunes  of  his  family,  and  asked 
me  whether  I  thought  any  danger  might 
result  to  his  daughter  from  a  refusal  of 
her  request.  I  answered  that  I  thought 
every  reasonable  measure  should  be  taken 
to  allay  the  excitement  of  her  mind ;  and, 
seeing  that  the  circumstance  of  their  fami- 
ly calamity  was  already  well  known,  and 
probably  even  in  the  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Gordon  himself,  no  great  evil  could  accrue 
from  this  divulgement ;  while,  if  I  were 
enabled  to  declare  to  her  upon  my  sincerity 
that  her  wish  had  been  fulfilled,  great 
hopes  might  be  entertained  of  the  sedative 
effects  of  time  restoring  her  to  her  wonted 
condition  of  mind  and  body.  My  answer 
was  satisfactory  ;  but  he  suggested  that  the 
communication  should  not  be  made  in 
writing,  but  at  a  personal  interview  with 
Mr.  Gordon,  who  would  come  from  his 
father's,  in  Cumberland,  upon  a  short  no- 
tice that  his  presence  was  requested  in 
this  quarter.  I  concurred  in  this  sugges- 
tion, and  undertook  to  make  the  necessary 
explanations. 

I  accordingly  wrote  to  Mr.  Gordon,  re- 
questing him  to  take  the  trouble  of  visit- 
ing me  within  as  shorr  a  period  as  his 
avocations  would  permit,  and,  in  the  mean- 
time, I  called  again  upon  my  patient. 
She  was  still  very  feverish,  and  her  excite- 
ment had  not  in  any  degree  abated.  She 
asked  me,  the  moment  I  entered,  whether 
I  had  taken  any  measure  for  the  relief  of 
her  mind.  I  answered  that  I  had  written 
for  Mr.  Gordon  to  visit  me,  and  expected 
him  in  a  few  days,  when  I  would  make 
the  necessary  communication  to  him  per- 
sonally. 

"I  am  beholden  to  you,"  she  cried, 
"  in  a  life  of  thanks  and  blessings,  for  this 
exhibition  of  your  friendship.  Why  should 
your  profession  limit  its  range  to  the  use 
of  physical  medicaments  .''  Ycu  have 
done  more  for  the  return  of  my  health  by 
this  application  of  a  moral  remedy,  than 
if  you  had  prescribed  for  me  all  the  secrets 
of  your  dispensary.  My  conscience  shall 
be  relieved,  and  I  can,  as  I  have  hitherto 


done,  reflect  with  pleasure  on  that  nobili- 
ty of  sentiment  which  it  is  my  pride  to  re- 
tain sacred  and  uninjured  amidst  all  the 
perils  of  a  bad  world,  and  which,  if  it  ever 
perish,  I  could  wish  to  fall  in  the  ruins  of 
the  mind  itself.  But  what  if  he  wish  to 
see  me,  and  cast  over  me  again  the 
charm  which  has  produced  all  this 
misery  f  Counsel  me  freely.  Can  ] 
trust  myself  in  his  presence,  even  with 
the  ffuard  of  that  frio;htful  knowledge 
he  is  soon  to  receive  ?  Why  should 
I  tremble  at  the  intercourse  of  liberal 
sentiment  with  the  man  I  still  admire, 
when  it  shall  be  understood  that  we 
cannot  be  united  }  Is  not  this  a  weak- 
ness unworthy  of  me,  which  I  should 
endeavor  to  overcome,  as  an  enemy  to 
the  happiness  I  might  experience  in 
the  society  of  so  noble  a  man  ?  Yet 
I  know  best  the  powers  of  my  own 
mind  and  heart.  Hitherto  I  have  re- 
lied upon  the  dictates  of  my  own 
judgment,  which  has  never  failed  me 
even  in  the  emergency  of  love.  "  Will 
you  tell  me"  (looking  anxiously  in  my 
face)  "  whether  Mr.  Gordon  wishes 
ao-ain  to  see  Isabella  Warden  .'" 

CD 

I  informed  her  that  I  would  comply 
with  her  request.  I  was  now  rather 
confirmed  in  my  former  idea,  that  love 
still  held  an  ascendency  over  her  judg- 
ment, however  she  might  flatter  herself 
that  she  had  conquered  the  insidious 
power.  On  returning  home,  I  found  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Gordon,  saying  he 
would  visit  me  within  two  days.  He 
came  accordingly,  apparently  with  bet- 
ter will  than  1  had  to  ask  him.  He 
suspected  that  the  object  I  had  in  view 
was  in  some  degree  connected  with  the 
family  of  Mr.  Warden  ;  and  Love  had 
lent  him  the  use  of  his  wings.  After 
being  seated,  I  opened  to  him,  by  a 
preliminary  statement,  the  subject  of 
my  communication,  and,  as  I  proceeded 
with  my  interesting  recital — recounting 
the  calamity  which  had  befallen  Mr.  War- 
den's family,  the  beauty  and  noble-mind- 


510 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


edncss  of  Isabella,  her  reason  for  rejecting 
his  suit,  and  her  request  that  he  should 
be  made  aware  of  that  reason — I  watch- 
ed carefully  the  effect  produced  on  him. 
I  perceived  nothing  but  satisfaction  on 
his  countenance  as  I  approached  the  de- 
licate part  of  my  narrative,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  him  state,  in  answer, 
that  he  was  all  along  well  aware  of 
the  calamity  under  which  Mr.  Warden's 
family  labored;  but  that  such  was  the 
effect  produced  on  his  mind  by  the 
transcendent  beauty,  great  mental  parts, 
delightful  manners,  and  nobility  of  mind 
of  Miss  Warden,  that  he  had  resolved,  in 
the  event  of  his  suit  being  accepted,  to 
run  all  the  hazards,  and  marry  this  incom- 
parable woman  It  was  scarcely  necessary 
for  me  to  ascortain,  by  a  question,  whether 
he  wished  to  see  her.  His  affjction  for 
her,  he  declared,  was  stronger  than 
ever. 

Within  a  few  hours  after,  I  called  on 
Isabella.  I  communicated  to  her  the  im- 
port of  the  conversation  I  had  had  with 
Mr.  Goidon.  My  statement  produced  in 
her  mind  a  great  conflict  of  feelings  ;  and 
I  never  had  greater  reason  to  fear  the  ef- 
fects of  her  excitement  than  I  had  on  that 
occasion. 

"  How  is  this  heart  to  be  resolved  .-" 
she  said,  with  great  anxiety  of  counten- 
ance, and  an  agitation  that  shook  her  de- 
licate frame.  "  The  reasons  and  argu- 
ments of  years  of  meditation,  seem  to  lose 
in  my  mind  their  accumulated  force,  and 
I  tremble  at  a  chancfo  over  which  I  have 
no  control.  My  mental  efforts  are  palsied 
by  the  sense  of  what  I  owe  to  the  man 
who  has  said  he  will  dare  all  the  evils  that 
accompany  my  flite,  and,  for  my  worthless 
sake,  risk  the  mighty  stake  of  his  happi- 
ness for  life.  His  love  for  me  was  nothing 
to  this  declared  resolution.  What  shall 
aid  my  judgment  in  resisting  the  force  of 
one  generous  heart  on  another  ?  You 
know,  sir,  my  sentiments  on  marriage. 
Shall  I  depute  you  to  request  him  not  to 
ask  to  see   me  ? — say,  my  friend,  shall  I 


supplicate  his  return  instantly  to  Cumber- 
land ?  Yet,  0  God  !  what  a  reward  would 
that  be  for  such  unparalleled  generosity 
of  soul ! — I  must,  I  feel  I  must,  thcuik  him. 
Surely  so  poor  a  boon  as  thanks  cannot 
make  me  bankrupt  in  my  prudential  re- 
solves. But  I  can  deliver  to  you  no  mes- 
sajje.  You  have  heard  me — I  have 
scarcely  heard  myself.  Oh,  my  poor 
heart  ! — break — break,  or  be  resolved  !" 

As  she  concluded  this  speech,  which 
seemed  to  be  merely  the  outspoken  work- 
ino;s  of  her  mind,  in  its  efforts  to  come  to 
some  conclusion,  she  reclined  backwards, 
much  exhausted.  I  could  easily  perceive 
the  bent  of  her  inclinations.  I  gazed  up- 
on the  beautiful  victim  of  a  state  of  men- 
tal constitution  and  feelings  in  all  respects 
so  extraordinary.  I  saw  plainly  that  she 
loved  ardently,  and  that  her  love  had  all 
but  conquered  those  determinations  against 
marriage  that  had  resulted  as  well  from 
her  morbid  fancies  as  from  her  legitimate 
conclusions  of  prudence  and  high-minded- 
ness.  I  never  saw  one,  and  may  never 
again  see  one,  in  the  same  position.  She 
looked  upon  me  as  if  I  were  the  arbiter  of 
her  fate  ;  her  beautiful  countenance  ex- 
hibited all  the  traces  of  mental  agony ; 
and  the  piteous  and  supplicatory  glances 
of  her  black  eyes,  as  she  occasionally 
withdrew  them  from  my  face,  fixed  them 
on  the  OTOund,  and  lifted  them  aijain  to 
beseech,  with  their  mute  eloquence  of 
prayer,  my  assistance  in  resolving  her  ex- 
traordinary doubt — went  to  my  very  soul 
I  was  now,  however,  better  prepared  for 
answering  her,  because  I  now  saw  that 
there  was  less  danger  in  restraininsr  an  af- 
fection  so  strong  as  hers,  than  in  gratify- 
ing it  by  a  union  with  the  man  of  her 
affections. 

''  Your  heart,  Isabella,"  said  I,  taking 
up  her  last  words,  "  shall  not  break.  It 
shall  be  bound  up  with  the  cords  of  a  pure 
affection — a  sanctified  love.  You  must 
give  Mr.  Gordon  something  else  than 
thanks  for  coming  from  Cumberland  to 
renew  a  suit  that  you  had  rejected  without 


THE  HEIRESS  OP  INSANITY. 


511 


a  word  of  explanation.  He  is,  indeed,  a 
noble  individual,  and  calculated  to  make 
you  happy." 

"  You  fill  me  witli  shuddering  appre- 
hensions," she  cried,  hysterically.  "  What 
is  this  ?  Are  all  the  resolutions  of  a  life 
crumbling  down  in  the  view  of  a-  tremb- 
ling, inane,  palsied  consciousness  ?  Is 
love  stronger  than  the  convictions  of  the 
last  victim  of  five  wedded  to  our  family 
Genius  of  Evil  ?  But  does  he  know  that 
I  am  the  last  of  five  .''  Are  you  sure  that 
that  generous  man  knows  the  dreadful 
truth.?  Speak,  my  friend — assure  me  of 
that — there  is  in  it  some  secret  medicinal 
balm  whose  virtues  I  feel  stealing  about 
this  aching  heart," 

"  He  knows  all,  Isabella,"  replied  I, 
*'  and  will  venture  all  for  the  great  love  he 
bears  to  her  he  conceives  to  be  the  noblest 
of  her  sex.  Excuse  me — I  use  his  words. 
Flattery  belongs  not  to  my  profession." 

As  1  said  these  words,  her  excitement 
seemed  to  abate,  and  she  reclined  gently 
on  the  couch  on  which  she  sat,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  wall  of  the  apartment, 
and  her  face  exhibiting  the  traces  of  a  soft 
pensiveness,  mixed  with  an  expression  of 
a  pleasant  resignation  to  some  power  she 
had  resisted  and  could  no  longer  resist. 
She  remained  in  this  position  for  some 
time,  and  I  waited  the  issue  of  the  work- 
ings of  her  peculiar  mind.  At  last  she 
turned  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  my  coun- 
tenance. A  clear  tear  had  collected,  and 
stood  glistening,  like  a  pearl  oa  a  ball  of 
jet.  She  held  out  her  hand  and  placed  it 
in  mine. 

*'  Shall  it  be  ?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  in  my  ear  like  soft  music  ;  and  the 
tear  fell  w'ith  the  words. 

1  paused  in  my  reply,  not  from  any 
doubt  of  what  I  ought  to  say,  but  because 
I  felt  the  extraordinary  power  over  the 
future  fortunes  of  so  beautiful  a  creature, 
placed  in  my  hands,  as  a  responsibility 
entirely  new  to  me,  and,  therefore,  more 
serious  than  that  to  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed in  our  position  as  medical  advisers. 


She  appeared  to  drink  up  my  very  looks 
—  she  wished  and  feared,  anticipated  and 
trembled — the  blood  came  and  went,  and 
the  tear  started  and  dried  up,  as  the  two 
antagonist  emotions  alternated  their  ener- 
gies over  her  heart. 

"  Isabella,"  said  I,  holding  her  hand, 
*'  you  attempted  what  was  beyond  the 
power  of  even  a  cold-hearted,  calculating 
woman,  and  far  more  beyond  the  power  of 
one  so  gifted  as  you  are  with  the  finer  sen- 
sibilities and  susceptibilities  of  the  female 
heart.  You  were  made  for  love,  and  you 
might  as  well  try  to  live  without  the 
nourishment  of  nature,  as  to  choke  the 
natural  passion  which  glows  in  your  heart 
with  the  appliance  of  a  cold  result  of  judg- 
ment. Sorely,  Isabella,  have  you  mis- 
calculated the  powers  of  female  affec- 
tion." 

"  Alas  !  it  is  true  !"  she  muttered, 
with  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  reclining  her 
head  again  upon  the  couch  pillow.  "  In 
this  hour  do  I  feel  the  vanity  of  all  my 
accumulated  resolutions  of  many  years.  1 
thoua;ht  1  was  fightins;  for  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity,  for  the  well-being  of  generations 
to  come,  for  the  diminution  of  physical 
evil,  for  God's  goodness  and  man's  bene- 
fit. Where — where  are  all  my  high  aspi- 
rations now  ?  Alas  !  how  nearly  allied 
are  the  greatest  virtue  and  the  greatest 
weakness  !  I  had  thought  my  cause  an 
afiair  of  the  heart ;  but,  ah  !  there  was  a 
power  there  before  the  one  I  placed  in  it 
as  sovereio-n  ruler — and  now  I  feel  its 
paramount  strength." 

She  sighed  deeply  as  she  told  the  issue 
of  all  her  high  and  noble  purposes.  Turn- 
ing her  eyes  again  upon  me — 

"  When  is  he  to  call  .^"  she  asked,  with 
a  blush  that  spread  up  over  her  temples. 

"  When  I  give  him  notice,"  replied  I. 

"  And  when  will  that  be  .^"  she  added, 
with  a  naivete  that  forced  a  smile  from 
me,  which  she  instantly  observed,  and 
then  tried  to  correct  herself. 

"  I  mean — I  mean,"  she  continued, 
with  a  broken  voice,  and  a  renewal  of  her 


512 


TALES   OF   THE   BORDERS. 


})lusb. — "  when  do  you  tliink  I  should  see 
liim — if — if — it  is  your  opinion  that  I 
shoicid— that  it  is  proper  for  me  to  see 
him  ?" 

And  her  breast  heaved  with  convulsive 
energy  as  she  again  threw  a  doubt  over 
the  fulfilment  of  her  destiny.  At  that 
moment  Mr.  Gordon  entered  along  with 
her  father.  I  was  not  prepared  for  this  ; 
but  Mr.  Gordon's  passion  had  mastered 
his  judgment,  and  he  could  not  wait  the 
issue  of  my  interview.  Rushing  forward, 
he  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  couch.  Isa- 
bella lifted  her  head.  It  fell  on  the  bosom 
of  her  lover.  Distinct  sobs  burst  from 
her  bosom.  The  triumph  of  nature  was 
complete — their  tears  mixed,  and  heaving 
respirations  told  eloquently  the  workings 
of  their  hearts.  Taking  Mr.  Warden 
suddenly  by  the  arm.,  I  hurried  him  out  of 
the  room. 

In  the  afternoon,  I  called  again,  and 
dined  with  the  family.  An  entire  change 
had  come  over  the  mind  of  Isabella.  The 
struggle  over,  and  nature  having  triumph- 
ed, she  was  like  one  relieved  from  bondage 
and  captivity,  and  brought  out  to  luxuri- 
ate in  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  the  sweets 
of  natural  liberty.  Her  brilliant  fancy, 
bursting  from  behind  the  cloud  which  had 
shaded  its  splendor,  exhibited  all  the  gay 
and  shining  lights  of  her  extraordinary 
genius.  One  by  one,  every  subject  start- 
ed was  taken  up  and  rolled  in  the  stream 


I  of  effulgence  that  poured  from  her  ima- 
gi nation,  and  made  to  reflect  the  varied 
hues,  like  precious  stones  turned  in  the 
sunbeams,  so  as  to  bring  all  the  angles  in- 
to luminous  and  never-ceasing  changes  cf 
reflection.  Capturing  with  case  the  minds 
of  all,  she  led  us  where  she  pleased — into 
academic  groves,  poetic  gardens,  and  Ely- 
sian  bowers  ;  and,  infusing  into  us  the 
spirit  by  which  she  was  herself  animated, 
transformed  us  for  a  time  into  new  beings, 
gifted  with  new  powers  and  new  suscepti- 
bilities of  enjoyment.  Such  are  the  effects 
of  genius.  I  gazed  upon  the  lovely  en- 
chantress with  admiration.  Mr.  Gordon's 
eye  was  illuminated  with  delight ;  and  her 
father's  countenance,  though  occasionally 
shaded  with  doubts  as  to  the  true  import 
or  effect  of  such  elevation  of  spii'its  and 
powers  of  fancy,  exhibited  the  pleasure 
and  satisfaction  of  a  fond  parent.  VVby 
do  I  dwell  on  this  scene  ?  Some  time 
afterwards,  Mr.  Gordon  led  Miss  Warden 
to  the  altar.  They  lived  at  the  house  of 
Mr.  Warden,  I  continued  to  be  their  fa- 
mily surgeon,  and  often  witnessed  the 
happiness  of  their  union,  which  was  never 
disturbed  by  any  attack  of  the  disease, 
which  had  produced  so  much  terror  to  the 
heiress  of  insanity.  They  never  had  any 
children — a  circumstance  which  reconciled 
her  more  and  more  to  the  marriage  condi- 
tion, and  did  not  diminish  the  happiness 
of  her  husband. 


•  -•■♦^►•►- 


MAY  DARLING,   THE   VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


513 


MAY    DARLING,    THE    VILLAGE    PRIDE 


"  Lay  her  i'  the  earth  ; 
And  from  her  pure  and  unpolluted  flesh, 
May  violets  spring !" 


Hamlet. 


It  is  a  lively  spot,  Grassyvale — "  beau- 
tiful exceedingly."  But  its  beauty  is  of  a 
quiet,  unimposing  description ;  the  cba- 
racteristic  feature  of  the  landscape  which 
would  strike  the  eye  of  a  spectator  who 
surveyed  it  from  the  highest  neighboring 
eminence,  is  simply — repose.  There  are 
no  mountains,  properly  so  called,  within  a 
circuit  of  many  miles — none  of  those  natu- 
ral pyramids  which,  in  various  parts  of  our 
beloved  land  of  mountain  and  of  flood,  of 
battle  and  of  song,  rise  in  majestic  gran- 
deur, like  columns  of  adamant  to  support 
the  vault  of  heaven.  The  nearest  are  si- 
tuated at  such  a  distance  that  they  appear 
like  clouds,  and  might  readily  be  mistaken 
for  such,  but  for  their  death-like  stillness, 
and  the  everlasting  monotony  of  their 
outline.  No  waterfalls  hurl  their  bolts  of 
liquid  crystal  into  dark,  frowning,  wave- 
worn  chasms,  which  had  echoed  to  the 
thunder  of  their  fall  since  the  birth  of 
time.  There  is  no  far-spreading  forest — 
no  yawning  ravine,  with  "  ebon  shades  and 
low-browed  rocks" — no  beetling  cliflf  or 
precipice,  "  shagged  "  with  brushwood,  as 
Milton  hath  it.  There  is  nothing  of  the 
grand,  the  sublime,  the  terrible,  or  the 
magnificent — there  is  only  quiet ;  or,  if 
the  terms  do  not  sound  dissonant  to  "  ears 
polite,"  modest,  unassuming  beauty,  such 
as  a  rainbow,  were  it  perpetually  present 
in  the  zenith,  might  form  a  characteristic 
and  appropriate  symbol  of.  Nature  has 
not  here  wrought  her  miracles  of  beauty 
on  a  Titanic  scale.  What,  then,  is  so  at- 
tractive about  Grassyvale  ?  it  will  be  ask- 
ed. We  are  not  sure  but  we  may  be  as 
much  stultified  with  this  question,  as  was 
the  child  in  Wordsworth's  sweet  little 
VOL.  a.  ''0 


poem,  "  We  are  seven "  (which  the 
reader  may  turn  up  at  leisure,  when  the 
propriety  of  the  comparison  will  be  seen), 
and  may  be  forced,  after  an  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  justify  ourselves  for  holding 
such  an  opinion,  to  maintain,  with  the 
same  dogmatic  obstinacy — it  is  beautiful. 
But  the  length  of  our  story  compels  us  to 
exclude  a  description  of  the  landscape, 
which  we  had  prepared. 

^  4^  tF  Tt^ 

The  village  of  Grassyvale,  which  is  situ- 
ated on  the  margin  of  a  small  stream, 
consists  of  about  one  hundred  scattered 
cottages,  all  neatly  whitewashed,  and  most 
of  them  adorned  in  front  with  some  flow- 
ering shrub — wild  brier,  honeysuckle,  or 
the  like — whilst  a  "  kail-yard  "  in  the  rear 
constitutes  no  inappropriate  appendage. 
There  is  one  of  those  dwellings  conspicu- 
ous from  the  rest  by  its  standing  apart 
from  them,  and  by  an  additional  air  of 
comfort  and  neatness  which  it  wears,  and 
which  seems  to  hallow  it  like  a  radiant  at- 
mosphere. It  is  literally  covered  with  a 
net-work  of  ivy,  honey-suckle,  and  jasmine, 
the  deep  green  of  whose  unvarnished  leaf 
renders  more  conspicuous  '^  the  bright 
profusion  of  its  scattered  stars."  The 
windows  are  literally  darkened  by  a  mul- 
titude of  roses,  which  seem  clustering  and 
crowding  together  to  gain  an  entrance, 
and  scatter  their  "perfumed  sweets" 
around  the  apartment.  Near  the  cottage, 
there  is  also  a  holly  planted — that  ever- 
green tree  which  seems  providentially 
designed  by  nature  to  cheer  the  dreariness 
of  winter,  and,  when  all  is  withered  and 
desolate  around,  to  remain  a  perpetual 
promise  of  spring.     But  we  have  more  to 


514 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


do  with  this  beautiful  little  dwelling  than 
merely  to  describe  its  exterior. 

Behind  Grassyvale,  the  ground  begins 
to  swell,  undulating  into  elevations  of  mild 
acclivity,  on  the  highest  of  which  stands 
the  parish  church,  like  the  ark  resting  on 
Ararat — faith's  triumph,  and  mercy's 
symbol.  Numerous  grassy  hillocks  scat- 
tered around  indicate  the  cemetery  where 
^'  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep." 
Amongst  those  memorials  which  are  de- 
signed to  perpetuate  the  recollection  of 
virtue  for  a  few  generations — and  which, 
with  their  appropriate  emblems  and  in- 
scriptions, preach  so  eloquently  to  the 
heart,  and  realize  to  the  letter  Shakspeare's 
memorable  words,  "sermons in  stones" — 
there  is  one  which  always  attracts  atten- 
tion. It  is  not  a  "  storied  urn,  an  animat- 
ed bust" — one  of  those  profusely  deco- 
rated marble  hatchments  with  which 
worldly  grandeur  mourns,  in  pompous  but 
vain  magnificence,  over  departed  pride. 
No  ;  it  is  only  a  small  unadorned  slab,  of 
rather  dingy-colored  freestone  ;  and  the 
inscription  is  simply — ''  To  the  memory 
of  May  Darling,  who  was  removed  from 
this  world  to  a  better,  at  the  early  age  of 
nineteen.  She  was  an  affectionate  daugh- 
ter, a  loving  sister,  and  a  sincere 
Christian. 

"  Weep  not  for  her  whose  mortal  race  is  o'er  ; 
She  is  not  lost,  but  only  gone  before." 

Ah  !  there  are  few,  few  indeed,  for  many 
miles  round,  who  would  pass  that  humble 
grave  without  heaving  a  sigh  or  shedding 
a  tear  for  her  who  sleeps  beneath — her 
who  was  so  beloved,  so  admired  by  every 
one,  as  well  as  being  the  idol  and  pride  of 
her  own  family,  and  whose  romantic  and 
untimely  fate  (cut  off  "  i'  the  morn  and 
liquid  dew  of  youth  ")  was  the  village  talk 
for  many  a  day. 

John  Darling,  the  father  of  our  heroine, 
was,  what  is  no  great  phenomenon  among 
the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  a  sober,  indus- 
trious, honest  man.  In  early  life,  he 
espoused    the    daughter   of    an    opulent 


farmer,  whose  marriage  portion  enabled 
him  to  commence  life  under  very  favorable 
auspices.  But,  in  spite  of  obedience  to 
the  natural  laws,  the  mildew  of  misfortune 
will  blight  our  dearest  hopes,  however 
wisely  our  plans  for  the  future  may  be 
laid,  and  however  assiduously  and  judi- 
ciously they  may  be  pursued.  Untoward 
circumstances,  which  it  would  unnecessa- 
rily protract  our  narrative  to  relate,  had 
reduced  him,  at  the  period  to  which  our 
tale  refers,  to  the  condition  of  a  field  la- 
borer. Death  had,  likewise,  been  busy 
singling  out  victims  from  amongst  those 
who  surrounded  his  humble,  but  cheerful 
fireside  ;  and,  of  a  large  family,  there  only 
remained  three,  and  he  was  a  widower 
besides.  May  was  the  oldest ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, the  superintendence  of  the 
household  devolved  upon  her.  The  de- 
ceased parent  was  of  a  somewhat  haughty 
and  reserved  turn  of  mind,  for  the  recol- 
lection of  former  affluence  never  forsook 
her  ;  and  this  circumstance  kept  her  much 
aloof  from  the  less  polished  and  sophisti- 
cated matrons  of  the  village,  and  also 
rendered  her  a  strict  family  disciplinarian. 
She  concentrated  her  mind  almost  entirely 
upon  the  affairs  of  her  own  household  ; 
and  her  children  were  accordingly  watched 
with  a  more  vigilant  eye,  and  brought  up 
with  more  scrupulous  care  than  was  usual 
with  those  around  her.  It  was  her  pride, 
and  "  let  it  be  her  praise,"  to  see  them 
arrayed  in  more  showy  habiliments  than 
those  worn  by  their  associates  ;  and,  to 
accomplish  this  darlhig  object,  what  seri- 
ous transmutation  did  her  finery  of  former 
days  undergo,  as  the  mutilated  robes  de- 
scended from  child  to  child,  turned  upside 
down,  inside  out,  and  otherwise  suffering 
a  metamorphosis  at  every  remove  !  The 
dress  of  May,  in  particular — her  first-born 
bud  of  bliss,  the  doted  on  of  her  bosom — 
was  always  attended  to  with  special  care  ; 
nor  was  the  cultivation  of  her  mind  in  any 
way  overlooked.  She  very  early  inspired 
her  with  a  love  of  reading,  which  increased 
with  the  development  of  her  faculties,  and 


MAY  DARLING,  THE  VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


515 


many  a  day  survived  her   by  whora  the 
passion  had  been  awakened. 

In  person,  May  was  slender  ;  but  her 
light,  airy,  sylph-like  form,  was  eminently 
handsome.  Hair  and  eyes  of  intense  depth 
of  black  contrasted  admirably  with  a  coun- 
tenance which  maybe  designated  as  trans- 
parent— it  was  nearly  colorless  ;  and  only 
on  occasions  of  unusual  bodily  exertion, 
or  when  some  mental  emotion  suffused  the 
cheek  with  a  damask  blush,  would  a  tint 
of  rosy  red  fluctuate  over  her  pure  skin. 
It  can  scarcely  be  called  pale,  however — 
it  had  nothing  about  it  of  that  death-in- 
life  hue  which  indicates  the  presence  of 
disease. 

'*  Oh,  call  it  fair,  not  pale  !" 

The  expression  was  at  once  amiable  and 
intellectual — mellowed  or  blended,  how- 
ever, with  a  pensiveness  which  is  usually, 
but  most  erroneously  called  melancholy. 
Melancholy  had  nothing  to  do  with  a 
''mind  at  peace  with  all  below — a  heart, 
whose  love  was  innocent."  The  counte- 
nance, in  general,  affords  an  index  of  the 
mental  character — it  takes  its  "  form  and 
pressure,"  as  it  were,  from  the  predomi- 
nant workings  of  that  inward  principle 
which  is  the  source  of  thought  and  feeling. 
It  is  there  that  thous-ht  and  feelins;,  those 
subtle  essences,  are  made  visible  to  the 
eye — it  is  there  that  mind  may  be  seen. 
The  most  casual  observer  could  not  fail  to 
perceive  that  the  soul  which  spoke  elo- 
quently in  the  eye,  "  and  sweetly  lightened 
o'er  the  face"  of  May  Darling,  was  a 
worshipper  of  nature,  of  poetry,  and  of 
virtue  ;  for  they  are  often  combined — they 
have  a  natural  relation  to  one  another  ; 
and,  when  they  exist  simultaneously  in 
one  individual,  a  mind  so  constituted  has 
a  capacity  for  enjoying  the  most  exalted 
pleasure  of  which  humanity  is  susceptible. 
May  Darling  was  indeed  imaginative  and 
sanguine  in  a  very  high  degree  ;  and  books 
of  a  romantic  or  dramatic  character  were 
mines  of  "  untold  wealth  "  to  her. 

"  Many  are  poets  who  have  never  penned 
Their  inspirations." 


And,  although  the  name  of  this  rural 
beauty,  this  humble  village-maiden,  will 
be  looked  for  in  vain  in  the  rolls  of  fame, 
she  enjoyed  hours  of  intense  poetical  in- 
spiration. In  short,  both  in  her  mental 
character,  and  in  the  style  of  her  perso- 
nal attractions,  she  rose  far  above  her 
companions  of  the  village.  Need  it  be 
told  that  often,  of  a  fine  evening,  she  would 
steal  away  from  her  gay,  romping,  laugh- 


ing associates 


,  and,  with  a  favorite  author 


in  her  hand,  and  wrapt  in  a  vision  of 
"  sweet  coming  fancies,"  follow  the  course 
of  the  stream  which  intersected  her  native 
vale,  flowing  along,  pure  and  noiseless, 
like  the  current  of  her  own  existence  ? 

The  favorite  haunt  in  which  she  loved 
to  spend  her  leisure  hours,  was  a  beauti- 
ful dell,  distant  about  half  a  mile  from  the 
village.  It  was  a  place  so  lonely,  so  lovely, 
so  undisturbed,  that  there — (but  then  all 
these  fine  old  rural  deities,  those  idols 
shrined  for  ages  in  Nature's  own  hallowed 
Pantheon,  have  been  expelled  their  tem- 
ples, or  broken  by  science — why  should 
this  be  ?) — there,  if  anywhere,  the  genius 
of  solitude  might  be  supposed  to  have 
fixed  his  abode.  It  was  a  broken  piece  of 
ground,  intersected  by  several  irregular 
banks,  here  projecting  in  hoar  and  sterile 
grandeur  (not  on  an  Alpine  scale,  how- 
ever), and  there,  clothed  with  tufts  of  the 
feathery  willow  or  old  gnarled  thorn. 
The  earth  was  carpeted  with  its  usual  co- 
vering of  emerald  turf;  and  interwoven 
with  it,  in  beautiful  irregularity,  were 
numerous  wild  flowers — the  arum,  with  its 
speckled  leaves  and  lilac  blossoms  ;  the 
hyacinth,  whose  enameled  blue  looks  so 
charmingly  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  ; 
and  oxlips,  cowslips,  and  the  like — throw- 
ing up  their  variegated  tufts,  like  nosegays 
presented  by  nature  for  some  gentle  crea- 
ture, like  May  Darling,  to  gather  up  and 
lay  upon  her  bosom.  The  air,  of  course, 
was  permanently  impregnated  with  the 
perfume  which  they  breathed  out — the 
everlasting  incense  of  the  flowers  rising 
from  the  altars  of   Nature   to  her   God. 


516 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


Such  was  the  sanctuary  in  which  May 
gleaned  from  books  the  golden  thoughts  of  \ 
others,  or  held  communion  with  her  own  ; 
and  well  was  it  adapted  for  nursing  a  ro- 
mantic taste,  and  giving  a  tenderer  tone 
to  every  tender  feeling. 

The  personal  attractions  of  this  sweet 
and  lovely  creature  increased  with  her 
years,  and  she  became  the  reigning  belle 
of  Grassyvale  and  all  the  country  round. 
It  followed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  her 
admirers  outnumbered  her  years ;  and  that 
the  possession  of  her  affections  was,  with 
many  a  rustic  Adonis,  a  subject  which 
troubled  the  little  kingdom  of  the  soul, 
like  the  Babylonish  garment.  At  every 
village  fete — a  wedding,  a  harvest  home, 
or  other  rural  festival — hers  was  the  step 
most  buoyant  in  the  dance,  hers  the  hand 
most  frequently  solicited,  hers  the  form 
and  face  that  riveted  all  eyes,  and  thrilled 
the  heart  of  the  ardent  admirer  "  too 
much  adoring."  Amongst  the  other  ac- 
complishments of  our  heroine,  skill  in 
music  was  not  the  least  prominent.  Not 
that  she  excelled  in  those  intricate  graces 
which  are  often  had  recourse  to  by  vocal- 
ists to  conceal  a  bad  voice,  and  atone  for 
want  of  feeling  and  expression  ;  but  her 
"  wood-note  wild  "  was  eminently  charac- 
terized by  the  latter  qualities  of  singing  ; 
and  the  effect  which  she  produced,  was, 
accordingly,  calculated  to  be  lasting. 

It  must  not  be  supposed,  however,  that 
the  flattering  unction  of  adulation,  at  best 
like  the  love  of  Kaled  to  Lara,  ^'  but  half- 
concealed,"  had  any  pernicious  influence 
over  her  mind.  She  was  neither  puffed 
up  with  vain  conceit,  nor  display  of 
haughty  reserve  and  distance  towards  those 
who  numbered  fewer  worshippers  than 
herself;  still  humility  of  heart,  which  was 
*'  native  there  and  to  the  manner  born," 
characterized  her  deportment — nor  was 
there  any  relaxation  in  the  discharge  of 
the  household  duties  which  devolved  upon 
her  ;  and  the  comfort  of  her  father,  and 
the  proper  care  and  culture  of  the  younger 
branches  of  the  family,  were  as  faithfully 


attended  to  as  if  her  deformity,  instead  of 
her  beauty,  had  been  proverbial.  She 
folded  the  little  flutterers  under  her  wing, 
like  a  mother  bird  ;  and,  if  there  was  one 
thing  more  than  another  that  she  took  de- 
light in,  it  was  the  training  of  their  young 
minds  to  the  love  and  practice  of  virtue 
and  religion,  the  only  fountains  whence 
happiness,  pure  and  uncontaminated,  can 
be  drawn  in  this  life. 

'•  So  passed  their  life — a  clear  united  stream, 
By  care  unruffled  ;  till,  in  evil  hour" 

But  we  anticipate. 

It  was  on  a  fine  summer  morning  that 
May,  with  one  of  her  little  sisters,  set  out 
to  visit  the  annual  fair  of  the  county  town. 
Such  an  event  naturally  excites  consider- 
able interest  over  all  the  country  round  ; 
and  old    and  young,   blind    and   cripple, 
male  and  female,  pour  along  the  public 
ways — not  in  "  weary,"  but  in  light-hearted 
"  droves  " — full  of  eagerness  and  cxnec- 
tation,  like  the  Jews  to  the  pool  of  Bc- 
thesda,  when  the  angel  was  expected  to 
make   his  annual  descent,    and  impart  a 
healing  virtue  to   its   waters  ;  for  there, 
there  is  to  be  found  variety  of  amusement 
for  every  mind — from  the  Katerfelto  won- 
der er,  "  wondering  for  his  bread,"  down 
to  the  more  humble  establishment   of  a 
half-penny  showman,  with  his  "  glorious 
victory  of  Waterloo,"  his  "  golden  beetle," 
or  "  ashes  from  the  burning  mountains." 
But,  on  the  occasion  to  which  we  refer, 
there  was  an  exhibition  in  the  shape  of  a 
theatrical  booth,  which  presented  extraor- 
dinary attractions  for  May  Darling  ;  and, 
accordingly,   after   deliberately  balancing 
the    gratification    which    she    anticipated, 
with  the  expense  which  it  would  cost   (her 
exchequer  was  of  course  not  very  rich), 
she  at  lensfth  found  herself  comfortablv 
seated  near  the  front  of  the  stage.     The 
tragedy  of  "  George  Barnwell  "  was  going 
off  with  prodigious  eclat ;  and  the  per- 
formers had  arrived  at  that  scene  where 
the  hero  is  about  to  assassinate  his  uncle, 
when  the  insecure   props  that  supported 
the  gallery  began  to  indicate  a  disposition 


MAY  DARLING,  THE  VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


517 


to  disencumber  themselves  of  their  burden, 
and,  at  last,  finally  gave  way.     The  con- 
fusion which  now  ensued,  not  to  mention 
the  shrieks  and  other  vocal  notes  of  terror 
and  dismay,  it  is  needless  to  describe — 
these  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  tale. 
Barnwell,  instead  of  imbruing  his  hands  in 
innocent  blood,  even  "  in  jest,"  became 
the  most  active  agent  in  rescuing  his  hap- 
less audience  from  their  perilous  situation. 
He  was  a  tall,  handsome  young  man,  of  a 
very  prepossessing  exterior,  and  appeared 
to  great  advantage  in  his  showy  stage  ha- 
biliments.    The  general  rush  was  towards 
the  door,  the  most  likely  avenue  of  escape 
which  presented  itself  to  the   astonished 
rustics  ;  but  a  few,  amongst  whom  was  our 
heroine,  with  more  collected  judgment  and 
presence  of  mind,  found  a  place  of  secu- 
rity   on    the    stage.       May    was    slightly 
bruised   in  her  endeavors  to  shelter  her 
young   charge ;  and,   although  not  much 
injured,  her  forlorn  yet  interesting   ap- 
pearance drew  the  attention  of  the  histri- 
onic Samaritan,  and  he  kindly  conducted 
her  into  the  back  settlements  of  the  the- 
atre.    The  affair  was  not  of  such  a  serious 
nature    as  might  have  been  anticipated. 
A  few  dilapidated  seats,  and  a  score  or  two 
of  trifling  contusions,  made  up   the  sum 
total  of  the  damage.     A  hat  or  two  might 
have   changed  owners  in   the  confusion  ; 
but  these  are  things  beneath  the  dignity 
of  a  tragedian  to  look  after  ;  and,  as  soon 
as  matters   were   adjusted  on   the   grand 
theatre  of  commotion,  he  returned  to  the 
object   of  his  first   solicitude.      She    was 
seated  on  a  stool,  in  what  was  dignified 
with  the  sounding  appellation  of  a  green- 
room— looking    paler,  and   lovelier,    and 
more  loveable  than  ever.     He  quieted  her 
I    apprehensions  with  respect  to  the  catas- 
trophe ;  for  he  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of 

■  imitation,  and  politely  requested  the  honor 
I  of  conducting  her  to  her  place  of  residence. 
I    It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  what  was  the 

first  impression  which  the   request  made 
i    upon  the  mind  of  May  Darling ;  but  the 

■  scruples    of    modest,    virgin    innocence, 


yielded  at  last  to  the  importunities  of  the 
actor,  and  they  left  the  scene  of  mirth 
and  confusion  together. 

On  their  journey  homewards,  the  con- 
versation    naturally     turned    upon    the 
drama  ;  and  many  a  fine  passage,  which 
May  admired,  was  recited  to  her  with  all 
the  eloquence  and  stage  artifice  which  the 
actor  was  master  of.     And  he  would  speak 
feelingly  of  "  the  gentle  lady  married  to 
the  Moor  ;"  her  love — the  love  of  Desde- 
mona — pure,  exalted,  all-enduring — such 
as  death  alone  could  quench  ;  her  wo  and 
her    fate,  so    replete  with    all    that  can 
agonize  the  human  soul,  and  awaken  its 
profoundest   sympathies  ; — of    Ophelia — 
"  the  fair  Ophelia,"  the  young,  the  beau- 
tiful, and  the  gentle — her  devoted,  child- 
like affection,  her   mournful    distraction, 
and  her  untimely  doom  ; — of  Miranda,  the 
island  bride — the   being   of  enchantment 
— half    earthly,    half    heavenly — around 
whom  the  spirits  of  the  air  hovered,  and 
ministered  unto  as  vassals  ; — of  Imogen, 
the  fair  and  faithful — the   patient,  long- 
suffering,  and  finally  fortunate  Imogen  ; — 
of  Cordelia — she  of  the  seraph- spirit,  pure 
and  peaceful — whose  love  for  a  father  sur- 
passed that  of  the  Roman  daughter  ; — of 
Perdita — "  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that 
ever  ran  on  the  greensward  " — the  shep- 
herdess and  the  princess  ; — of  Juliet — the 
martyr  of  passion — she  who   drew  poison 
from  earth's   sweetest  flower — love — and 
died    thereby ;     by    love's    own    flame, 
"  kindled  she  was  and  blasted."     These, 
and  many  other  creations  of  fancy,  which 
omnipotent  genius    has  rendered    almost 
real    historical    personages — not    shadow 
but    substance — were    the  topics   of  dis- 
course which  were  handled  by  our  hero  of 
the    buskin,    until  the    cottage    of  John 
Darling  was  reached.     From  the  descrip- 
tion which  has  been  given  of  May's  cha- 
racter, it  need  be  no  matter  of  surprise 
that  the  impression  made  upon  her  gentle 
bosom  was  profound  ;  and,  on  taking  leave 
of  her,  a  request,  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Hen- 
ry Wilkinson   (such  was   the  tragedian's 


518 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


name),  to  bo  permitted  to  vLsit  her  on 
some  future  occasion,  made  under  cover 
of  a  pretext  to  inquire  after  the  state  of 
her  health,  was  acceded  to.  Again  and 
again  Mr.  Wilkinson  visited  the  cottage, 
and  poured  into  the  ear  of  the  humble, 
unsuspecting,  and  happy  inmate,  many  a 
story  of  love,  and  hope,  and  joy — such  as 
his  knowledge  of  the  drama,  which  was 
great,  supplied  him  with. 

"  These  things  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  ; 
But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence  ; 
"Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch 
She'd  come  again,  and,  with  a  greedy  ear, 
Devour  up  his  discourse." 

Substitute  the  name  of  May  Darling 
for  that  of  Desdemona,  and  the  descrip- 
tion becomes  perfect  of  our  heroine's  situ- 
ation, whilst  the  result  was  similar  :  in  a 
short  time,  the  happiness  of  our  village 
maiden  was  entirely  at  the  disposal  of  Mr. 
Wilkinson.  Hitherto  her  heart  had  slept, 
like  some  untroubled  lake,  reflecting  only 
heaven,  and  nature  grand  and  beautiful 
around  ;  but  now  its  waters  were  darken- 
ed and  disturbed  by  one  single  image — 
and  that  was  her  lover's.  Her  ears  were 
no  longer  open  to  the  murmurs  of  her 
native  stream,  or  the  gush  of  song  from 
the  fairy- winged  and  fairy-plumaged  birds, 
whom  she  almost  knew  one  from  another  : 
she  only  heard  the  music  of  her  lover's 
voice.  Her  secluded  dell  was  no  longer 
visited  alone  ;  her  walks  were  no  longer 
solitary,  or  if  they  were,  it  was  only  to 
meet  him  whom  her  heart  loved,  and  to 
see  if  his  speed  '*  kept  pace  with  her 
expectancy."  Everything  was  beheld 
through  one  all-hallowing  atmosphere — 
and  that  was  love.  It  lay  upon  her  soul 
like  the  shadow  on  the  sundial,  and  time 
was  measured  by  it.  How,  it  will  be  ask- 
ed, was  all  this  looked  upon  by  her  father  } 
With  no  favorable  eye — nay,  with  many 
suspicious  forebodings  and  prophetic  fears. 

It  was  about  three  months  after  the 
catastrophe  which  took  place  in  the 
provincial  theatre,  that  Mr.  Wilkinson 
made  proposals  of  a  union  to  May,  which, 


being  accepted,  the  consent  of  her  parent 
was  next  applied  for.  The  advances  of 
the  actor  were  for  a  time  checked  by  an 
uncompromising  refusal;  but  May's  father 
gradually  became  less  peremptory,  until 
there  remained  only  one  objection,  but 
that  was  insurmountable — namely,  the 
profession  of  Mr.  Wilkinson — one,  in 
general,  very  obnoxious  to  a  Scottish 
peasant.  It  was,  however,  finally  obviated, 
by  the  actor's  promising  to  abandon  it, 
and  become  a  teacher  of  elocution  in  the 

town  of   H .     The    father's  consent 

was  obtained  at  last,  though  with  re- 
luctance,  and  the  day  of  their  nuptials  was 
fixed. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  that  which 
preceded  the  day  when  May  Darling  was 
to  give  her  hand  to  the  man  for  whom  her 
heart  cherished  a  love  as  deep,  intense, 
and  concentrated,  as  ever  was  awakened 
and  nursed  in  woman's  gentle  bosom. 
The  sun — ^just  sinking  through  those  vast 
masses  of  clouds  which  usually  attend  his 
exit,  and  assume,  as  he  descends,  various 
wild  and  fantastical  shapes,  and  catch 
every  hue,  from  the  intense  purple  to  the 
scarcely  perceptible  yellow — showered  on 
the  face  of  nature  a  stream  of  rich  but 
mellowed  radiance,  which  softened  with- 
out obliterating,  the  outlines  of  objects, 
and  produced  that  "  clear  obscure,  so 
softly  dark,  so  darkly  pure,"  which  is  so 
favorable  to  indulgence  in  tender  emo- 
tions. 
"  Sweet  hour  that  wakes  the  wish  and  melts 
the  heart  !"— 

sweet  hour,  when  reflection  is  deepest  and 
feeling  most  profound — when  the  mind, 
abroad  all  day,  busied  with  the  concerns 
of  this  work-a-day  world,  comes  home  to 
itself,  and  broods,  and  sleeps,  and  dreams 
golden  dreams — sunny,  hope-illumined 
dreams  ! — sweet  hour,  when  the  ties  of 
social  being  which  the  day  had  severed 
are  reunited,  and  around  the  household 
hearth,  the  "  old  familiar  faces  "  are  as- 
sembled ! — sweet  hour,  when  the  shades 
of  evening,  gradually  deepening,  are  suffi- 


MAY  DARLING,  THE  VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


519 


cient  to  conceal  the  blush  which  mio-ht 
mantle  beauty's  cheek,  too  warmly,  fondly 
pressed,  as,  in  a  voice  half  sighs,  half 
whispers,  she  confesses  the  secret  of  her 
love  ;  and  when,  in  the  arms  which  gently 
enfold  her  yielding  form,  she  seems,  in 
the  fine  lano-uaf^c  of  Roarers,  to  become 
less  and  less  earthly, 

"  And  fades  at  last  into  a  spirit  from  heaven  !" 

'Twas  at  this  enchanting  hour  that 
Wilkinson  and  his  betrothed  set  out  on 
one  of  those  charming  walks  during  which 
they  had  so  often  exchanged  vows  of 
mutual  and  eternal  love.  The  road  which 
they  at  first  took,  was  sufficiently  retired 
to  admit  of  their  conversing  aloud  with 
unreserved  confidence ;  but,  continuing 
their  journe}'-,  unconscious  where  they 
were  o"oing,  they  found  themselves  at  last 
in   the   vicinity   of  the  high  road  which 

leads  to  the  town  of  H .     Turning  to 

strike  down  a  narrow  hedge-row  path,  a 
moving  spectacle  presented  itself  to  their 
observation.  Upon  a  grassy  knoll  lay  a 
female  fast  asleep,  with  a  child  at  her 
breast,  vainly  attempting  to  force  its  little 
fingers  within  the  folds  of  the  handker- 
chief which  concealed  the  bosom  of  its 
mother.  May  uttered  a  faint  exclamation, 
somewhat  between  pity  and  fear  ;  for  she 
was  taken  by  surprise.  But  her  lover's 
astonishment  was  still  greater  than  hers  ; 
for,  after  he  had  contemplated  the  care- 
worn features  of  the  wayfarer,  he  started, 
and,  had  not  the  increasing  gloom  of 
evening  prevented  any  change  of  counte- 
nance from  being  perceptible.  May  might 
have  seen  his  face  turn  ashy  pale  ;  but  she 
felt  the  arm  in  which  hers  was  fondly 
locked,  to  tremble  distinctly. 

"This  touches  your  feelings,  Henry," 
said  May ;  "  but  can  we  not,  love,  do 
something  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of 
this,  no  doubt,  unfortunate  female  ?  Had 
I  not  better  awake  her,  and  conduct  her 
to  my  father's  where  refreshment  and  rest 
can  be  procured  .^" 

"  Nay,  dearest  love,"  said  Wilkinson 


— •'  sleep  is  to  the  wretched  tho  greatest 
.boon  that  can  be  bestowed  :  let  us  leave 
her  alone,  nor  deprive  her  of  the  only 
comfort  which,  possibly,  she  is  capable  of 
enjoying." 

So  saying,  he  hastily  retired,  bearing 
May,  somewhat  reluctantly,  homewards  ; 
for  her  sympathy  was  much  excited,  and 
she  would  fain  have  carried  her  generous 
purpose  into  effect ;  but  gave  way  to  the 
entreaties  of  her  lover,  who  had  some  miles 
to  walk  ere  he  could  reach  his  place  of 
residence.  After  seeing  May  safely 
beneath  the  domestic  roof,  Wilkinson 
bade  farewell  for  the  night  to  his  betroth- 
ed bride,  and  took  his  departure,  with  the 
intention,  he  said,  of  immediately  return- 
ing to  H .  He  did  not  proceed  di- 
rectly home,  however ;  but,  making  a 
retrograde  movement,  he  fell  back  upon 
the  place  where  the  fatigued  traveller  had 
been  seen.  She  was  gone  when  he  ar- 
rived ;  and  whether  the  circumstance  gave 
him  pleasure  or  the  reverse,  we  have 
never  been  able  to  ascertain  ;  but,  at  all 
events,  he  now  set  out  in  good  earnest  for 

H .     What   should    have    interested 

Wilkinson  so  much  in  this  apparently 
wandering  mendicant  ? — Pacienza. 

On  the  evening  which  we  have  describ- 
ed, let  the  reader  picture  to  himself  two 
aged  crones,  comfortably  seated  upon  a 
rough  slab  of  wood,  elevated  two  feet  or 
so  above  the  ground,  by  a  massive  block 
of  granite  which  supported  either  end. 
This  together  with  the  cottage  wall  against 
which  their  backs  reclined,  might,  even 
with  individuals  more  fastidious  than  its 
present  occupants,  have  appeared  a  luxu- 
ry little  inferior  to  a  sofa,  especially  in 
that  bland  and  beautiful  hour  when  day- 
lio-ht  dies  along  the  hills,  and  our  feelings, 
partaking  of  the  softness  of  the  scene  and 
hour  dispose  us  to  be  pleased,  we  ask  not 
why  and  care  not  wherefore.  On  either 
hand  was  situated  a  door,  over  which  hung 
suspended  a  very  homely  signboard. 
From  one  of  these,  the  wayfarer  might 
learn   that   good  entertainment  for  man 


520 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


and  beast  could  be  supplied  within,  by 
Janet  Baird,  who,  it  appeared,  was,  by 
special  permission  of  government,  per- 
mitted to  retail  spirits,  porter,  ale,  and 
other  items.  Lest  any  mistake  should 
occur  as  to  the  nature  of  the  invitation 
(or,  perhaps,  it  was  a  ruse  to  provoke  the 
alimentary  faculties),  there  was  a  painting 
of  the  interior,  representing  a  table,  which 
seemed  to  groan  under  the  weight  of 
bottles,  glasses,  porter  and  ale  cans,  bread, 
cheese,  and  what  not ;  whilst  two  jolly 
companions,  with  rubicund  faces,  where 
an  infinity  of  good  nature  predominated, 
sat  round  it,  each  with  a  cup  in  hand,  and 
both  evidently  sublimed  by  their  potations 
far  above  this  "  dirty  planet,  the  earth." 
At  the  entrance  to  the  apartment  was 
seen  the  landlady,  who,  with  one  hand, 
pushed  open  the  door  ;  whilst  the  other, 
projecting  forwards,  supported  a  huge 
tankard,  charged  with  the  favorite  beve- 
rage, which  mantled  or  effloresced  at  the 


"0^5 


top,  like  a  cauliflower.  The  neighboring 
sio"n  had  fewer  attractions  for  the  weary 
traveller  or  the  droughty  villager,  throw- 
ing out  merely  hints  as  to  the  condition  of 
the  reader's  linen,  by  intimating  that 
clothes  might  here  undergo  purification, 
and  be  mangled  by  the  hour  or  peace 
(such  was  the  orthography)  by  Nelly 
Gray. 

The  two  neighbors  lived  on  terms  of 
the  utmost  harmony  ;  for  there  was  no 
rivalry  of  interests.  Their  callings  were 
antipodes  to  each  other — one  being  de- 
voted to  the  decoration  and  comfortable 
appearance  of  the  human  exterior,  whilst 
the  other  took  special  cognizance  of  the 
internal  condition  of  the  animal  economy. 
They,  of  C0UVS3,  carried  on  a  mutual  traf- 
fic ;  but  it  was  on  the  primitive  principle 
of  barter — the  weekly  account  for  washing 
and  dressing  which  Janet  owed,  being  duly 
balanced  by  her  accommodating  Nelly  with 
a  certain  potent  nostrum,  which  we  shall 
not  name,  buL  merely  describe  as  a  sove- 
reign remedy  for  aching  bones  and  pains, 
and  other  complaints   of  the  stomach,  to 


which  this  petticoat  Diogenes  (for  she 
likewise  practised  in  a  tub )  was  very  sub- 
ject, especially  after  washing  a  whole  day, 
or  impelling  her  crazy  creaking  machine 
for  the  same  space  of  time.  It  was  their 
invariable  practice  to  spend  an  hour  or 
two  every  evening  in  what  is  termed  in 
the  vernacular  a  "  twa-handed  crack,'' 
either  seated  out  doors,  or  snugly  im- 
mured in  Janet's  back  parlor — a  small 
dark  room,  encumbered  with  sundry  arti- 
cles of  retail.  The  subject  of  their  con- 
versation, on  the  present  occasion,  will 
immediately  become  apparent. 

"  They  say  he's  gaun  to  learn  folk  elly- 
keashun,"  said  Janet,  in  reference  to 
May's  lover. 

"  An'  what's  that,  Janet  ?"  asked  the 
other. 

"  Ne'er  a  bit  0'  me  kens  very  weel," 
rejoined  Janet,  ''  but,  I'm  thinkin  it's  the 
way  the  gentry  speak,  eghin  an'  owin,  and 
sichin  and  sabbin,  an'  makin  yer  voice 
gang  up  an  doun,  like  daft  Jock  playin  on 
the  fife." 

"  Hech,  sirs,  that's  an  idle  kind  0'  way 
0'  making  ane's  bread,"  sighed  Janet. 

"  It's  naething  else  than  begging. 
He'd  better  pit  a  napping  hammer  in  his 
hand,  an'  tak  the  road-side  for  an  honest 
livelihood." 

"  'Deed,  Nelly,  it's  my  opinion  he's 
been  on  the  road  before,  following  anither 
trade,"  said  Janet.  "  I'm  sair  mistaen  if 
he's  no  a  hempie  ;  an'  we'll  maybe  hear 
mair  aboot  him  yet  than  some  folks  wad 
like  to  ken  0'.  I  never  liked  your  land- 
loupers an'  spoutin  gentry  a'  my  days. 
They're  nae  better  than  tinklers,  that 
carry  off  whatever  they  lay  their  ban's  on, 
nae  matter  whether  it's  beast  or  body.  It 
cowes  the  gowan  hoo  sae  sensible  a  man 
as  John  Darling  wad  e'er  hae  looten  his 
dochter  tak  up  wi'  sic  like  clamjamfrey. 
But  he  was  aye  owre  easy  wi'  his  family, 
an'  gied  them  owre  muckle  0'  their  ain 
wull  frae  the  first.  But  the  mother  was 
sair  to  blame  in  pittin  sic  daft-like  notions 
intil  a  bairn's  head  as  to  read  playactorin' 


MAY  DARLING,  THE  VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


521 


books  an'  novels.  Wae  am  I  to  say  sae, 
noo  that  slie's  wliar  the  Lord  wull." 

"  Is't  true,  Janet,  that  they're  to  be 
coupled  i'  the  kirk  .?"  asked  Nelly. 
"  They  say  tho  minister's  taen  an  unco 
likin  to  the  lad  ;  an',  to  mak  things  look 
as  genteel  as  possible,  he's  offered  the  use 
o'  the  kirk  for  marrying  them  in ;  au's  to 
gie  them  a  ploy  forbye,  after  it's  a'  owre." 

"  Guid  faith,  it's  a  true  saying — '  The 
fat  sow  gets  a'  the  draff,'  "  rejoined  Janet. 
"  It  wad  be  lano-  or  he  did  a  turn  like  that 
for  ony  puir  body  like  oorsels.  The  birkie 
doesna  stand  in  need  o'  cash  ;  for  he  gies 
saxpence  to  this  ane,  an'  a  shilling  to  the 
tither  ane  for  ganging  errans.  He  micht 
hae  provided  something  for  the  waddin 
folks  doun  at  Michael  Crummie's,  whase 
tred's  no  sae  brisk  noo,  sin'  that  kick-up 
wi'  him  an'  the  Mason  Lodge  folk,  wha 
swore  he  gied  them  up  ill  whusky — an' 
that  was,  maybe,  nae  lee.  He  ne'er,  since 
ever  I  mind,  keepit  the  real  stuff,  like  that 
o'  mine.  But  see,  Nelly,  whatna  puir 
waebe2:one  looking;  creature's  that  comin«; 

CO  o 

alang  the  road,  scarcely  able  to  trail  ae 
leg  after  anither  ? — an'  a  bairn,  too,  help 
us  a'  !" 

The  object  which  drew  the  attention  of 
the  honest  ale-wife,  was,  as  the  reader 
may  have  already  sagaciously  conjectured, 
the  same  forlorn  being  whom  May  Dar- 
ling and  her  lover  had  accidentally  en- 
countered. With  a  slow  and  faltering 
step,  she  approached  the  village  dames, 
and  inquired  of  them  how  far  it  was  from 
the  town  of  H . 

''  Five  miles  guid,"  said  Janet  Baird, 
and  continued — "  but  ye'll  no  think  o' 
gaun  there  the  nicht ;  it's  gettin  dark,  an' 
ye've  mair  need  o'  a  while's  rest ;  an', 
maybe,  ye  wadna  be  the  waur  o'  something 
to  support  nature  ;  for,  wae's  me  !  ye  do 
look  thin  an'  hungert  like  !  Tak  her  in 
by,  Nelly,  an'  I"  11  fetch  her  some  cordial, 
as  weel  as  a  morsel  to  eat." 

So  saying,  she  proceeded  to  her  shop, 
for  the  purpose  of  making  good  her  word, 
whilst  Nelly  followed  up  that  part  of  the 


duty  of  relieving  the  stranger  which  de- 
volved upon  her,  and  conducted  the 
"  wearied  one"  into  the  interior  of  her 
humble  domicile. 

"  Ye'll  hae  travelled  a  gey  bit  the  day, 
na,  I  sudna  wonder  .?"  said  Nelly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  whom  we 
shall  now  designate  as  Mrs.  B.  "  Since 
morning,  I  have  prosecuted  my  journey 
with  all  the  speed  which  want  and  weari- 
ness would  permit  of.  But  these  were  no- 
thing, did  I  only  know  how  it  was  to  ter- 
minate." 

Meantime,  Janet  had  returned,  bearincr 
in  her  apron  an  ample  stock  of  provisions  ; 
and,  having  heard  the  latter  part  of  Mrs. 
B.'s  reply  to  Nelly,  her  curiosity  was  not 
a  little  excited  to  know  somethino:  of  her 
history.  This  she  set  about  with  the 
characteristic  pawlciness  (there  is  no 
purely  English  word  sufficiently  expres- 
sive) of  the  Scotch — that  style  of  speak- 
ing which  is  half  asking,  half  answering  a 
question  ;  and  she  was  successful  in  her 
endeavors. 

"  It'll    be    the     guidman   that   ye 're 

gaun   to  meet   at    H .^"  said   Janet. 

"  He'll  be  in  the  manufacturing  line,  nae 
doot  ;  for  there's  little  else  dune  there  ; 
an',  indeed,  that  itsel  has  faun  sair  aff  sin' 
that  dirt  o'  machinery  was  brought  in  to 
tak  the  bread  out  o'  the  puir  man's 
mouth." 

"  Yes — no  ;  he  is  not  in  that  line,  nor 
do  I  know,  indeed,  if  he  is  to  be  found 
there  at  all ;  but — but — excuse  me,  kind 
friend,  for  showing  a  little  reserve  touch- 
ing one  who" 

Here,  however,  her  feelings  overcame 
her ;  and,  turning  round  to  gaze  on  the 
helpless  being  that  clung  to  her  bosom, 
tears  from  her  suffused  eyes  began  to  find 
a  ready  passage  down  her  pale  emaciated 
cheek — a  channel  with  which  they  appear- 
ed to  be  fiimiliar. 

"  He  never  saw  thee,  my  little  Henry, 
my  sweet  boy  !  Methinks,  that  cherub 
smile  of  innocence  which  lies  upon  thy 
countenance,  would  be  powerful  enough  to 


522 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


melt  the  icy  feelings  of  his  soul,  and  re- 
call  .      Pardon  me,    kind    friends," 

she  continued  ;  "  but  the  name  of  husband 
is  associated  in  my  mind  with  all  that  hu- 
man nature  can  suffer,  of  unmitigated, 
hopeless  wretchedness.     You    see   before 

you  the   victim   of .     But  you   shall 

hear  all." 

She  then  commenced  her  history,  re- 
counting every  circumstance  of  a  tale  of 
misery  but  too  common.  As  it  is,  in  some 
measure,  connected  with  that  of  May 
Darling,  we  shall  give  a  few  of  its  leading 
facts. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  respectable 
farmer  in  the  north  of  England,  and,  being 
an  only  child,  received  an  accomplished 
education  ;  and,  from  her  engaging  man- 
ners, personal  attractions,  and  skill  in  mu- 
sic, she  was  much  courted,  even  by  those 
who  moved  in  the  higher  circles.  At  the 
house   of  a  neighboring  clergyman,   Mr. 

G ,  she  was   a  very  frequent  visitor  ; 

and  her  charms  captivated  the  heart  of 

Dr.  G ,  a  young  medical,  gentleman, 

and  the  nephew  of  the  clergyman.  On 
her  part,  however,  there  was  no  attach- 
ment, although  the  ardor  with  which  Dr. 
G pressed  his  suit  might  have  capti- 
vated a  bosom  less  stubborn  than  hers. 
But  another  idol  was  shrined  and  secretly 
worshipped  there.    This  was  a  Mr.  Henry 

Bolton,  a  fellow-student  of  Dr.   G 's 

— who,    in    calling    at  the  house  of  Mr. 


G- 


-,  to  see  his  friend  the  Doctor,  was 
induced  to  spend  a  few  days  with  him. 
His  stay  was  protracted  to  weeks,  months 
— in  short  till  the  farmer's  daughter  and 
he,  having  come  to  an  understanding  with 
respect  to  the  all-important  matter  of 
love,  agreed  to  join  hands  for  better  for 
worse.  The  marriage  took  place  at  a 
neighboring  town,  where  the  couple  re- 
mained for  several  months,  living  in  a 
state  of  great  privacy,  for  no  one  was  in 
the  secret  of  their  union,  not  even  the 
lady's  father.  The  finances  of  Mr.  Bolton 
became  exhausted  ;  and  a  letter  from  his 
father  having  shut  out  all  hope  of  succor 


from  that  quarter,  he  was  thrown  into  a 
state  of  extreme  dejection.  His  temper 
soured,  and  harshness  towards  his  wife 
soon  followed ;  for  an  application  on  her 
part  to  her  father,  to  whom  she  was  com- 
pelled by  necessity  to  reveal  her  situation, 
met  with  a  reception  similar  to  the  other. 
One  day,  he  dressed  himself  with  more 
than  usual  care,  packed  up  in  a  small 
parcel  the  principal  part  of  his  body 
clothes,  and  having  told  his  wife  that  he 
meant  to  go  as  far  as ,  naming  a  con- 
siderable town,  which  was  situated  at  some 
miles  distance,  parted  from  her,  like  Ajut 
in  "  The  Rambler,"  never  to  return. 
The  sun  arose  and  set,  and  arose  again 
and  again,  and  week  after  week,  but  still 
he  came  not ;  nor  was  she  ever  able  to 
obtain  the  faintest  trace  of  him.  Her 
health  began  to  droop,  and,  in  the  depth 
of  her  humiliation  and  misery,  like  the 
prodigal  of  old,  she  was  compelled  to  seek 
for  shelter  under  the  paternal  roof.  Her 
father  received  her  even  with  kindness  ; 
for  time,  the  softener  of  affliction,  the 
soother  of  wrath,  had  not  passed  over  his 
head  without  exercising  its  due  influence 
upon  his  feelings.  Here  she  gave  birth 
to  a  child,  the  baby  which  now  lay  at  her 
breast.  Time  passed  away,  and  still  no 
intelligence  of  her  runaway  husband  reach- 
ed her,  till,  "  About  a  week  back,"  she 
said,  ^^  communication  was  made  me  by 
letter,  that,  if  I  would  repair  to  the  town 

of  H ,  I  would  hear  something  of  my 

lost  husband.  Without  the  knowledge  of 
my  father,  I  have  undertaken  the  journey ; 
and  God  alone  knows  whether  the  infor- 
mation, so  mysteriously  conveyed  to  me, 
be  true  or  false — whether  my  hopes  will 
be  disappointed  or  realized.  A  few  hours, 
however,  will  be  sufficient  to  set  my  mind 
at  rest.  I  have  wearied  you,  I  fear  ;  but 
my  present  wretched  appearance  required 
some  explanation  on  my  part — for,  oh,  it 
is  difficult  to  lie  under  the  suspicion  of 
being  a  vagrant  or  vagabond,  as  heaven 
knows  I  am  neither."  And,  clasping  her 
hands,  and  raising  her  eyes,  she  remained 


MAY  DARLING,  THE  VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


523 


for  a  few  minutes  in  that  reverential  but 
death-like  attitude  which  is  assumed  when 
a  human  soul  prays  in  agony. 

Her  painful  narrative  had  its  due  influ- 
ence upon  the  minds  of  those  to  whom  it 
was  addressed  ;  and,  although  both  ad- 
mitted the  propriety  of  proceeding  to  the 
town  of  H ,  yet  they  earnestly  exhort- 
ed her  to  remain  with  them  for  a  night  ; 
and  to  this  proposal  she  acceded.     After 

breakfast  next  morning,  Mrs.  B (who 

must  now  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
principal  of   our   dramatis  personce)    set 

out  for  the  town  of  H .     What  the 

nature  of  her  reflections  were,  as  she  drew 
near  the  termination  of  her  journey,  may 
be  readily  conceived  ;  but  of  their  intensity 
no  idea  can  be  formed  by  any  one  except 
by  the  broken-hearted  female  who  has 
passed  through  the  same  fiery  ordeal  of 
desertion  and  despair.  She  had  arrived 
within  a  short  distance  of  the  town,  when 
a  chaise,  driving  rapidly  down  the  princi- 
pal entrance  to  it,  attracted  her  attention. 
It  approached,  and  from  the  favors  which 
profusely  adorned  the  driver,  his  team, 
and  his  vehicle,  it  was  evident  that  some 
happy  pair  were  destined  soon  to  become 
its  occupants.  The  blinds  were  all  drawn 
up  ;  but,  as  the  chaise  passed  her,  one 
of  them  was  partially  let  down,  and  she 
heard  some  one  from  within  instruct  the 
driver  to  proceed  to  the  manse  by  a  road 
more  retired  than  that  usually  taken. 
There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the 
voice  (though  indistinctly  heard  from  the 
rattling  of  the  wheels)  which  startled  Mrs. 

B from  a  reverie  in  which  she  had  been 

indulging,  and  made  every  fibre  of  her 
body  to  thrill,  as  if  an  electric  discharge 
had  shot  through  it.  In  mute  astonish- 
ment, not  unmingled  with  thick  coming 
fancies,  horrible  forebodings,  which,  with- 
out assuming  any  definite  form,  were  pro- 
phetic of  wo,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the 
retiring  vehicle,  and,  rooted  to  the  spot 
where  she  stood,  motionless  as  a  Niobe  of 
stone,  gazed  and  gazed  till  her  eyeballs 
ached.      "  Can  it  be?"'  she  at  last   ex- 


claimed, with  wild  emotion 


"  can  it  be  ? 
— No — no — 'tis  but  fancy ;  yet  the  place  ! 
— gracious  powers  !"  Her  eyes  continued 
to  follow  the  retiring  wheels,  fixed  upon 
them  she  knew  not  by  what  mysterious 
power ;  and  long  she  might  have  remained 
in  this  position,  had  not  some  person  from 
behind  softly  addressed  her.  She  turned 
round,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  her  former 

suitor,  Dr.  G .     Let  her  astonishment 

be  imagined — we  will  not  attempt  to  give 
words  to  her  feelings. 

"  It  is  to  you,  then,"  she  said,  after  re- 
covering from  her  surprise — "  it  is  to  you, 
Dr.  G- 


-,  that  I  am  indebted  for  infor- 
mation regarding  my  lost  husband." 

"  It  is,"  he  replied ;  "  but  not  a  mo- 
ment is  to  be  lost.  Things  are  in  a  worse 
condition  than  they  were  when  I  dispatch- 
ed my  letter  to  you.  But  let  us  proceed 
instantly  to  Grassyvale.  On  the  way  I 
will  inform  you  of  all  that  has  come  to 
my  knowledge  regarding  that  monster — it 
were  a  profanation  of  language  to  call  him 
husband.-"  So  saying,  they  commenced 
their  journey,  which  we  shall  leave  them 
to  prosecute  whilst  we  bring  up  some 
parts  of  our  narrative  which  have  been  ne- 
cessarily left  in  the  rear. 

We  need  hardly  say  that  the  morning 
of  her  marriage  was  an  anxious  and  a 
busy  one  to  May  Darling.  It  is  true  that 
she  had  plenty  of  assistance  afforded  her 
by  the  village  matrons,  and  by  a  few 
youthful  associates,  whom  she  had  singled 
out  as  especial  favorites,  from  amongst 
many  who  were  regarded  by  her  with  affec- 
tion. But  still  a  fastidiousness  of  taste 
always  seizes  people  on  those  occasions 
when  they  are  desirous  of  appearing  to 
the  best  advantage.  Besides,  when  there 
are  a  number  of  lady's  maids,  all  busily 
engaged  in  decorating  a  single  individual, 
a  difference  of  opinion  relative  to  the  va- 
rious items  of  dress  always  takes  place, 
and  occasions  much  delay.  One  of  them 
is  clear  that  such  and  such  a  color  of  rib- 
bon will  best  suit  the  complexion  of  the 
wearer ;    another  holds  out  strongly  for 


524 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


an  opposite  hue,  and  a  third  silences  them 
both  bj  asserting  that  neither  answer  the 
color  of  the  bonnet.  What  sort  of  flowers 
would  most  fittingly  ornament  the  hair, 
was  also  a  subject  of  protracted  debate  ; 
and  half  an  hour  Avas  wasted  in  determin- 
ing whether  the  ribbon  which  was  to  circle 
her  waist  like  a  zone,  should  hang  down 
or  not.  Matters,  however,  were  at  last 
adjusted — the  bride  was  arrayed,  the  hour 
of  twelve  was  struck  by  a  small  wooden 
clock  which  ticked  behind  the  door  ;  and 
with  the  hour  there  arrived  at  the  cottage 
a  sort  of  rude  palanquin,  fashioned  of 
birch-tree  boughs,  which  intertwisted 
with  each  other,  and  were  interwoven  with 
branches  of  flowering  shrubs ;  and  upon 
this  some  of  the  kindest  and  blithest- 
hearted  of  the  villagers  had  agreed  to  bear 
May  to  the  kirk.  Some  modest  scruples 
required  to  be  overcome,  before  she  could 
be  induced  to  avail  herself  of  this  mode  of 
conveyance  ;  and,  after  being  seated,  with 
the  bridesmaid  walking  on  one  side,  and 
John  Darling  on  the  other,  the  cavalcade 
began  to  move.  Many  hearty  good  wishes 
for  the  happiness  of  the  bride  from  the 
elder  people,  and  many  joyous  shouts  from 
the  younger  part  of  the  villagers,  greeted 
the  ears  of  the  marriage  party  ;  whilst  a 
pretty  long  train,  which  drew  itself  out  in 
the  rear,  sent  up  its  rejoicings  on  the  wind 
from  a  distance.  But  one  stej)  must  bring 
us  to  the  altar  of  Hymen.  Side  by  side 
stood  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  ;  and 
a  more  interesting,  handsome,  and  appa- 
rently well-matched  pair,  never  were  seen 
in  the  same  situation,  as  we  are  informed 
by  the  clergyman  who  officiated  on  the 
occasion.  The  ceremony  proceeded  with 
due  formality — one  moment  more  would 
liave  joined  their  hands,  when  a  person 
who  had  just  entered  the  church  called  to 
the  clergyman  to  stay  the  nuptials  ;  and, 
at  the  same  moment,  a  shriek  from  a  fe- 
male, who  had  entered  alonj:^  with  him,  rose 
80  wild,  thrilling  and  distracted,  that  every 
i)osoni  shook  beneath  its  o-litterino-  attire. 
"  Base,   inhuman  miscreant !"  shouted 


Dr.  G ,  addressing  himself  to  Wilkin- 
son (which  name  must  now  be  supplanted 
by  his  real  one,  Bolton),  at  the  same  time 
rushing  forward  to  seize  the  bridegroom. 

He,  however,  had,  ere  this,  dropped  the 
hand  of  May  Darling — that  hand  which, 
till  now,  like  Desdcmona's,  had  "  felt  no 
age,  nor  known  no  sorrow" — and,  un- 
sheathing a  dagger  which  was  concealed 
about  his  person  (doubtless  one  of  his 
theatrical  weapons),  he  threatened  to  make 
a  ghost  of  any  one  who  disputed  his  re- 
treat from  the  church.  His  menacing 
attitude  and  wild  gesticulations  threatened 

every  beholder,  and  even  Dr.  G gave 

way,  allowing  him  unmolested  to  quit  the 
sacred  place  which  he  was  about  to  pro- 
fane, and  possibly  might  have  stained 
with  blood.  Only  one  attempted  to  ar- 
rest him,  and,  for  a  short  time,  succeeded. 
It  was  his  wife — she  "who  the  night  pre- 
viously had  kindled  up  in  his  soul  the  fires 
of  conscience,  as  she  lay  asleep,  unshel- 
tered save  by  heaven's  blue  canopy,  and 
apparently  an  abandoned  outcast. 

"  Henry,"  she  said,  holding  up  her  child, 
and  stretching  forth  her  arms — "  Henry, 
look  on  this  dear  pledge  of  our  affection, 
the  child  of  love,  though  born  in  bitterness 
and  tears,  the  offspring  of  your  choice — 
look  on  him,  Henry,  and  let  the  voice  of 
conscience  in  your  breast,  which  must  be 
heard  now  or  hereafter,  plead  in  his  be- 
half. The  helpless  darling  innocent — of 
what  crime  has  he  been  guilty,  that  his 
natural  protector  should  cast  him  fqrth  to 
meet  the  buffetings  of  fate,  without  a 
shield — that  he  should  be  launched  upon 
the  sea  of  life  without  an  oar  .''  If  not  for 
my  sake,  at  least  for  the  sake  of  little 
Henry — for  he  bears  your  name — restore 
us  both  to  honor  and  society,  by  returning 
to  the  path  of  duty.  The  arms  that  have 
so  often  embraced  you,  will  again 
encircle  the  neck  to  which  they  have 
clung  so  often  and  so  fondly.  O  Henry, 
Henry  !  reflect  for  an  instant  on  my  des- 
titute outcast  condition — without  you,  I 
am  a  weed  cast  from  the  rock,  to  be  driven 


MAY  DARLING,   THE   VILLAGE   PRIDE. 


525 


whithersoever  the  storm  sets  wildest. 
Think  what  my  sufferings  have  been  and 
must  be  ! — God  alone  can  estimate  them. 
Henry,  hear  me.  Stay  but  one  instant — 
Henry,  Henry  !"  And,  taking  her  child 
in  one  arm,  she  stretched  out  the  other  to 
detain  him  ;  but  the  heartless  villain  shook 
her  rudely  from  him,  and  darted  from  the 
church. 

What  were  May  Darling's  feelings  dur- 
inar  this  heart-rendin";  scene  ?  She  was  not 
a  spectator  of  it.  The  moment  that  the 
dreadful  truth  flashed  upon  her  mind,  she 
sank  into  the  arms  of  her  father,  dead  to 
consciousness  and  time.  By  the  same 
conveyance  which  had  brought  her  in 
triumph  to  the  church,  covered  with  the 
ensignia  of  happiness,  and  palpitating  with 
rapture  almost  too  intense  for  the  human 
soul  to  enjoy  for  any  length  of  time  with- 
out experiencing  pain  and  a  revolution  of 
feeling — by  that  same  conveyance,  not  an 
hour  after,  she  was  borne  to  her  father's 
cottage,  a  wretched  but  a  gentle  maniac. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  passed  away,  and 
she  remained  the  same  listless,  mild,  and 
inoffensive  creature — a  baby-woman,  a 
human  being  ripe  in  years,  and  an  infant  in 
thought,  feeling,  and  everything  mental. 
'Tis  painful  to  contemplate  the  situation 
of  an  individual  overwhelmed  by  such  a 
calamity  under  any  circumstances ;  but 
under  the  present,  how  terrible  indeed ! 
To  be  struck  down  at  the  altar,  arrayed  in 
bridal  robes,  and  with  all  her  hopes 
blooming  around  her — how  does  it  humble 
human  pride,  set  at  nought  all  calculations 
of  human  happiness,  and  assign  narrow 
limits  to  human  hope  !  And  yet  there  was 
mercy  in  the  dispensation.  Better  un- 
conscious almost  of  existence  itself,  than 
alive  to  all  the  horrors  of  a  doom  like 
that  of  Ptiay  Darling.  Better  the  vacant 
stare,  and  the  look  of  silent  indifference 
on  all  beneath  the  sun,  than  the  wild  gesti- 
culations of  violent  grief,  the  shriek  of  wo, 
or  the  agony  of  despair,  for  the  alleviation 
of  which  "  hope  never  comes  that  comes  to 
all." 


Every  means  were  had  recourse  to  for 
rousing  her  from  the  dismal  trance  into 
which  she  had  fallen  ;  to  dispel  from  her 
thoughts  the  gloomy,  the  dead  images  by 
which  they  were  haunted  ;  but  in  vain. 
Sometimes  she  would  sit  amongst  her  gay 
companions ;  and,  whilst  they  laughed, 
chatted,  and  sung,  as  informer  happy  days, 
a  faint  smile  would  re-kindle  about  her  lips, 
so  rosy  once,  so  wan  and  withered  now, 
and  for  a  moment  playing  like  a  mental 
coruscation,  would  suddenly  expire,  and 
then  she  would  droop  again  into  the  gloom 
of  moody  madness,  and  weep  amidst  all 
the  gaiety  that  surrounded  her — weep 
even  like  a  child.  If  spoken  to,  she  made 
no  reply  ;  but,  lifting  up  her  dark  stream- 
ing eyes,  sparkling  through  the  humid 
medium  in  which  they  were  suffused,  like 
a  star  in  motionless  water,  she  would  sing 
snatches  of  old  songs  about  disappointed 
love,  blighted  hopes,  and  broken  hearts. 
And  the  melancholy  tones  of  her  voice  would 
sadden  all  around  her,  as  if  some  powerful 
spell  had  suddenly  passed  over  their  minds 
like  a  cold  wind,  and  frozen  up  the  fount 
of  joyous  feeling ;  and  they  would  weep, 
too — weep  along  with  her  ;  for  she  was  so 
beloved,  so  good,  so  beautiful,  so  happy 
once,  and  so  wo-begone  and  wretched  now. 
Then  would  the  gentle  maniac  start  up  on 
a  sudden,  as  if  some  one  had  hastily  sum- 
moned her,  and,  rushing  towards  home, 
would  mutter,  in  a  quick  tone  of  voice — 
"  I  am  coming — I  am  coming  !  I  knew  we 
would  be  in   time  ! — I  knew  we  would  be 

in  time  !     He    is     there  ! — he — he  ! 

Who  ?"  She  was  silent  now.  Many  an 
eye  was  filled  with  tsars  as  she  passed 
through  the  straggling  village  of  Grassy- 
vale. 

Winter  had  passed  away — the  vernal 
eruption  of  spring  had  been  matured  into 
the  bloom,  and  the  promise  which  spring 
gives  of  autumn,  when  May  Darling,  one 
evening,  wandered  forth  from  her  father's 
cottage,  attended  only  by  a  little  sister. 
Striking  into  that  beautiful  and  unfrequent- 
ed path  where  she  had  last  walked  with 


526 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


liim  who,  on  the  following  day,  was  to  ] 
have  bocome  her  husband,  she  had  arrived  ' 
at  the  very  spot  where  lay  asleep,  on  the 
grassy  bank,  by  the  hedge-side,  the  wife  of 
Bolton.  A  train  of  thought  seemed  sud- 
denly to  rush  through  her  mind  ;  for  she 
sat,  or  rather  dropped  gently  down. 
'Twas  the  recollection  of  former  events 
which  had  loegun  to  be  reanimated  within 
her  ;  and,  though  faint,  it  was  sufficient 
to  cause  a  temporary  suspension  of  mus- 
cular energy  :  her  sight  became  dim,  only 
vague  images  being  presented  to  the  eye  ; 
and  she  might  probably  have  fallen  back- 
wards, had  not  a  person  sprung  through 
the  hedge,  and  putting  his  arms  around 
her  slender  form,  maintained  her  in  an 
erect  position.  The  individual  who  had 
thus  so  opportunely  come  to  her  assistance 
was  closely  wrapped  up  in  a  great- coat, 
although  the  warmth  of  the  weather  ren- 
dered such  a  covering  scarcely  necessary. 
The  upper  part  of  his  countenance  was 
concealed  by  a  slouched  hat  drawn  pretty 
far  down  ;  but  from  what  of  it  was  visible,  it 
was  plain  that  care,  remorse,  and  dissipa- 
tion had  gone  far  to  modify  its  natural  ex- 
pression. 

May  gradually  revived  from  her  partial 
swoon  ;  and  the  stranger,  uncovering  his 
head,  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  languid 
features  which  began  to  assume  the  hue  of 
life  and  the  expression  of  conscious  being, 
he  said,  in  alow,  trembling  voice — 

"  May  Darling,  hear  me — do  not  curse 
me — I  am  miserable  enouo;li  without  the 
malison  of  her  whom" But  his  feel- 
ings, for  a  moment,  choked  his  utterance. 
*'  Through  a  thousand  dangers  and  diffi- 
culties have  I  sought  this  interview,  only 
that  I  might  obtain  3^our  forgiveness, 
and  acceptance  of  this  small  gift."  Here 
he  flung  a  purse  down  by  her  side.  "  Say 
you  forgive  me,  May— breathe  but  the 
word,  and,  in  a  few  days,  an  ocean  shall 
roll  between  us." 

But  he  spoke  to  ears  which  heard  not. 
The  moment  that  May  recognised  Bolton, 
reason  was  restored,  but  animation  fled, 


and  she  sank  dead  for  a  time  in  his  arms. 
He  was  about  to  take  measures  for  her  re- 
storation, when  the  rapid  trampling  of 
horses'  hoofs  drew  his  attention  in  another 
direction  ;  and  looking  over  the  hedge-row, 
he  perceived  two  horsemen,  at  a  very  little 
distance,  advancing  towards  the  village. 
He  seemed  to  be  aware  of  their  errand 
and  the  cause  of  their  speed ;  for,  no 
sooner  had  he  cast  his  eye  on  them,  than 
his  head  instinctively  sunk  down  behind 
the  hedge.  But  his  precaution  was  too 
late.  He  had  been  seen;  and,  that  night, 
he  was  led,  a  fettered  man,  to  the  gaol  of 
H — 


-,  charged  with  highway  robbery. 
We  may  as  well  conclude  his  history,  as 
well  as  that  of  the  other  individuals  who 
have  been  interwoven  with  our  tale,  before 
returning  to  May  Darling. 

Mr.  Henry  Bolton  was  found  guilty  of 
the  crime  with  which  he  was  charged,  and 
condemned  to  perish  on  the  scaffold,  al- 
though it  was  only  his  first  offence ;  and,  to 
do  him  justice,  ho  had  commited  the  crime 
for  the  purpose  of  having  it  in  his  power, 
in  some  measure,  to  requite  May  Darling 
for  the  injury  which  she  had  received  at 
his  hands.  How  wonderful  are  the  ways 
of  Providence  in  punishing  the  guilty  ! 
Actuated  by  a  motive  unquestionably  virtu- 
ous, Bolton  commits  a  capital  crime,  and 
the  woman  whom  he  had  wronged  becomes, 
unconsciously  to  herself,  the  ultimate  cause 
of  his  punishment !  However,  by  power- 
ful intercession  on  the  part  of  his  friends, 
the  sentence  was  commuted  to  transporta- 
tion for  life.  But  it  was  destined  that  he 
should  end  his  days  miserably.  ^'  Whoso 
sheddeth  man's  blood,  by  man  shall  his 
blood  be  shed."  Bolton  was  virtually  a 
murderer,  as  we  shall  see  ;  and  the  curse 
could  not  be  eluded  by  the  decision  of  any 
earthly  tribunal,  ""Twas  vain  to  attempt 
to  fly  from  it.  The  vengeance  of  Heaven 
would  have  pursued  him  through  all  the 
regions  of  space  ;  and,  screened  by  the 
closest  envelope  of  darkne-ss  and  disguise, 
would  have  struck  its  victim  down.  In  a 
skirmish  with  the  natives  of  the  place  to 


MAY  DARLING,  THE  VILLAGE  PRIDE. 


527 


wliich  he  had  been  transported,  he  was 
taken  prisoner,  and  by  them  put  to  a 
cruel  and  lincrerm.qr  death. 

O  O 

After  the  painful  interview  with  her  hus- 
band in  the  church  of  Grassyvale,  Mrs. 
Bolton  returned  to  her  father,  secluding 
herself  from  the  world,  and  devoting  her 
time  to  household  duties  and  the  educa- 
tion of  her  sen.  Rumors  of  the  death 
of  her  husband  penetrated  at  last  to  the 
remote  part  of  the  country  where  she  re- 
sided, and,  on  its  being  officially  authenti- 
cated. Dr.  G ,  who  had  commenced 

practice  in  a  neighboring  town,  became  a 
frequent  visitor  at  the  farm-house.  His 
former  courtship  was  renewed  ;  and,  when 
the  days  of  mourning  were  over,  and  time 
had  done  much  to  alleviate  grief,  to  re- 
store the  faded  charms  of  Mrs.  Bolton,  and 
to  throw  the  events  of  the  past  into  dim- 
ness and  distance,  they  were  united;  and 
are  still,  according  to  the  last  accounts, 
living  happily  together,  surrounded  by  a 
family  of  thriving  children.  Nelly  Gray 
and  Janet  Baird  still  pursue  their  respec- 
tive callings  in  Grassyvale ;  the  latter 
never  failing,  on  every  passible  occasion, 
to  boast  of  her  sagacity  in  detecting  the 
real  character  of  Mr.  Henry  Wilkinson, 
ulias  Bolton.  But  let  us  return  to  the 
suffering  May  Darling. 

She  was  borne  to  her  eottao-e  home  in- 
sensible,  in  which  state  she  remained  all 
that  night,  and  next  day  revived  only  to 
know  that  she  was  dying.  Yes — the  arrow 
that  had  pierced  her  was  poisoned  ;  but 
the  venom,  though  fatal,  worked  slow. 
Gold  is  refined  by  fire,  and  the  more  in- 
tense the  heat  applied,  the  purer  will  the 
metal  become.  So  it  is  with  the  human 
soul.  It  is  made  perfect  through  suffer- 
ing ;  and  the  more  it  is  destined  to  en- 
dure, the  fitter  will  it  become  for  takins;  a 
part  with  the  choirs  of  saints  and  angels, 
when  it  shall  have  thrown  aside  the  gar- 
ments of  mortality  and  mounted  on  high, 
like  the  unshadowed  moon,  through  parted 
<;louds.  But  May  was  happy  notwith- 
■standing.  In  all  her  looks  and  movements 


were  disclosed  the  peace  of  mind  which 
passeth  understanding.  It  was  diffused, 
like  light  from  heaven,  over  her  counte- 
nance ;  it  was  heard,  like  a  rich  chord 
of  music,  in  the  tones  of  her  voice ;  her 
every  word  and  action  betrayed  its  pre- 
sence and  all-prevailing  power.  Her 
Bible,  although  always  a  favorite  study, 
became  now  her  sole  one  ;  and  by  its  all- 
hallowing  influence,  her  mind,  looking 
down  with  calm  complacency  on  all  terres- 
trial things,  had  an  early  foretaste  of  im- 
mortality, in  many  a  delightful  contem- 
plation of  that  abode  and  that  felicity 
which  shall  reward  the  just. 

"  It  was  a  delightful  evening,  about  the 
middle  of  autumn,"  says  the  worthy 
clergyman  to  whom  we  have  been  indebt- 
ed for  many  of  the  facts  of  the  foregoing 
narrative,  "  that  I  was  hastily  summoned, 
by  John  Darling,  to  visit  his  daughter, 
who,  he  believed,  was  dying.  I  lost  no 
time  in  proceeding  to  his  cottage,  and 
found  that  his  conjecture  was  but  too  true. 
In  an  easy  chair,  placed  at  an  open  win- 
dow which  faced  the  west,  reclined  the 
victim  of  a  broken  heart.  On  her  pale 
cheek  death  had  impressed  his  seal,  though 
there  the  deceitfal  rose  tint  fluctuated, 
which  was  not  so  in  her  days  of  health 
and  hope.  Her  words,  when  she  spoke, 
and  that  was  seldom,  seemed  to  come  forth 
without  her  breath  ;  and  the  lightest  down 
that  ever  was  wafted  thoug-h  summer's  air 
might  have  slept  unfluttered  on  her  lips. 
I  kneeled  down  and  prayed  that  the  gen- 
tle spirit  which  was  about  to  be  released 
from  its  mortal  bonds,  might  receive  a 
welcome  to  the  realms  of  life  and  light. 
She  understood  distinctly  that  she  was 
dying  ;  and,  in  token  that  her  mind  was  at 
perfect  ease,  she  faintly  uttered,  when  I 
had  finished — '  Yes  !  oh  !  yes  ! — Heaven ! 

he !'  The  words  died  unfinished  on  her 

tongue,  and  her  spirit  rose  to  its  native  sky. 
"  '  Peace  to  her  broken  heart  and  virgin  grave  1' 
*'  In  what  a  noble,  what  a  truly  grand 
point  of  view  does  this  instance  of  trium- 
phant faith  place  the  glorious  religion  m 


528 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


which  we  believe  !  In  what  told  relief  does 
its  value  to  our  fallen  race  appear  !  What 
a  luminous  light  does  it  shed  in  life's  last 
agonies,  opening  up  a  radiant  vista  through 
the  clouds  and  darkness  which  settle  on 
the  soul,  like  the  shadows  of  approaching 
death !  There  is  nothing  better  qualified 
to  develop  the  intellectual  faculties,  en- 
large the  understanding,  and  strengthen 
and  foster  the  latent  virtues  of  the  heart, 
than  the  love  and  the  study  of  literature. 
I  am  no  advocate  for  the  exclusive  study 
of  Scripture — nay,  I  am  not  sure  if  such 
restricted  reading  would  not  lead  to  nar- 
rowness of  mind  and  gloomy  unconcern 
about  the  aflfairs  of  life,  and  the  duties  con- 
nected with  it,  if  not  also  to  selfish  morose- 
ness  and  illiberal  bigotry — a  want  of  com- 
munity of  feeling  and  sympathy  with  hu- 
man nature  in  general.  But  what  would 
literature  alom  have  done  for  May  Dar- 
lino".?  Would  the  recollection  of  Shak- 
speare's  finest  bursts  of  inspiration,  where 
the  dramatist  seems  struggling  with  nature 
which  shall  be  the  greatest,  have  buoyed 
her  spirit  up  under  the  load  which  oppress- 
ed it,  or  given  but  one,  only  one  faint 
assurance  of  immortality  ?  Alas  f  they 
could  only  have  reminded  her  of  what  it 
would  have  been  far  better  to  forget  for 
ever,  to  bury  in  everlasting  oblivion  be- 
neath the  waves  of  Lethe.  How  finely 
does  the  Bard  of  Hope  write,  in  reference 
to  the  anticipation  of  eternal  felicity  in  the 
hour  of  dissolution  ! 

"  '  Vi^hat  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fly  ? — 
The  quivering  lip.  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye  ? 
Bright  to  the  soul  they  seraph  hands  couvey 
The  morning  dream  of  life's  eternal  day  I  ' 

"  Or  what  could  philosophy  have  done  for 
her  ?  Science  has  only  reference  to  this 
life — its  eagle  eye  has  never  caught  a  ray 
reflected    from  that  which  is   to    come. 


Matter  may  be  tortured  by  methods,  varied 
with  infinite  ingenuity ;  but  every  secret 
thus  disclosed  only  relates  to  matter — there 
is  nothing  of  spirit  brought  to  light  in  all 
the  experiments  of  the  chemist,  in  all  the 
observations  of  the  astronomer,  in  all  the 
gropings  and  searching  investigations  of 
the  geologist ;  for,  though  he  reveals  past 
time — ay,  almost  a  past  eternity — the 
strata  of  the  earth  with  their  world  of 
organic  wonders  which  record  the  tran- 
spired history  of  our  planet  in  imperishable 
hieroglyphics,  tell  nothing  of  the  future. 
The  ocean,  with  its  buried  wrecks  and  its 
countless  treasures ;  the  mountain  over 
which  the  mighty  deep  once  rolled  its  un- 
dulating expanse,  and  there  deposited  its 
myriads  of  living  creatures  ;  the  desert, 
which  heaps  its  ocean  of  sand  over  entomb- 
ed cities,  once  the  glory  of  the  earth 

but  why  should  we  go  on  t — everything 
speaks  of  the  past,  but  not  a  whisper  comes 
from  creation's  breast  of  what  is  to  come. 
The  Bible  alone  discloses  the  mighty 
secret.  May  all,  therefore,  find  it  what  it 
proved  to  be  to  May  Darling — light,  when 
all  is  dark — hope,  when  all  is  despair — 
pleasure  in  pain — life  in  death." 

It  was  upon  her  that  a  nameless  rustic 
bard,  who  had  been  an  admirer,  composed 
the  following  lines : 

"  she  faded  like  a  flower 

That  wastes  by  slow  decay  ; 
Not  snatched  in  an  untimely  hour, 

But  withered  day  by  day. 
'Twas  sad  to  see  those  charms. 

So  heavenly  once,  decayed  ; 
And.  oh  I  to  blight  thee  in  our  arms 

In  bridal  robes  arrayed  I 

"  But  heaven  commenced  with  thee 

"Whilst  yet  below  the  sun; 
And.  ere  the  mortal  ceased  to  be, 

The  seraph  hai  begun, 
Calm.  then,  on  Nature's  breast 

In  dreamless  sleep,  sleep  on, 
Till  angel  voices  break  thy  rest 

In  music  like  thine  own  I  " 


THE   GOODMAN  OF  DRYFIELD. 


529 


THE     GOODMAN     OF    DRYFIELD. 


"  To  Let,  the  Mansion-House  of  Dry- 
field.  This  is  a  small,  genteel,  self-con- 
tained house,  beautifully  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Clyde,  with  large  garden,  and 
seven  acres  of  fine  arable  land  attached. 
Rent  modei'ate.  Preniises  will  be  shown, 
and  other  particulars  given,  by  Mr.  Pent- 
land,  farmer,  Minnigrain,  near  Dryfield, 
who  is  also  empowered  to  transact  all  mat- 
ters relative  to  the  letting  of  the  house  and 
grounds." 

Such,  good  reader,  was  an  advertisement 
that  appeared  in  the  C aledoiiian  Mercury 
some  six-and  twenty  years  ago.  Well, 
but  what  on  earth  has  an  advertisement  to 
do  with  the  Border  Talf^s  ^  Patience, 
kind  friend — patience  ;  and,  as  a  certain 
humorous  song— whose  title  we  have  for- 
gotten— says,  "  You  shall  hear."  This 
advertisement,  commonplace  as  it  may 
seem,  possessed  some  interest  for  me  at 
the  time  it  appeared  ;  for,  at  that  very 
moment,  I  was  commissioned,  by  a  friend 
then  resident  in  Jamaica,  but  who  was 
contemplating  an  immediate  return  to  his 
native  country,  to  look  out  for  exactly 
such  a  phice  as  that  described  in  the  an- 
nouncement above  quoted. 

Having  some  recollection  of  the  place 
myself,  which  I  had  casually  seen  several 
years  before,  as  I  passed  on  the  top  of  the 
mail,  I  felt  convinced  that  it  was  precise- 
ly such  a  residence  as  my  friend  desired. 
Under  this  impression,  I  determined  on 
payimr  Dryfield  a  visit,  and  making  a  per- 
sonal survey  of  the  premises.  Conform 
thereto,  the  following  morning  found  me 
on  the  top  of  the  mail.  In  six  hours  af- 
terwards, I  was  at  Minnigrain,  and  in  the 
presence  of  its  worthy  occupant,  Mr. 
Pcntland.  lie  was  a  decent,  substantial- 
looking  farmer — plain  and  unsophisticated 
in   his   manners,   intelligent,  and  shrewd, 

VOL.  11.  ''1 


with  a  spice  of  humor  about  him  which  he 
seemed  to  have  difficulty  in  controlling. 

Having  mentioned  to  Mr.  Pentland  the 
purpose  of  my  visit,  and  my  wish  to  take  a 
look  of  Dryfield  and  its  premises,  he  in- 
stantly accompanied  me  thither — having 
previously  provided  himself  with  a  couple 
of  keys  ;  one  to  procure  us  access  to  the 
garden,  through  which  "it  was  necessary  to 
pass  to  reach  the  house  ;  the  other  to  ad- 
mit us  to  the  house  itself. 

Our  way  lay  through  a  romantic  wood, 
that  grew  on  a  steep  bank  overhanging  the 
Clyde,  and  which  was  traversed  by  various 
winding  paths.  Having  taken  one  of  these 
we  soon  threaded  the  little  forest ;  and, 
emerging  at  its  western  side,  found  our- 
selves on  a  green  lawn,  at  the  further  end  of 
which  stood  the  mansion-house  of  Drifi"el, 
as  it  was  more  shortly  pronounced  by  the 
natives.  It  was  a  compact  and  comfort- 
able-looking house,  but  had  evidently  been 
long  untenanted.  Everything  around  it 
was  running  to  waste.  The  honeysuckle, 
with  which  its  walls  had  been  clothed,  had 
fallen  from  its  fastenings,  and  was  idly 
sweeping  the  footpath  below  ;  the  flower- 
plats  in  front  were  overrun  with  weeds  ; 
the  garden  was  uncropped  ;  and  shrubs, 
bushes,  and  trees,  were  revelling  in  an  un- 
profitable luxuriance.  Everything,  in 
short,  bespoke  neglect,  and  the  absence 
of  a  presiding  care  and  taste. 

"  The  house  does  not  seem  to  have  been 
tenanted  for  a  long  time,  Mr.  Pentland," 
said  I,  as  we  walked  towards  the  house. 

"  Deed,  it's  a  gey  while  since  there  was 
what  ye  may  ca'  a  reglar  tenant  in't,"  re- 
plied my  companion.  "We  hae  had 
families  from  time  to  time,  for  a  month  or 
twa  in  the  summer  season,  but  nae  reglar 
tenant  since  Mr.  Darsay  himsel  left,  and 
that's  gaun  noo  in  ten  years  since." 


530 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  Js  Mr.  Darsy  dead  r" 

"  Ou  no.  He  gaed  abroad  for  the  bene- 
fit o'  his  health  ;  him  and  his  man  Ram- 
say. He  was  to  hae  been  back  in  six 
months,  but  he  has  never  returned  yet. 
But  I'm  sure  the  blessin  o'  the  poor  and 
the  needcessitous  '11  follow  the  worthy 
man  wherever  he  goes." 

"  He  was  a  benevolent  man,  was  he  ?" 

*'  That  he  was,  sir.  Just  ane  o'  the 
best  men  breathin.  Some  folk  thocht 
him  a  wee  whimsical  now  and  then  ;  but 
his  heart  was  in  the  richt  place.  He  had 
just  five  hunner  a-year ;  and  I'm  sure  he 
gied  awa  three  o't  in  charity,  if  he  gied  a 
saxpence." 

''  Any  family  .^" 

"  No.  He  never  was  married.  It's 
said  that  he  was  ance  crossed  in  love  in 
his  younger  days  ;  but,  whether  this  be 
sae  or  no,  I  dinna  ken.  There  was  nae- 
body  lived  here  wi'  him  but  an  auld 
maiden  sister,  his  man  Ramsay,  and  twa 
servant  lasses.  His  sister's  dead  ;  and  it's 
thocht  it  was  partly  her  death  that  sent 
him  awa  frae  Dryfield  ;  for,  they  war  just 
extraordinar  attached  to  ane  anither.  Just 
to  show  you,  sir,  how  worthy  a  man  he 
is,''  continued  Mr.  Pentland,  "  the  rent 
o'  this  property  is,  by  his  orders,  to  be 
banded  owre  to  the  minister,  for  the  use 
o'  the  poor  o'  the  parish." 

Just  as  the  conversation  had  reached 
this  point,  we  reached  the  door  of  the  house. 
Mr.  Pentland  inserted  the  key,  but  found 
some  difficulty  in  turning  the  lock,  from  its 
having  become  stifi'and  rusted  through  dis- 
use. While  he  was  engaged  in  alternately 
coaxing  and  forcing  the  obstinate  bolt,  my 
attention  was  attracted  by  an  inscription  on 
the  stone  of  the  door-way.  This  inscription 
was  in  part  concealed  by  some  straggling 
branches  of  honeysuckle  which  had  broken 
loose  from  their  fasteniusrs,  and  were  hanjx- 
ing  over  it. 

These  I  removed  with  the  end  of  my 
stick,  and  having  done  so,  read — 

"  To  balance  fortune  by  a  just  expense. 
Join  with  economy,  magnificence.-' 


The  quotation  I  remembered  was  from 
Pope,  and  thought  it  rather  a  peculiar 
sort  of  taste  that  had  placed  it  where  I  now 
saw  it. 

By  this  time,  \'r.  Pentland  had  suc- 
ceeded in  opening  the  door  ;  and  we  en- 
tered. I  found  the  hous3  to  be  an  excel- 
lent one — well-finished,  commodious,  and 
judiciously  arranged. 

Having  gone  through  all  the  rooms,  we 
fini.-hed  our  survey  by  a  visit  to  the  kitchen. 
On  entering  this  apartment,  the  first  thing 
that  caught  my  eye,  was  a  small  board 
over  the  fire-place,  on  which,  in  gilt  let- 
ters on  a  black  ground,  were  the  following 
lines : — 

"  To  worth  or  want,  well-weighed,  be  bounty  given 
And  ease,  or  emulate  the  care  of  Heaven  : 
Whose  measure  full  o'erflow.s  on  human  race. 
Mend  Fortune's  fault,  and  justify  her  grace." 

"  What  !"  said  I,  "  Pope  again  ?" 
Mr.  Pentland  smiled.  ''  Ou  ay,  sir," 
he  at  lengtii  said,  "  Mr.  Darsay  had  an 
awfu  wark  wi'  Pope  ;  and  so  had  his  man, 
Ramsay.  It  was  that  brocht  them  first 
thegither,  and  it's  maistly  that  has  keepit 
them  thegither  ever  since,  nearly  thirty 
year.  Mr.  Darsay  was  ay  gi'en  us  screeds 
o'  Pope  ;  and  onybody  that  could  quote 
Pope  to  him,  was  sure  to  win  his  favor, 
and  to  get  a'  the  assistance  he  could  gie 
them  in  whatever  way  they  micht  want  it. 
It  was  a  queer  conceit  o'  his  ;  and  mony  a 
time  the  worthy  man  was  imposed  on,  by 
designin  folk,  through  the  medium  o'  this 
fancy.  When  ony  o'  that  kind  wanted  his 
assistance,  they  had  naething  ado  but  get 
twa  or  three  lines  o'  Pope  by  heart,  come 
to  him  wi'  a  lang  face,  and  tak  an  oppor- 
tunity o'  slippin  out  the  lines,  and  their 
business  was  done.  I've  seeq  him  actually 
shed  tears  when  he  was  quotin  his  favorite 
author.  He  was  just  clean  crazed  about 
him.  He  made  me  a  present  o'  the  Essay 
on  Man,  and  gied  me  nae  rest,  nicht  or 
day,  till  I  got  every  line  o't  by  heart." 

'^  But  he  did  you  a  good  service  in  that, 
my  friend,"  said  I :  "it  is  a  noble  poem 
— full  of  fine  thoughts,  beautifully  ex- 
pressed." 


THE  GOODMAN  OF  DRYFIELD. 


531 


"  Nae  doot  o't,"  replied  Mr.  Pentland : 
"  I  like  the  poem  weel,  and  think  as  much 
o'  Pope  as  onj  man.  He  is  a  great  phi- 
losopher, as  well  as  a  great  poet  ;  but,  my 
excellent  friend,  JVlr.  Darsay,  just  carried 
the  thing  a  wee  owre  far.  His  admiration 
o'  him,  or  rather  his  constant  and  open  ex- 
pression of  that  admiration,  bordered  on 
the  ridiculous ;  it  amounted  to  a  weakness 
— although,  in  other  respects,  Mr.  Darsy 
was  a  man  of  great  good  sense.  I've 
heard  him  and  his  man  Ramsay — for  he's 
just  as  great  an  admirer  o'  Pope  as  his 
master — firin  quotations  at  ane  anither  for 
an  hour  thegither.  Indeed,  they  never 
spoke  for  five  minutes  without  exchangin 
a  couplet  or  twa,  and  seldom  conversed  on 
onything  else  but  the  merits  o'  Pope." 

In  this  sketch  of  the  worthy  proprietor 
of  Dryfield,  I  thought  I  recognised — what 
I  always  took  much  delight  in  contemplat- 
ing— an  original  character ;  and  this  was 
one  of  the  best  sort — a  compound  of  oddi- 
ty and  benevolence.  What  had  just  been 
told  me  of  him,  was  enough  to  excite  my 
curiosity,  but  far  from  being  enough  to 
gratify  it.  This,  however,  I  hoped  cir- 
cumstances would  yet  effect  for  me  ;  for, 
feeling  amused  by  Mr.  Darsy's  peculiari- 
ties, and  interested  by  his  worth,  I  deter- 
mined on  learning  all  about  him  that  I 
could  ;  and  ample  opportunity  for  doing 
so  was  subsequently  afforded  me. 

Having  expressed  to  Mr.  Pentland  my 
satisfaction  with  the  house,  and  my  wish 
to  take  it,  he  proposed  that  we  should  ad- 
journ to  his  residence,  and  there  settle  the 
transaction  by  missive.  We  did  so  ;  and 
when  the  business  was  concluded,  Mr. 
Pentland  kindly  suggested  that,  as  the 
day  was  now  far  advanced,  I  had  better 
remain  with  him  all  night,  and  return 
home  the  following  morning  with  the  first 
coach.  To  this  proposal,  seeing  that  it 
would  afford  me  an  opportunity  of  learning 
something  more  of  Mr.  Darsy,  I  at  once 
agreed,  and  was  soon  after  put  in  posses- 
sion, by  my  good  host,  Mr.  Pentland,  of 
some  particulars  regarding  that  gentleman, 


which  I  thouojht  micjht  not  be  found  un- 
'  amusino;. 

Of  Mr.  Darsy's  early  history  (said  Mr. 
Pentland,  who  at  my  request,  began  an 
account  of  his  late  worthy  neighbor  imme- 
diately after  the  dinner-cloth  had  been 
drawn),  I  do  not  know  much.  He  was 
bred,  originally,  I  believe,  for  the  church, 
but  never  took  orders ;  for  what  reason  I 
am  ignorant ;  but  have  heard  it  alleged, 
that  it  was  owing  to  an  extreme  diffidence 
of  nature,  which  shrunk  at  the  idea  of 
speaking  in  public. 

Fortunately,  his  circumstances,  al- 
though far  from  being  affluent,  were  such 
as  to  enable  him  to  yield  to  this  timidity ; 
and  1  am  not  sure  that  he  ever  adopted 
any  regular  profession  in  lieu  of  the  one 
he  abandoned.  He  bought  Dryfield  about 
twenty  years  since,  when  he  also  came  to 
reside  there  ;  and  it  was  then  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  began.  From  that  period 
till  his  departure  for  France,  we  lived  in  the 
closest  intimacy  and  friendship  ;  and  du- 
ring all  that  period  I  never  heard  or  saw 
anything  of  him  but  what  redounded  to 
his  honoi'.  To  quote  his  own  favorite 
author — for  he  set  us  a'  a-quoting  Pope — 

"Him,  portioned  maids,  apprenticed  orphans,  blessed — 
The  young  who  labor,  and  the  old  who  rest." 

He  was  truly  the  Man  of  Ross,  in  all  that 
is  kind  and  benevolent. 

''  Oh,  say,"  said  I,  smiling — 

'•■  Oh,  say,  what  sums  that  generous  hand  supply — 
What  mines  to  swell  that  boundless  charity  ?" 

My  kind  host  laughed  heartily,  and  read- 
ily replied — 

"'  Of  debts  and  taxes,  wife  and  children  clear, 
This  man  possessed  five  hundred  pounds  a-year." 

Such  a  sum,  or  one  thereabouts,  was,  in 
truth  all  his  dependence ;  yet  the  good  he 
did  with  it  was  amazino;. 

When  Mr.  Darsy  came  first  to  our 
neighborhood,  his  family  consisted  of  his 
sister  only,  and  one  servant  maid  ;  and  it 
is  probable  it  would  never  have  received 
any  addition,  but  for  the  circumstances 
which  added  Sandy  Ramsay  to  the  estab- 


532 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


lishment — as  original  a  character  as  his 
master.  Sandy  was  a  sort  of  general  job- 
ber of  country  work — a  good  hand  at  cut- 
ting drains,  clipping  hedges,  and  felling 
and  thinning  timber,  making  and  erecting 
wooden  railings,  &c.,  &c. 

But,  besides,  and  better  than  all  this, 
Sandy  was  a  learned  man.  He  read  a 
great  deal,  and  was  not  a  little  vain  of  his 
acquisitions  in  this  way.  He  was,  how- 
ever, a  lively,  good-natured  little  fellow, 
and  very  generally  liked,  notwithstanding 
that  he  gave  himself  out  for  a  philosopher, 
and  looked  very  grave  and  wise  when  he 
was  asserting  his  pretensions  to  that  char- 
acter, or  when  he  thought  those  preten- 
sions were  either  overlooked  or  denied. 

Such  was  Sandy  Ramsay,  and  such  was 
the  person  whom  Mr.  Darsy  found  one 
morning,  shortly  after  his  arrival  at  Dry- 
field,  working;  at  a  wooden  railino;  at  a  lit- 
tie  distance  from  the  house. 

"  Good  morning,  honest  man,"  said 
Mr.  Darsy,  approaching  him  with  that 
kindly  familiarity  of  manner  which  distin- 
guished all  his  intercourse  with  his  infe- 
riors. 

"  Guid  mornin,  sir,"  replied  Sandy, 
resting  on  the  wooden  mallet  with  which 
he  was  driving  the  rails.  "  Grand  wather 
for  the  country,  sir." 

''  Excellent,"  rejoined  Mr.  Darsy. 
^'  The  crops  in  this  neighborhood  look  un- 
commonly well,  and  I  think  we  shall  have 
both  an  early  and  a  plentiful  harvest. 
Thanks  be  to  God  !" 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  ye  say,  thank  God  for't," 
replied  Sandy.  "  There's  a  reasonable 
prospect  o'  baith  peace  and  plenty  in  the 
country  ;  and,  as  Pope  says, 

••  •  This  day  bo  bread  and  peace  my  lot ; 
All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  knowest  if  best  bestowed  or  not ; 
And  let  thy  will  be  done  I'  " 

"  Ah  !  Pope,  my  friend,"  said  Mr  Dar- 
sy, his  eye  sparkling  with  delight.  "  So 
you  are  conversant  with  Pope,  are  you  ?" 

"  A  wee  bit,  sir.  His  works  form  the 
staple  o'  my  readm.  1  admire  baith  his 
poetry  and  his  philosophy." 


"  Ah,  indeed  !  Well,  do  you  know,  I 
like  that,"  replied  Mr.  Darsy.  "  I'm 
one  of  Pope's  worshippers  too.  He  is  my 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

"  •  Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease. 
Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please.'  '' 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  and  better  still,"  replied 
Sandy,  "  he 

"  'turned  the  tuneful  art 
From  sounds  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart.'  " 

"  And,"  shouted  Mr.  Darsy,  in  ec- 
stasy— 

''  'For  Wit's  false  mirror  held  up  Nature's  light  — 
Show'd  erring  Pride,  whatever  is  is  right.'  " 

"  And,"  exclaimed  Sandy,  energeti- 
cally, and  waving  his  hand  aloft,  in  the 
excitation  of  his  feelings,  as  he  spoke — 

"  '  That  reason,  passion,  answer  one  great  aim  ; 
That  true  self-love  and  social  are  the  same.'  " 

Mr.  Darsy,  striking  his  stick  emphati- 
cally on  the  ground — 

'•  '  That  virtue  only  makes  our  bliss  below  ; 

And  all  our  knowledge  is  ourselves  to  know.'  ^ 

Having  thus  finished  the  concluding  part 
of  the  Essay  on  Man  between  them,  Mr. 
Darsy,  with  a  gracious  and  benevolent 
smile,  held  out  his  hand  to  Sandy,  seized 
that  of  the  latter,  and  shook  it  with  cor- 
dial warmth.  From  that  moment,  not- 
withstanding the  disparity  of  their  social 
positions,  they  were  sworn  friends. 

In  a  short  time  after  this,  Mr.  Darsy 
proposed  to  Sandy  to  enter  his  service,  at 
a  fixed  rate  of  wages,  to  look  after  his 
garden,  and  be  otherwise  generally  useful. 
To  this  proposal  the  latter  readily  assent- 
ed ;  and  there  have  they  been  together 
ever  since,  quoting  Pope  to  one  another 
daily,  and  daily  descanting  on  the  merits 
of  their  favorite  author. 

Having  now  got  an  able  and  active  as- 
sistant in  Sandy  Ramsay,  and  one  who 
had  a  very  competent  knowledge  of  agri- 
cultural afiiiirs,  Mr.  Darsy  determined  on 
cultivating  the  few  acres  of  ground  which 
he  had  bought  along  with  the  house  of 
Dryfield.  His  resolution  before  had  been 
to  let  them  ;  but  he  now  bethought  him  of 
keeping  them  in  his  own  hands.     These 


THE  GOODMAN  OF   DRYFIELD. 


533 


lands  had  been  allowed  to  run  to  waste  by 
the  former  proprietor,  who  was  a  great 
speculator  in  everything  and  in  every  way 
where  there  was  no  chance  of  remunera- 
tion. One  of  these  speculations  was,  to 
build,  at  various  intervals,  over  the  grounds 
alluded  to,  a  number  of  fantastic  tower- 
like structures,  for  a  purpose  which  none 
could  guess,  and  which  was  wholly  un- 
known to  all  but  the  contriver  himself. 

Whatever  the  purpose  was,  however,  for 
which  these  towers  were  erected,  they  were 
never  applied  to  it.  Some  other  whim 
struck  the  noddle  of  the  speculator,  and 
they  were  allowed — most  of  them  only 
half-built — to  fall  into  ruins  ;  an  eye-sore 
to  look  at,  and  an  encumbrance  to  the 
ground. 

These  stone-and-lime  vagaries  Mr.  Dar- 
sy  now  determined  on  removing,  and  of 
applying  the  surrounding  lands  to  their 
proper  use.  Full  of  this  design,  which 
had  suddenly  struck  him  one  day  as  he 
was  out  walking,  he  hastened,  on  his  re- 
turn, to  the  garden  where  Ramsay  was  at 
work,  and  told  him  of  his  intentions. 

"  I  shall  have  all  these  lands  laid  down 
in  corn,  Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Darsy. 

"  Richt,  sir,  richt,"  replied  the  former, 
thrusting  his  spade  into  the  ground,  and 
resting  his  elbow  on  the  apex  of  the  up- 
right handle.     "  Quite  richt  too." 

"  Another  year,"  said  Mr.  Darsy— 

••  'Another  year  shall  see  the  golden  ear 

Embrown  the  slope,  and  nod  on  the  parterre  ; 
Deep  harvests  bury  all  his  pride  has  planned, 
And  laughing  Ceres  re-assume  the  land.'  " 

*'•  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Sandy — 

"  •'  'Tis  use  alone  that  sanctifies  expense, 

And  splendor  borrows  all  her  rays  from  sense.'  '' 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  Sandy,"  said  Mr. 
Darsy.  "  Beautiful  sentiment,  and  ad- 
mirably expressed." 

The  project  of  cultivating  the  land  hav- 
ing been  thus  settled  by  the  assistance  of 
Pope,  Sandy  was  instructed  to  look  out 
for  the  necessary  means,  proper  imple- 
ments, and,  first  and  most  important  of 
all,  a  pair  of  good  stout  draught  horses. 


This  last  want  of  Mr.  Darsy's  was  one 
that  soon  became  known  throughout  the 
country ;  and,  as  Mr.  Darsy  was  always 
reckoned  a  liberal  and  punctual  man  to 
deal  with,  he  had  soon  abundance  of  of- 
fers ;  and  they  were  not  a  whit  the  less 
numerous,  perhaps,  that  he  was  thought 
to  be  no  great  judge  of  the  article  he 
wanted. 

Amongst  those  whose  ears  Mr.  Darsy's 
want  of  a  pair  of  horses  reached,  were 
those  of  a  certain  dealer  in  horse-flesh  of 
the  name  of  William  Craig,  as  great  a 
rascal  as  Scotland  perhaps  ever  had  the 
honor  of  producing  ;  but  he  was  withal  a 
pleasant  knave,  and  always  cheated  with 
the  greatest  good-humor  imaginable.  The 
smile  was  never  off  his  countenance,  ex- 
cepting when  he  saw  it  for  his  interest  to 
look  grave,  and  then  he  could  put  on  a 
face  of  sympathy  and  sentiment  that  it 
would  break  your  heart  to  look  at.  He 
was,  in  short,  a  most  plausible  and  most 
accomplished  scoundrel — clever,  and  well- 
informed. 

On  hearing  that  Mr.  Darsy  wanted  a 
couple  of  horses,  and  that  he  had  already 
rejected  several  that  had  been  offered 
him — 

"I'll  try  my  hand  on  him,"  said  Wil- 
lie ;  "  and  if  I  dinna  fix  him,  blame  me." 

*'  Do  you  mean  by  gi'en  him  a  fair 
bargain,  Willie  .?"  inquired  the  friend  to 
whom  he  had  made  the  boast  above  quoted. 

"  Never  did  that  in  my  life  to  anybody, 
and  I'm  no  gaun  to  begin  now,"  replied 
Willie. 

"  Then,  how  do  you  propose  to  fix  him, 
Willie,  as  ye  ca't  .^" 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  said  the  honest 
horse-jocky.  "  I'll  do  him  owre  as  clean's 
a  leek.  I'll  trot  him  out  as  cleverly  as  I 
ever  did  ony  beast  wi'  four  legs.  I  hae 
the  secret  o'  him." 

"  What  do  you  ca'  the  secret  o'  him, 
Willie  ?     What  do  you  mean  by  that.^" 

"  Aha,  lad  !  How's  your  mother  V* 
replied  Willie,  laughing,  and  touching  the 
side   of  his   nose   emphatically,   with  the 


534 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


point   of  his   forefinger.     "  I'll  keep  my 
thumb  on  that  till  I  hae  tried  it." 

On  that  very  afternoon,  Willie  posted 
off  to  Dryfield  with  a  couple  of  horses,  on 
which  he  had  practised  every  secret  of 
his  art  to  give  them  a  passable  appear- 
ance. On  one  of  the  horses  Willie  him- 
self was  mounted  ;  the  other  he  led  by  a 
halter  ;  and,  thus  disposed,  arrived  at  a 
swinging  trot  at  Mr.  Darsy's.  That  gen- 
tleman had  seen  his  approach  from  a  win- 
dow, and  guessing  the  purpose  of  his  visit, 
was  now  at  the  door  to  receive  him. 

Willie  touched  his  hat:  — 

"  Heard,  sir,  that  ye  war  in  want  o'  a 
pair  o'  guid  workin  beasts,"  said  Willie, 
"  and  hae  broucht  ye  twa  prime  anes  here 
to  look  at.  No  a  bonnier  or  better  pair 
between  this  and  Johnny  Groat's,  and  just 
a  real  bargain  as  to  price." 

*'  Why,  my  good  fellow,  I  certainly  do 
want  a  couple  of  good  draught  horses," 
replied  Mr.  Darsy,  eyeing  Willie's  bar- 
gain with  a  scrutinizing  look  ;  for  he  had 
already  been  so  often  the  subject  of  at- 
tempted imposition  in  the  way  of  horse- 
dealing,  that  he  could  not  help  entertain- 
ing suspicions  of  the  intentions  of  every 
one  who  approached  him  for  such  a  pur- 
pose. "  I  certainly  do  want  a  couple  of 
good  draught  horses,"  he  said;  "but 
really,  being  no  great  judge  myself,  and 
some  attempts  having  been  made  to  take 

me  in,  I — I  " 

"  Feth,  I  weel  believe  that,  sir,"  in- 
terposed Willie.  "  It's  just  incredible  the 
villany  that's  practised  in  this  tred  o' 
ours.  Some  men  hae  nae  conscience,  and 
wad  sell  their  very  souls  for  gould — gould 
— gould — that  curse  o'  the  human  race, 
I   that  some  think  was 

"  '  Sent  to  keep  the  fools  in  play, 


For  some  to  heap,  and  some  to  throw  away. 

''  'But  J,  who  think  more  highly  of  onr  kind, 
(And  surely  Heaven  and  /are  of  a  mind.) 
Opine  that  Nature,  as  in  duty  bound, 
Deep  hid  the  shining  mischief  under  ground.' 

That's  my  opinion,  sir,"  continued  Willie ; 
"  and  I  houp  ye '11  excuse  the  liberty  I  hae 
taen  o'  gi'en  ye't  in  poetry,  but   Pope 


comes  tricklin  aff  my  tongue,  whether  I 
will  or  no,  like  water  aff  a  dyuck's  back." 
"  Excuse  ye,  my  friend,"  said  the  as- 
tonished and  delighted  Mr.  Darsy,  with  a 
gracious  smile.  "  My  dear  sir,  your  quo- 
tation requires  no  apology.  It  is  appro- 
priate, and  to  the  purpose.  A  fine  idea — 
tersely  and  pithily  expressed.  The  man, 
sir,  who  studies  Pope  as  he  ought  to  be 
studied,  and  who  acts  on  the  principles 
he  inculcates,  will  infallibly  secure 

'•'  '  What  nothing  earthly  gives  or  can  destroy — 

The  soul's  calm  sunshine,  and  the  heartfelt  joy.'  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Willie — 

'•  '  Say,  in  pursuit  of  profit  and  delight, 

Who  risk  the  most,  that  take  wrong  means,  or  right, 
Of  vice  or  virtue,  whether  blest  or  curst ; 
Which  meets  contempt,  ar  which  compassion  first  ; 
Count  all  the  advantage  prosperous  vice  attains — 
'Tis  but  what  virtue  flies  from  and  disdains.'  " 

"  It  is,  it  is  !"  shouted  Mr.  Darsy,  in 
ecstasy. 

"  Enough,  my  dear  sir,  enough,"  he 
said,  extending  his  hand  to  Willie,  while 
a  tear  of  emotion  glistened  in  his  eye. 
"  Come  into  the  house,  and  take  a  littie 
refreshment,  and  let  us  see  if  we  cannot 
make  a  bargain  about  these  horses.  They 
look  very  well,  and,  I  daresay,  will  suit 
my  purpose." 

"  Just  the  very  thing,  sir,  ye  may  de- 
pend on't,"  replied  Willie,  who  had  now 
dismounted,  and  was  holding  both  horses 
by  the  halters.  "  There's  that  black  ane, 
I'm  unco  sweert  to  part  wi't ;  but  the 
want  o'  siller  gars  a  puir  man  mak  mony 
a  sacrifice  baith  to  his  interest  and  to  his 
feelins.  0'  that  black  horse,  sir,  I  may 
safely  say  there's  no  his  match  in  the 
county ;  yet,  I  daurna,  nor  wadni  ask  his 
price  for  him,  for  it  wad  be  considered 
just  an  imposition." 

"  But,  my  good  friend,"  interposed  Mr. 
Darsy,  "  I  hope  you  do  not  think  that  I 
would  take  the  advantage  of  you  in  any 
way — that  I  would  avail  myself  of  the 
urgency  of  your  necessities,  to  give  you 
less  than  the  just  value  of  your  horse. 
God  forbid !  You  shall  have  his  price, 
be  that  what  it  may." 


THE  GOODMAN  OF  DRYFIELD. 


535 


"  Oh,  I'm  no  misdootin  that,  sir,  no  the 
least ;  but " 

"  I  say,  my  friend,  by  the  way"  (here 
again  interrupted  Mr.  Darsy,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  house,  being  now  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  door),  "be  so  good  as 
make  no  allusion  to  Pope  in  the  presence 
of  my  sister,  whom  you  will  likely  see  ;  for 
she,  poor  woman,  has  just  as  little  philo- 
sophy about  her   as   the  rest  of  her  sex. 

*  Woman  and  fool,'  you  know — 

"  '  Woman  and  fool  are  too  hard  to  liit ; 

For  true  no-meaning  puzzles  more  than  wit.'  " 

Willie  smiled.  "No  far  wrang,  sir,  I 
dare  say.     It's,  I  doot,  owre  true." 

"  She's  a  good,  kind-hearted  creature," 
resumed  Mr.  Darsy  ;  "  but  if  there  be  any 
one  thing  on  earth  that  she  abhors  above 
all  other  things,  it  is  Pope.  She  cannot 
endure  his  name,  ever  since  she  read  his 

*  Characters  of  Women  ;'  but  you  and  I, 
my  friend,  know,  that  there  is  more  truth 
in  that  essay  than  her  sex  would  willingly 
allow. 

''  '  In  them  we  various  ruling  passions  find  ; 
[n  women,  two  almost  divide  the  kind. 
Those,  only  fixed,  they  first  and  last  obey — 
The  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  love  of  sway.'  " 

Havino-  now  reached  the  hou.se,  Mr. 
Darsy  desired  Willie  to  remain  a  minute 
in  charge  of  the  horses,  until  he  went  for 
his  factotum,  Sandy  Ramsay,  whom  he 
wished  to  see  the  animals,  and  whose  judg- 
ment he  meant  to  consult,  as  to  their  pur- 
chase Sandy  he  found,  as  usual,  in  the 
garden. 

"  Here  is  a  decent,  honest,  well-inform- 
ed, and  intelligent  man,  Sandy,"  said  Mr. 
Darsy,  "  with  a  pair  of  horses  for  sale, 
which  I  wish  you  to  come  and  look  at." 

"What  ca'  they  him,  sir.^"  inquired 
Sandy, 

"  Why,  T  don't  know ;  I  didn't  ask  his 
name,"  replied  Mr.  Darsy. 

"  I  hope  it's  no  Willie  Craig,"  said  the 
former,  drawing  on  his  coat;  "for  he's  a 
slippery  chicl,  Willie  ;  and  I  wadna  say 
that  even  my  caution  wad  be  a  match  for 
his  ciinnino;." 

"  Whether  his  name  be  Craig  or  not,  I 


do  not  know,"  replied  Mr.  Darsy  ;  "  but 
this  I  do  know,  that  he  seems  to  be  a  very 
intelligent  and  conscientious  man.  He  is 
a  great  admirer  of  our  favorite  author, 
Sandy,  and  quotes  him  with  great  pro- 
priety and  facility ;  and  of  such  a  man  I 
would  not  willingly  believe  any  ill." 

"  He  quotes  Pope,  sir,  does  he  !"  ex- 
claimed Sandy;  "  then,  sir,  he's  just  the 
man.  That's  Willie  Craig,  beyond  a' 
manner  o'  doot ;  and  the  biggest  rogue  this 
day  in  Scotland." 

"  Come,  come,  Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Darsy, 
a  little  severely — shocked  at  the  idea  of  a 
rogue  quoting  Pope,  and  disbelieving  the 
existence  of  such  a  moral  incongruity. 
"Come,  come,  Sandy,"  he  said,  "you 
judge  too  harshly  ;  you  speak  unguardedly. 
The  man  is,  I  doubt  not,  a  very  honest 
)  man  ;  and  '  An  honest  man,'  you  know, 
Sandy,  '  is  the  noblest  work  of  God.'  " 

"  I've  seen  that  disputed,  sir,"  said 
Sandy;  "and,  I  think,  after  a',  wi'  some 
success.  A  man  o'  great  parts  and  genius 
is  surely  a  nobler  creature  than  a'." 

"  I'm  grieved,  Sandy,  to  find  your  mo- 
ral perceptions  so  weak,"  here  interrupted 
Mr.  Darsy.  "  Don't  you  see,  or  rather 
will  you  not  see,  that  " 

"  I  really  canna  see,  sir,"  interrupted 
Sandy,  in  his  turn,  "  that  " 


"  Well,  but  let  me  explain  myself," 
again  interrupted  Mr.  Darsy  ;  and  having 
at  length  obtained  this  permission,  he 
went  on  to  expound  the  disputed  text, 
after  his  own  views  of  its  bearings. 

Sandy  replied ;  Mr.  Darsy  rejoined ; 
and  a  hot  dispute  of  a  good  half  hour's 
continuance,  ensued  between  master  and 
man,  on  the  moral  points  involved  in  the 
quotation ;  such  disputes,  by  the  way, 
beino'  a  frequent  occurrence  between 
them ;  for,  although  they  agreed  most 
cordially  on  the  general  merits  of  Pope, 
there  were  many  minute  points — some,  as 
to  the  meaning  of  passages  ;  others,  as  to 
their  morality — on  which  they  difi'ered,  as 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  on  which 
they  spoke  for  hours  on  end. 


536 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


To  return  to  the  instance  just  now  under 
notice  : — They  were  thus  engaged — that 
is,  settling  the  moral  bearing  of  the  quota- 
tion above  given,  and  so  earnest  in  their 
employment  as  to  bo  totally  oblivious  of 
everything  else — and,  amongst  the  rest, 
Willie  Craig  and  his  horses — when  Miss 
Darsy  came  running  into  the  garden  just 
as  her  brother  had  begun  a  new  section 
of  his  defence  of  Pope,  with — 

"Pope,    su* — I    say,    Pope    distinctly 


-•'  "believe  me — good  as  well  as  ill — 


means 


Darsy 


}")•) 


"Gracious  heaven,  Mr.  JJarsy:"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Sarah,  "  are  you  at  that 
odious  Pope  again  "^  Have  you  forgotten 
that  there  has  been  a  man  with  two  horses 
waiting  on  you  for  this  half  hour  past. 
It  is  too  bad — too  bad,  Mr.  Darsy." 

"  I  acknowledge  it,  my  dear — I  acknow- 
ledge it," replied  the  benevolent  and  good- 
natured  Popeite,  smiling  kindly  on  his  sis- 
ter ;  "  but  I  am  sure  the  honest  man  will 
forgive  me,  when  I  tell  him  the  cause." 

"  Will  he  V  said  his  sister.  "  I  should 
rather  think  he  will  consider  it  an  aggra- 
vation of  the  offence." 

"  There  you  are  wrong,  Sarah,  my 
dear,"  rejoined  Mr.  Darsy  ;  "  for  the  man 
understands  these  things." 

"  What!"  exclaimed  his  sister  in  alarm 
— "  Does  he  quote  Pope  too  .''  Do  horse- 
jockeys  quote  Pope .?" 

"  And  why  not,  my  dear  .^"  said  Mr, 
Darsy,  gladly  seizing  on  this  general  query 
to  avoid  making  any  discoveries  on  the 
particular  one.  "  Why  not,  my  dear  ? 
Why  may  not  a  liorse-jockey  understand 
and  appreciate  Pope  as  well  as  any  other 
man  t  There  is  nothing  to  hinder 
him." 

"  Oh,  certainly  not,"  replied  Miss 
Darsy  ;  "  but,  oh,  if  he  was  dosed  with 
Pope  as  I  am — if  he  had  Pope  !  Pope  ! 
ringing  in  his  ears  night  and  day,  in  all 
situations  and  on  all  occasions,  as  I  have 
— he  would   grow  sick,  sick,  at   the  very 

Sarah,    Sarah  I"    replied    her 


name. 
"  Ah ! 


brother,  smilins- 


j 


Woman's  at  best '  " 

"  Pope  again  !"  screamed  Miss  Darsy, 
putting  her  fingers  in  her  ears,  and  rush- 
ing distractedly  away  from  her  Pope-mad 
brother. 

The  latter  looked  after  her  with  a  smile 
of  pity,  and  perhaps  a  very  slight  matter 
of  contempt  mingled  with  it,  and  began 
again,  and  finished  with  additional  empha- 
sis, the  quotation  in  which  he  had  been 
interrupted.     Then,  turning  to  Sandy — 

"  Let  us  go  and  take  a  look  of  this 
honest  man's  horses,  Sandy,"  he  ScOid. 
"  We  have  used  him  rather  ill,  after  all ; 
but  I'll  explain." 

In  the  next  minute,  the  parties  had 
met ;  and  the  first  thing  Mr.  Darsy  did 
was  to  explain  to  Willie,  as  he  had  pro- 
posed to  do,  the  reason  of  his  absence. 

"  A'  richt,  sir— a'  richt,"  replied  Wil- 
lie, graciously.  "  There's  far  frae  bein 
ony  harm  dune  ;  and,  besides,  your  excuse 
is  a  guid  ane,  although  ye  had  been  an 
hour  langer." 

Willie,  at  the  special  request  of  Sandy 
Ramsay,  now  proceeded  to  put  his  horses 
through  their  paces  ;  and,  while  the  for- 
mer was  at  a  little  distance  in  the  per- 
formance of  this  duty — "  Is  that  the  man 
you  meant,  Sandy  V'  said  Mr.  Darsy. 

"  I  dinna  ken  him  by  sight,  sir — only 
by  repute,"  replied  Sandy  ;  "  but,  if  he 
quotes  Pope  to  you,  he  maun  be  the  man  ; 
for  he's  a  cunning  scoundrel,  and,  doubt- 
less, kens  you're  fond  o'  the  little  crook- 
ed poet." 

"  Sandy,  Sandy,  you  have  a  scurrilous 
tongue,"  said  Mr.  Darsy.  "  You'll  find 
the  man  prove  an  honest  one,  I  have  no 
doubt  ;  and  will,  I  am  sure,  feel  then 
ashamed  of  what  3'ou  are  now  sayin"-  to 
his  prejudice." 

"  Maybe,  sir  ;  but  I'll  be  surer  0'  my 
man  after  I  hae  hoard  a  quotation  or  twa  ; 
and  still  surer  after  ye  hae  bocht  the 
horses  ;  for,  if  he  doesna  do  ye,  he's  most 
assuredly  no  Willie  Craig." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted 


THE   GOODMAN   OF  DRYFIELD. 


537 


b}-  the  return  of  the  horse-dealer,  who 
approached  them,  leading  one  of  his 
horses  at  a  full  trot.  Both  animals  having 
been  subjected  to  this  display — 

"  Now,  my  good  friend,"  said  Mr. 
DaVsy,  "  what's  your  price  .^" 

''  Why,  then,  juist  to  be  at  a  word  wi' 
ye,  sir,"  replied  Willie,  taking  off  his  hat 
with  one  hand,  and  scratching  his  head 
with  the  other — "  I'll  take  thirty  guineas 
for  the  black  ane,  and  twenty  for  the 
brown  ;  and  I'm  sure  that's  a  dead  bargain 
• — ^juist  throwin  the  cattle  awa.  It's  no  a 
month  since  I  was  offered  forty  guineas  in 
my  loof  for  that  black  beast ;  but  I  wasna 
sae  hard  pressed  for  siller  then  as  I'm  noo, 
and  I  refused  it." 

"  Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Darsy,  turning  to 
the  farmer,  "  what  do  you  say  to  these 
prices  ?  You  have  some  knowledge  of 
horses." 

"  I  say,  sir,  that,  as  near  as  I  can  guess, 
they're  juist  aboot  the  dooble  o'  what 
they  ocht  to  be.  That  black  horse,  if  I'm 
no  mistaen,  is  broken-winded,  and  '11  be 
dead  lame  in  a  week  ;  and  the  brown  ane's 
no  a  grain  better." 

Willie  looked  at  Mr.  Darsy  with  a  smile 
of  conscious  integrity,  and  of  calm  con- 
tempt at  once  of  the  slander  and  the 
judi>-uient  of  the  slanderer.  The  unsus- 
pecting Mr.  Darsy  returned  the  look, 
attributing  Sandy's  decision  to  prejudice. 

"  Come  now,  Sandy,"  said  the  former, 
"  forget  that  you  have  an  interest  to  serve 
in  this  matter,  and  deal  fairly  between  man 
and  man." 

"  But  it's  no  between  man  and  man, 
sir,"  said  Sandy  :  "  it's  between  man  and 
a  horse-jockey  ;  and  it's  weel  kent,  that's 
no  a  fair  match.  It  wad  take  the  deil 
himsel  to  deal  wi'  a  horse-couper." 

Willie  smiled  again  the  smile  of  con- 
scious innocence  ;  and,  turning  to  Mr. 
Darsy,  said — 

"  I  rather  think  that  ye  will  agree  wi' 
me,  sir,  that 

" '  Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  jour  part '  "— 


and  he  looked  expressively  at  Sandy — 

"  •  tJierc  all  the  honor  lies.'  " 

"  Unquestionably,"  replied  Mr.  Darsy. 
"  it  is 

"  'Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow  ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  and  prunello.'  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  said  Willie — 

"  '  For  modes  of  faith   let  graceless  zealots  fight. 
His  can't  he  wrong  whose  life  is  in  tlie  right.'  " 

"  Certainly  not—  certainly  not,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Darsy  in  raptures. 

''  '  One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  out-weighs 
Of  stupid  starers,  and  of  loud  hurras.'  " 

"  Nae  denyn't,"  said  Willie  :  "  and,  to 
a'  wha  doot  it,  I  wad  say — 

"  '  Know,  then,  this  truth  (enough  for  man  to  know), 
Virtue  alone  is  happiness  below.'  " 

And,  as  he  repeated  the  last  line,  he  laid 
his  hand  with  solemn  emphasis  on  his 
heart. 

This  last  quotation  did  Willie's  busi- 
ness, 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Mr.  Darsy,  shed- 
ding tears  of  delight,  and  taking  Willie 
by  the  arm  to  conduct  him  into  the  house 
— •'  let  us  settle  this  small  matter  at  once, 
and  offhand.  Just  say  at  once,  my  friend, 
the  lowest  sum  you  really  will  take  for 
these  horses,  and  they  are  mine.  Sandy 
there  is  a  well-meaning  man,  but  he  has 
his  prejudices  as  we  all  have." 

"  Weel  then,  sir,  just  to  be  at  a  word 
wi'  ye,"  replied  Willie,  "  I'll  taknine  and 
twenty  guineas  for  the  black  horse,  and 
nineteen  for  the  brown  ane  ;  and  if  that's 
no  a  bargain,  I  never  gied  or  got  ane  in 
my  life." 

"  They're  no  worth  the  half  o't,  I  man- 
teen,"  exclaimed  Sandy,  energetically 

"  Hush,  Sandy,  hush,  man,"  said  Mr. 
Darsy.  "  I'm  sure  the  horses  are  a  fair 
bargain.  This  honest  man  would  never 
ask  more  than  they  are  worth." 

"  Wadna  he,  feth  !"  said  Sandy,  with 
a  satirical  smile.  "  Sir,  I'm  thinkin  ye'll 
fin'  out  that  before  ye're  a  week  aulder. 
Wait  ye  till  the  horses  hae  been  twa  days 
in  the  plough,  and  ye'll  see  whether  he 


538 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


has  asked  mair  than  the  worth  o'  them  or 
no.  I  wadna  trust  him  farer  than  I  could 
throw  a  bull  by  the  tail." 

"  Sandy,  Sandy,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dar- 
sy,  in  a  deprecating  tone,  "  you  have 
really  a  scandalous  tongue.  Have  you 
forgot  that  beautiful  verse  in  the  Univer- 
sal Prayer — 

'•  '  Teach  me  to  feel  another's  wo, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see  ; 
Thafc  mercj'  I  to  others  show. 

That  mercy  show  to  me.'  " 

"  That's  a'  very  weel,  sir  ;  but  I  can- 
na  ao-ree  to  hide  the  cheat  I  see — that's  a 
different  sort  o'  thing  a'thegither." 

*'  Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Darsy,  in  a  still 
more  angry  tone,  "  I  really  will  hear  no 
more  of  this."  And,  thus  rebuked,  San- 
dy said  no  more ;  he  saw  it  would  be 
useless. 

Leaving  the  latter  in  charge  of  the 
horses,  Mr.  Darsy  and  Willie  now  went 
into  the  house  ;  and  there  the  latter  re- 
ceived the  price  of  his  cattle,  together  with 
a  comfortable  refection,  during  vv^hich  he 
and  his  host  kept  up  a  running  fire  of 
quotations  from  Pope. 

The  former,  as  the  reader  will  recollect, 
had  cautioned  the  latter  not  to  make  any 
allusion  to  the  author  just  named  in  the 
hearino;  of  his  sister ;  and  this  caution 
Willie  observed.  He  took  care  to  make 
no  quotations  while  she  was  present ;  but 
he  had  not  been  put  on  his  guard  against 
her  overhearing;  them,  and  the  conse- 
quence  was,  that  some  of  them  were  made 
in  a  tone  so  emphatically  loud,  that  she 
did  overhear  them,  even  from  the  distance 
of  an  adjoining  apartment.  Perhaps  few 
else  than  Miss  Sarah  could  have  discerned 
what  were  the  words  so  spoken  ;  but  her 
ears  were  so  sensitively  alive  to  the  lan- 
guage of  the  abhorred  Pope,  that  she  at 
once  recognized  them  ;  and  on  doing  so, 
immediately  sent  for  her  brother  to  come 
and  speak  with  her,  for  she  had  known  him 
to  have  been  repeatedly  swindled  by  Pope- 
quoters  before,  some  of  whom  had  com- 
mitted a  scrap  or  two  to  memory  for  the 
express  purpose. 


"  James,"  said  Miss  Sarah,  on  his 
coming  into  the  apartment  where  she  was, 
^'  I  hear  that  man  quoting  Pope.  Now, 
James,  I  beg  you'll  be  on  your  guard ;  for 
you  may  depend  upon  it  he  intends  to 
cheat  you.  Recollect  how  often  you  have 
been  taken  in  by  Pope-quoters,  There 
was  the  man  that  borrowed  five  pounds 
from  you,  on  the  strength  of  a  quotation  ; 
there  was  the  man  that  got  your  name  to 
a  fifty  pound  bill,  of  which  you  had  after- 
wards to  pay  every  farthing,  through  pre- 
cisely a  similar  claim  on  your  bounty — 
for  he  had  no  other  ;  then  there  was  the 
fellow  whom  you  recommended  to  the 
wood-merchants,  and  who  forged  a  bill  on 
his  employers ;  then  there  were  the  silver 
spoons  that  you  bought  from  the  pack- 
man, and  that  turned  out  to  be  pewter 
and  tin — all  because  they  quoted  Pope  ; 

then  there  was But  it  would  take  me  a 

week  to  go  over  half  the  impositions  of 
which  you  have  been  the  victim,  through 
that  detested  and  detestable  Pope." 

To  this  tirade  poor  Mr.  Darsy  listened 
with  the  utmost  patience  and  meekness, 
while  a  smile  of  good-nature,  blended 
with  an  expression  of  pity  for  his  sister's 
blindness  to  the  merits  of  the  poet,  played 
on   his  intellioient  and  benevolent  coun- 

o 

tenance. 

"  Well,  Sarah,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when 
his  sister  had  done  speaking,  "  if  I  have 
been  taken  in  by  these  people,  as  I  am 
willing  enough  to  allow  I  have,  whether 
does  the  shame  and  disgrace  lie  with  them 
or  me  .'^" 

"  I  do  not  know,  James,  where  the 
shame  and  disgrace  lie,"  said  his  sister  ; 
'^  but  I  have  a  pretty  good  guess,  and  so 
have  you,  where  the  loss  does.  But  all 
that  I  have  to  say  just  now,  James,  is — 
be  on  your  guard  in  your  dealings  with 
this  Pope-quoting  horse-couper." 

Mr.  Darsy  was  about  to  come  out  with 
a  quotation  in  reply — he  had  a  very  apt 
one  at  his  finger-ends ;  but,  recollecting 
that  this  would  only  farther  irritate  his 
sister,  he  made   a  violent  effort  and  sup- 


THE   GOODMAN   OF  DRYFIELD. 


539 


pressed  it,  and  merely  said,  witli  his  usual 
gentle  and  benevolent  smile — 

''  I'll  take  care,  Sarah,  my  dear,  I'll 
take  care."  And,  saying  this,  he  left  the 
apartment,  and  rejoined  Willie  Craig, 
who,  soon  after,  took  his  leave  with  his 
money  in  his  pocket,  and  a  good  dose  of 
whisky  punch  under  his  belt. 

On  leavino-  the  house,  Willie  came  ac- 
cidentally  across  Sandy  Ramsay,  who  was 
at  the  moment  in  the  act  of  yoking  the 
black  horse  to  a  cart. 

''  Ye  hae  gotten  a  prime  beast  there, 
Sandy,"  said  Willie. 

"  If  we  hae,  I'm  thinking  we  ha,e  paid 
as  weel  for  him,"  replied  the  latter,  drily. 
"  I'm  dootin  ye  hae  saft-saped  the  master 
to  some  purpose.  Ye  hae  come  Pope 
owre  him,  as  other  folks  hae  dune  before 

ye." 

Willie  smiled  significantly,  clapped  his 
finger  to  his  nose,  and  walked  on  without 
vouchsafing  any  other  reply. 

"  What  horse  is  that,  Sandy  ?"  said 
Mr.  Darsy,  on  the  forenoon  of  the  second 
day  after  Willie  Craig's  visit,  as  the  for- 
mer approached  the  house,  leading  an  old 
grey,  lame  beast  by  the  halter. 

"  Do  ye  no  ken  him,  sir  .^"  replied  San- 
dy, with  an  ominous  smile. 

"  No,"  rejoined  Mr.  Darsy,  gravely. 

"  Indeed,  it's  little  wonder.  This  is 
Willie  Craig's  black  horse,  but  your  grey 
ane." 

''  What  do  you  mean,  Sandy  ?"  said 
Mr.  Darsy,  in  a  tone  of  alarm.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  that's  my  horse,  my 
black  horse  ?" 

"  It's  a'  that's  for  him,  sir,"  replied 
Sandy.  '^  A  shower  o'  rain's  made  a'  the 
difference.  It  has  washed  him  into  what 
you  see  him — made  him  as  grey's  an  auld 
rat ;  but,  his  change  o'  color's  no  the 
warst  o't.  See,  he  hasna  a  leg  to  staun 
upon  ;  and  every  teeth  that  was  in  his 
head's  faun  oot.  There  they  are,  every 
ane."  And  Sandy  pulled  out  a  handful 
of  horse-teeth  out  of  his  pocket.  "  I  hur- 
ried him  hame  out  o'  the  pleugh,"  contin- 


ued Sandy,  "  before  he  wad  fa'  in  pieces 
a'thegither,  as  I  expected  every  moment 
he  wad  do." 

Mr.  Darsy  held  up  his  hands  in  amaze- 
ment at  this  most  extraordinary  metamor- 
phosis of  his  famous  black  charger,  and 
muttered  an  ejaculation  of  surprise  at  the 
very  strange  occurrence  ;  but  said  nothing 
for  a  few  seconds.  Althouo;h  he  said  no- 
thing,  however,  he  felt  a  good  deal ;  not 
for  the  pecuniary  loss  it  involved — for  that 
he  did  not  care — but  for  the  credit  of  the 
admirers  of  Pope.  His  sister,  too — what 
would  she  say  to  it .''  Here  was  another 
instance  of  imposition  chargeable  against 
his  adored  author,  to  add  to  the  longj  list 
of  which  she  was  already  in  possession. 
It  was  an  awkward  affair.  He  would  ten 
times  rather  that  the  price  of  the  horse 
had  been  thrown  into  the  sea  ;  and  this 
he  would  cheerfully  have  done,  had  the 
alternative  been  put  in  his  power.  But 
there  was  no  help  for  it. 

"  Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Darsy,  after  musing 
for  a  moment  on  the  astounding  deception 
which  had  just  come  to  light,  ^'  I'll  tell 
you  what  it  is,  regarding  this  very  strange 
affair.  I  think  it  very  possible — nay, 
very  likely — that  the  man,  Craig,  has 
been  himself  imposed  upon  with  this  horse, 
and  that  he  knew  nothing  of  its  defects  ; 
for  I  cannot  believe  that  so  decent,  intel- 
ligent, and  well-informed  a  man  as  he  is, 
could  be  guilty  of  such  villany  as  this. 
I  cannot  believe  it.  Now,  then,  Sandy, 
I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  do — you'll  take 
the  brown  horse  " 

a  ^p  yQ^p  leave,  sir,  I'll  no  do  that ; 
for  yon  beast's  no  chancy  to  come  near, 
let  alane  to  ride.  He's  the  maist  vicious 
brute  I  ever  saw  ;  and  '11  neither  hap,  stap, 
nor  win.  I  dinna  think  ye '11  ever  get  ony 
guid  o'  him." 

"  God  bless  me  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dar- 
sy, confounded  at  this  additional  misfor- 
tune ;  "  he  seemed  quiet  enough  when 
brought  here  by  Craig." 

"  Nae  doot  o't ; — he  did,"  replied 
Sandy;    "and   heaven   knows    hoo    the 


540 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


scoundrel  managed  it  !  But  he's  a  very 
different  thing  noo,  I  can  tell  ye,  sir." 

"  Dear  me  !  that's  really  odd,"  said  Mr. 
Darsy.  "  Well,  then,  Sandy,  I'll  tell 
you  what  you'll  do  :  you'll  go  to  our  good 
neighbor,  Mr.  Pentland,  and  get  the  loan 
of  a  pony  from  him,  and  ride  over  the 
length  of  Craig's — he  lives,  you  know,  at 
Longlane  ;  it's  only  about  nine  miles 
distant — and  tell  him  what  has  taken 
place ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  at 
once  refund  the  money;  or,  at  any  rate, 
give  us  other  horses  instead  of  those  we 
have  bought.  He,  indeed,  said  he  would 
do  the  former,  if  we  found  anything  wrong 
with  them  within  a  month." 

"  Catch  him  there,  sir,  if  ye  can,"  said 
Sandy.  "  The  deil  a  boddle  o'  the  price 
he'll  ever  gie  back.  He's  no  sae  saft  in 
the  horn  as  that.  He  wad  promise  ye,  I 
hae  nae  doot — he  pro-misesthe  same  thing 
to  every  ane  he  sells  a  horse  to  ;  but 
whar's  the  man  ever  got  a  penny  back  frae 
Willie  Craig,  for  a'  that  ?  I  wad  gie  half- 
a-croon  mysel  to  see  him." 

"  Well,  well,  but  do  you  just  try  him, 
Sandy,"  said  Mr.  Darsy  ;  "  and  I  have 
no  doubt  you  will  find  all  turn  out  right, 
notwithstanding  of  appearances."' 

Thus  summarily  enjoined,  Sandy  ob- 
tained the  loan  of  a  pony,  mounted,  and 
set  off  for  Longlane,  to  have  an  interview 
with  Willie  Craig  on  the  subject  of  his 
master's  purchase. 

Willie  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his 
own  house  when  Sandy  approached  ;  and, 
knowing  well  what  he  came  about,  would 
have  retreated;  but  it  was  too  late.  He 
was  seen  ;  and,  aware  of  this,  he  kept  his 
ground  manfully,  and  resolved  to  face  out 
fearlessly  the  coming  storm,  as  he  had 
done  many  a  one  of  a  similar  kind  before. 
On  Sandy's  approach,  Willie,  thrusting 
his  hands  into  his  breeches  pockets,  and 
bursting  into  a  loud  laugh,  hailed  his  com- 
ing visitor  with — 

''Come,  then,  my  friend!   my  genius  t  come 
along !  " 

*'  Ay,  I'll  come  along,"  replied  Sandy, 


!  anirrily;  "  and  maybe  ye 'II  find  it  to  your 
I  cost." 

"  Awake,  my  St  John !"  shouted 
Willie— 

"Awake,  my  St.  John  !  leave  all  meaner  things 
To  low  ambition,  and  the  pride  of  kings  } 
Let  us.  (.since  life  can  little  more  supply.) 
Than  just  to  look  about  us,  and  to  die.  -' 

"  Come,  come,  Willie,  nane  o'  yer 
blarney  for  me,"  said  Sandy,  now  dis- 
mounting. "  Ye 're  no  gaun  to  saft-sape 
me  that  way.  What  kind  o'  horses  were 
they  ye  selt  us  .^" 

''  Just  the  very  pick  o'  the  country," 
replied  Willie,  coolly. 

"  Ay,  if  ye  mean  the  warst,"  said 
Sandy.  "  But,  to  come  to  the  point  at 
once — I'm  sent  here,  Willie,  by  Mr. 
Darsy — although  I  ken  weelit's  a  fruitless 
errand — to  tell  ye  that  yer  horses  hae 
turned  oot  to  be  no  worth  their  hides  ; 
that  yer  black  ane  has  changed  to  a  dirty 
grey  wi'  a  shower  o'  rain,  and  is  dead  lame  ; 
and  that  the  brown  ane  '11  neither  work  in 
plough  nor  cart." 

"  Dear  me,  Sandy,  ye  surprise  me  ?" 
replied  Willie,  with  a  look  of  amazement 
as  like  the  genuine  as  it  was  possible  for 
any  man  to  assume. 

"  Maybe  I  do,"  said  Sandy  ;  ^'  but  I 
hardly  believe  it.  However,  this  being  the 
case,  my  master  has  sent  me  to  say  that  he 
expects  you'll  refund  him  the  siller,  as  ye 
promised,  or  find  him  ither  twa  horses 
worth  the  amount,  in  their  stead." 

"  Whee-ee-ee-ou  !"  whistled  Willie. 
"Is  that  the  next  o't.=>  Weel,  I  didna 
think  your  maister  was  sae  unreasonable 
a  man  as  that  comes  to,  Sandy  ;  but  there's 
a  heap  o'  queer  folk  in  this  world." 

"  My  feth  !  there's  that,"  said  the  lat- 
ter ;  "and  some  o'  them  no  far  aff." 

"  As  lang's  yr^e  sae  near,  ye  may  say 
that  Sandy,"  replied  Willie  ;  "  but  to  gie 
ye  an  answer  to  Mr.  Darsy,  tell  him,  wi' 
my  compliments,  Sandy,  that  there's  a 
truth  among  Pope's  maxims  that  he  doesna 
seem  to  hae  fan  oot.  Tell  him,  wi'  my 
best  respects,  that,  in 


THE  GOODMAN  OP  DRYFIELD. 


541 


"  '  Spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  whatever  is,  is  right.' 

Tell  ye  him  that^  Sandy,  and  I'm  sure 
he'll  be  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  Do  ye  no  mean  to  refund  the  money, 
then  :"  inquired  Sandy. 

"  Deil  a  cowrie,"  said  Willie. 

"  Nor  to  gie  him  ither  horses  in  ex- 
change .^" 

"iVo  a  hoof." 

"  Weel,  then,  ye  are  an  infernal  scoun- 
drel— that's  a'  I  hae  to  say,"  replied 
Sandy,  remounting  his  pony,  and  starting 
off  on  his  return  home. 

On  arriving  at  Dryfield,  Sandy  hastened 
to  Mr.  Darsy's  apartment,  to  imform  him 
of  the  result  of  his  mission  ;  but  on  open- 
ing the  door,  drew  hastily  back  again,  on 
findino:  a  stran2;er  in  the  room, 

"  Come  in — come  in,  Sandy,"  said  Mr. 
Daisy,  on  observing  the  former  retreating. 
This  gentlemen  will  excuse  your  intrusion  ; 
for  he  is  a 

'•  •  Friend  to  truth  I  of  soul  sincere. 

In  action  faithful,  and  in  honor  clear.'  '• 

It  might  be  so — of  this  we  shall  be  bet- 
tcs  able  to  judge  by  and  by  ;  but  the  read- 
er will  think  with  us,  we  have  little  doubt, 
that  this  was  saying  rather  too  much  of  an 
acuuaintance  of  half-an-hour ;  for  no 
longer  had  the  stranger  been  known  to 
him  by  whom  he  was  thus  so  highly  com- 
plimented. Mr.  Darsy's  visitor  was,  or, 
at  least,  represented  himself  to  be,  an 
itinerant  preacher,  who  aware,  as  he  said, 
of  that  gentleman's  benevolence  and  hospi- 
tality had  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  on 
him  as  he  passed  on  his  pious  vocation. 
This  account  of  himself  and  calling,  he 
wound  up  with  a  very  apt  quotation  from 
Pope  ;  and,  we  need  hardly  add,  that  it 
was  to  this  circumstance  he  was  mainly 
indebted  for  the  rapid  progress  he  had 
made  in  I\[r.  Darsy's  affections. 

To  return  to  our  story  : — On  ]Mr. 
Darsy's  repeating  the  couplet  above  quot- 
ed, the  stranger,  w^ho  was  a  decent,  quiet, 
elderly  man,  dressed  in  somewhat  rusty 
blacks,   smiled  at   the  compliment,    and 


looked  graciously  on  Sandy,  as  if  at  once 
to  assure  him  that  he  need  be  under  no 
restraint  on  his  account,  and  that  he  was, 
in  truth,  the  worthy  person  which  Mr, 
Darsy  had  represented  him  to  be.  Thus 
encouraged,  Sandy  entered  the  apartment; 
and,  at  Mr.  Darsy's  request,  told  the  re- 
sult of  his  mission.  On  hearing  it,  the 
worthy  man  merely  shook  his  head,  and 
said — 

"  Well,  well,  Sandy,  there's  no  help 
for  it.  We  must  just  take  better  care 
next  time." 

He  then  explained  to  the  stranger  gentle- 
man the  nature  of  the  transaction.  The 
good  man  was  horrified,  held  up  his  hands 
in  amazement,  and  recited,  with  much 
feeling  and  solemnity — 

"  The  good  must  merit  God's  peculiar  care  : 
But  who  but  God  can  tell  us  who  they  are  ?' 

"  Ah,  who  indeed  .^"  said  Mr.  Darsy^ 
smiling.     "  There  is  the  difficulty." 

"  Ay,  there,  indeed,  it  is,"  said  the 
stran2;er,  Siinlin2:  in  his  turn.  ''  Who  but 
God  can  tell  the  pure  from  the  impure  of 
heart  }  Who  but  he  separate  the  tares 
from  the  wheat — the  corn  from  the  chaff  .^ 
None  else,  indeed,  my  respected  friend" — 
looking  benevolently  on  Mr.  Darsy, 

"  My  dear  sir,"  replied  the  latter,  em- 
phatically, and  taking  his  benevolent-look- 
ing visitor  by  the  hand,  to  mark  his  deep 
sense  of  the  truths  w^hich  he  delivered. 
'^  My  dear  sir,''  he  said,  adding  no  more 
in  words,  but  looking  the  remainder  of  the 
sentence,  which,  when  translated,  said — 
"you  speak  well  and  wisely."  After  a 
moment — "  My  good  sir  !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Darsy,  glancing  at  his  visitor's  shoes, 
which  appeared  much  travel-soiled,  "  I 
suspect  you  have  had  a  long  walk  to-day. 
You  seemed  fatigued.  Now,  you  will 
take  a  little  of  something  or  other — a 
glass  or  two  of  wine,  or  a  little  brandy, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  till  dinner  is 
ready." 

"  You  are  too  good — too  good,  my  very 
excellent  and  much  respected  friend,"  re- 
plied the  stranger  ;  "  but,"  he  added,  with 


TALES   OF   THE  BORDERS. 


a  subdued  yet  significant  look,  "  there  are 
other  men  of  Ross  than  he  whom  Pope 
celebrated.     There  are  others — 

"  '  Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shody  rows, 
Whose  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose.'  ■' 

This  couplet,  which  was  given  in  a  mild 
and  gentle  tone,  was  so  palpably  directed 
to  Mr.  Darsy,  that  he  could  not  avoid 
seeing  its  intended  application  to  himself; 
and,  seeing  this,  he  shook  his  head  and 
smiled  a  disclaimer. 

"  My  good  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  have  but 
slender  pretension  to  any  portion  of  that 
noble  character,  so  masterly  drawn  by  the 
immortal  bard  of  Twickenham  ;  yet  do  1 
agree  with  what  the  poet  elsewhere  says, 
that 

•• '  All  fame  is  foreign  but  of  true  desert- 
Plays  round  the  head,  hut  comes  not  to  the  heart — 
One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs. 
Of  stupid  starers  and  of  loud  hurras  ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus,  exiled,  feels, 
Than  CeEsar  with  a  senate  fit  his  heels.'  " 

The  stranger  smiled,  bowed,  and  looked 
benevolently  on  his  host. 

"  Beautiful — beautiful  !"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  tone  of  rapture.  "  How  terse — how 
forcible.  Yet,  Mr.  Darsy,  there  are 
those — ay,  there  are  those  who  say  that 
Pope  is  no  poet !" 

Mr,  Darsy  smiled  gi-imly. 
"  I  have  heard,"  he  said,  "  that  there 
are  such  monsters  in  human  shape  ;  but  I 
have  never  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  meet 
with  one  of  them.  If  I  did,  I  do  not  know 
what  I  should  do.  I  think  I  should  mur- 
der the  Goth  off-hand.  I  believe  1  should. 
No  human  patience  could  stand  against 
such  heresy — such  blasphemy,  as  1  may 
call  it." 

Mr.  Darsy  now  rung  the  bell,  and  de- 
sired the  servant  to  put  some  wine  and 
brandy  on  the  table.  The  order  was  im- 
mediately complied  with,  and  the  two 
Popeites  forthwith  drew  in. 

"  Wine  or  brandy,  my  dear  sir  .?"  said 
Mr.  Darsy. 

"  Why,"  said  the  gentle  stranger,  who, 
by  the  way,  had  given  in  his  name  as 
Claythorn — "  why,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet, 


pleasant  smile,  "  I  will  take  a  little  brandy, 
if  you  please.'  Wine  doesn't  agree  with 
the.     I  find  the  alcohol  safer." 

"  Then  help  yourself,  my  dear  friend, "re- 
plied Mr.  Darsy  ;  and  Mr.  Darsy 's  friend 
did  help  himself,  and  that  with  a  liberality 
which  was  rather  surprising  in  one  of  his 
cloth  ;  although  it  would  not  have  surpris- 
ed at  any  one  who  had  studied  and  drawn 
the  proper  conclusion  from  the  appearance 
of  his  nose,  which  was  of  a  bright,  lumin- 
ous red.     Having  finished  his  first  jorum, 
Mr.  Darsy  pressed  his  dear  friend  to  an- 
other tifter;  and  his  dear  fiiend,  nothing 
loth,    did   as  he    was  desired ;  presenting 
satisfactory  evidence,  that  a  love  of  Pope, 
and  of  brandy   and  water,  were  perfectly 
compatible,  doubt  it  who  might.     Opened 
up   by  the  benign  influence  of  the  alco- 
hol, the  itinerant  preacher  now  began  to 
give  Pope  by  the  yard.     Before  he  had 
dealt  him  out  sparingly — in  bits  and  frag- 
ments :  he  now  gave  whole  pages  on  end, 
to  the  inexpressible  delight  of  his  enter- 
tainer, who  having  been  induced,  by  the 
rarity  of  the  occasion — the  meeting  with 
so  enthusiastic  an  admirer  of  his  beloved 
bard — to  take  a  glass  or  two  of  wine  extra, 
save  as  ample  measure  in  return. 

The  conversation  between  the  two 
Popeites  was  thus  reduced  to  nothing — 
only  a  word  or  two  now  and  then ;  the 
rest  was  entirely  made  up  of  quotation. 
While  Mr.  Darsy  and  liis  guest  were  thus 
employed,  a  servant  came  to  announce  that 
dinner  was  on  the  table.  Both  immediate- 
ly rose  to  their  feet.  When  they  had 
done  so,  Mr.  Darsy  took  the  preacher  by 
the  hand,  and  said,  in  an  under  tone — 

"  Now,  my  dear,  good  fiiend,  when  you 
go  down  stairs  you  will  see  my  sister.  She 
will  dine  with  us.  A  good  creature  as 
ever  lived — an  excellent  creature.  But — 
but — I  am  ashamed  to  say  it.  The  fact  is, 
and  you  know  it,  my  dear  friend,  that 


'•  •  Good,  as  well  as  ill, 
Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  still. 

My  sister,  in  short,  my  dear  friend,  has  no 
fancy  for  our    adored  bard.     I  can't  ac- 


THE   GOODMAN  OF  DRYFIELD. 


543 


count  for  it ;  but  so  it  is.  Therefore,  if 
you  will  just  be  so  good  as  say  nothing  about 
him  while  she  is  present,  it  will  be  as 
well.  No  quotations,  you  understand. 
We'll  have  our  revenge  for  this  restraint 
when  she  retires.  We  will  resume  the 
subject,  then,  my  dear  sir,"  added  Mr. 
Darsy,  slapping  his  guest,  in  a  friendly 
and  jocose  way,  on  the  shoulder,  as  he 
snoke.  "  We'll  have  a  nicrht  of  it ;  and 
I'll  smuggle  down  his  works  from  my 
library,  and  we  will  glance  them  over  to- 
gether when  we've  got  the  room  to  our- 
selves.    That  will  be  a  treat,  eh  .?" 

Thus  cautioned  as  to  his  conduct  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Darsy's  sister,  Mr.  Clay- 
thorn  descended  to  the  dining-room  with 
his  host.  Not  a  word — not  the  most  dis- 
tant allusion  to  Pope,  escaped  either  of 
the  two  gentlemen  ;  so  that,  whatever 
Miss  Darsy's  suspicions  of  the  case  might 
be — and  she  certainly  looked  as  if  she  had 
some  suspicions  of  it — nothing  transpired 
to  give  her  assurance  of  the  fact.  On  her 
retiring,  however,  the  pent  up  sluices  of 
the  Popeites  were  thrown  open,  and  out 
there  rushed  two  impetuous  streams  of 
poetry ;  sometimes  blending,  sometimes 
alternatinfi;,  and  sometimes  running  counter 
to  each  other.  Mr.  Darsy  was  delight- 
ed— more  than  delighted  with  his  friend  ; 
for  he  had  never,  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  life,  met  with  one  who  could  quote  his 
favorite  author  with  such  facility  and  at 
such  length,  as  the  guest  whom  he  was 
now  entertaining ;  neither  had  he  ever 
met  with  one  who  had  so  deep,  so  thorough 
a  reverence  for  the  mighty  moral  poet. 

This  was  altogether,  in  short,  one  of  the 
happiest  nights  he  had  ever  spent  in  his 
life.  At  its  close,  Mr.  Darsy  accompanied 
his  guest,  who  he  insisted  should  remain 
with  him  all  night,  to  his  bed-room,  and 
parted  from  him  there  with  a  very  apt 
quotation,  to  which  his  friend  replied  with 
another  no  less  felicitous,  which  he  deliver- 
ed in  a  very  feeling  and  impressive  man- 
Der.     On  the  following:  morning — 

"  What  keeps   your   reverend   friend, 


brother .?"  said  Miss  Darsy,  somewhat 
sneeringly — for  she  had  strong  suspicions 
of  the  stranger's  being  a  Popeite — as  she 
sat  at  the  breakfast-table,  waiting  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  person,  before  proceed- 
ing the  duties  of  the  morning  meal. 

"  Really,  my  dear,  I  don't  know,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Darsy.  "  The  poor  man  is 
fatigued,  I  daresay ;  and  we  sat  up  rather 
late  last  night." 

"  Ay,  brother,  I  fancy  you  found  him 
a  very  pleasant,  intelligent  companion," 
said  Miss  Darsy,  with  a  look  and  tone  of 
peculiar  meaning. 

What  this  meaning  was,  Mr.  Darsy 
perfectly  understood.  He  knew  that  his 
sister  was  at  once  insinuating  her  suspi- 
cions of  the  stranger's  Popeism,  and  driv- 
ing at  a  discovery  of  the  fact.  Aware  of 
this,  and  by  no  means  desirous  of  coming  to 
any  explanation  on  the  subject,  Mr.  Darsy, 
without  noticing  his  sister's  remark,  said 
he  would  "just  step  up  stairs  to  see  what 
was  keeping  Mr.  Claythorn,"  and  deliver 
himself  (but  of  this  he  said  nothing)  of 
a  happy  quotation  which  had  occurred  to 
him,  and  which  he  thought  would  form  an 
exceedingly  appropriate  greeting. 

He  entered  his  friend's  bed-room  ;  there 
was  no  movement.  He  drew  aside  the 
curtains  ;  the  bed  was  unoccupied.  The 
Pope-quoter  had  decamped.  He  was  off; 
and  off,  too,  were  a  dozen  silver  spoons 
and  a  small  gold  watch  ;  all  of  which  pro- 
perty had  been  unguardedly  left  in  the 
room  in  which  he  slept. 

Here  ended  my  good  host's  (Mr.  Pent- 
land's)  anecdotes  and  sketch  of  the  wor- 
thy proprietor  of  Dryfield  ;  but  he  added, 
he  could  give  as  much  more  of  the  same 
kind,  if  I  chose,  as  would  fill  half-a-dozen 
volumes.  I  thanked  him,  and  said  that  I 
would  rest  content  with  what  he  had  been 
kind  enough  to  give  me,  in  the  meantime  ; 
but  that,  if  the  readers  of  the  **  Border 
Talcs" — for  which,  I  told  him,  I  intended 
these  memorabilia — desired  any  more,  I 
should,  perhaps,  take  the  liberty  of  apply- 
ing to  him  again. 


544 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


THE     GIPSY    LOVER. 


"  Mary,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Blair,  ap- 
proaching her  daughter's  bedside  early  one 
morning  (it  was  the  morning  of  the  fair  of 
Bucklyvio  in  Stirlingshire,  formerly  a  very 
important  one),  "ye  maun  get  up,  and 
gang  wi'  yer  brother  to  the  fair  the  day. 
He's  to  sell  the  brown  pony  ;  and  ye  maun 
bring  hame  the  siller,  as  he's  gaun  to 
Stirling  after  the  fliir,  and  winna  be  hame 
for  a  day  or  twa,  and  there's  a  bill  to  pay 
the  morn." 

Delighted  with  the  mission,  Mary  in- 
stantly arose  and  dressed  herself;  and, 
when  she  had  done  so,  broad  Scotland 
could  not  have  produced  a  more  lovely  or 
more  captivating  face  and  figure.  Mary 
Blair  wa^s  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  and, 
though  not  tall  of  stature,  her  form  was 
perfect  in  its  symmetry,  while  her  coun- 
tenance beamed  with  gentleness  and  love. 
Many  were  the  suitors  who  sought  to  win 
her  heart;  but  "  there  was  ane,  a  secret 
ane,"  who  stood  between  them  and  her 
affections,  and  rendered  all  their  efforts 
fruitless.  But  none  knew  who  this  one 
was  ;  nor  did  any  know  even  that  her  love 
was  already  disposed  of.  She  durst  not 
avow  it ;  for  tha  favored  lover  was  of  a 
race,  with  any  of  the  individuals  of  which 
it  would  have  been  reckoned  foul  disgrace 
to  have  held  communion  of  any  kind. 
This  was  not  her  opinion  ;  but  it  was  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  and  she  was  so  far 
compelled  to  bow  to  it,  as  to  keep  close 
locked  up  in  her  heart  the  secret  of  her 
love. 

Mary's  mother,  who  was  a  widow,  rented 
a  small  farm  in  Stirlingshire,  and  was  in 
comparatively  easy  circumstances.  She 
held  the  laud  on  reasonable  terms  ;  and 
the  judicious  management  of  her  only  son, 
a  fine  young  man  of  about  five-  and-twcnty, 
enabled  her  to  make  the  most  of  it,  and  to 
live,  if  not  in  affluence,  at  least  in  plenty. 


On  the  occasion  with  which  our  story 
opens,  Mary  was  mounted  on  the  pony 
which  it  was  intended  should  be  sold ; 
and,  accompanied  by  her  brother,  who 
walked  by  her  side,  they  set  out  for  Buck- 
lyvie  at  a  suitable  hour  in  the  morning. 
The  young  maiden,  who  had  never  been  at 
a  fair  before,  was  in  high  spirits  at  the 
prospect  of  being  gratified  by  the  sight  of 
such  a  scene  ;  every  now  and  then  play- 
fully urging  on  her  pony,  in  order  to  put 
her  brother  to  his  speed,  and  to  laugh  at 
his  efforts  to  keep  pace  with  her.  This 
emulation  soon  brought  them  to  their  des- 
tination. On  arriving  at  the  scene  of  the 
fair,  the  unsophisticated  girl  was  delighted 
with  the  joyous  bustle  and  confusion  which 
it  exhibited.  I'he  shows,  the  music,  the 
tents — everything  pleased  her,  because 
everything  was  new  to  her  ;  but,  above 
all  was  she  pleased  and  flattered  by  the 
attention  shown  her  by  the  numerous  ac- 
quaintances whom  she  met.  These  she 
encountered  at  every  turn  ;  and,  being  a 
universal  favorite,  every  one  insisted  on 
presenting  her  with  a  fairing^  until  she 
was  literally  loaded  with  gifts  of  various 
kinds.  Having  remained  in  the  crowd  all 
the  forenoon,  and  having  seen  all  that  was 
worth  seeing,  Mary  was  conducted  by  her 
brother  to  the  house  of  a  friend,  where  he 
left  her  until  he  should  dispose  of  the  pony, 
and  return  with  the  proceeds. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  came  back  ; 
and,  wh  ~n  he  did,  it  was  to  say  that  he 
had  sold  tlio  animal,  but  would  not  receive 
the  price  till  towards  the  afternoon  ;  and 
that  his  sister  must,  of  necessity,  wait  till 
then.  Mar}^  was  alarmed  by  the  delay  ; 
for  it  would  thus  be  dark  before  she 
could  reach  home,  and  her  own  fears,  and 
her  mother's  last  injunctions,  warned  her  to 
be  home  with  daylight.  She  mentioned  her 
uneasiness  on  this  subject  to  her  brother. 


THE  GIPSY  LOVER. 


545 


"  But  there's  no  help  for  it,  Mary," 
was  his  reply  ;  "and,  besides,  you  have 
nothing  to  fear.  Duncan  M'Donald  will 
see  you  safely  home." 

On  this  proposal,    Mary  made   no  re- 
mark.    To  the  escort  of  M'Donald  she 
made  no  objection  to  her  brother,  whom 
she   knew   to    entertain    a  very   different 
opinion  of  him   from  what  she  did.     He 
was  one  of  her  numerous  lovers,  and,  being 
in  good  circumstances,  his  addresses  were 
favored  by  her  brother.     But  Mary  her- 
self— over  and  above  the  reason  already 
assigned  for  her  rejecting  the  suits  of  her 
numerous    wooers,     and    of    M'Donald 
amongst  the  rest — had  an  invincible  aver- 
sion  to   him,   on   account   of  his  coarse 
manners,  and  fierce,  irascible  temper ;  but 
her  gentleness  rendering  her  unwilling  to 
have  any  difference  with  her  brother  on 
this  subject,  she  made  no  objection  to  his 
proposal  of  M'Donald  accompanying  her. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening,  Mary's 
brother  again  called,  and  handed  over  to 
her  the  price  of  the   pony,  which  he  had 
received  ;  telling  her,  at  the  same  time, 
that  M'Donald  would  call  for  her  at  eight 
o'clock.     It  was  now  about  seven. 

The  horn-  appointed  came,  but  M'Do- 
nald came  not  with  it.  Another  half-hour 
passed  away,  and  still  he  did  not  appear. 
Mary  became  restlessly  and  miserably 
impatient.  Her  host,  who  was  an  intimate 
friend  of  herself  and  her  family,  perceiving 
her  uneasiness,  proposed  to  her  to  accept 
the  convoy  of  his  nephew  (a  young  man  of 
excellent  character,  who  lived  in  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood),  and  to  wait  no 
longer  on  IM'Donald.  With  this  proposal 
Mary  thankfully  closed,  as  she  was  anx- 
ious to  get  home  ;  knowing  that  her  mo- 
ther would  be  in  wretchedness  till  she 
returned.  She  was,  besides,  by  no  means 
displeased  to  escape  the  company  of 
M'Donald.  Her  host's  nephew  was  ac- 
cordingly sent  for ;  and  when  he  came, 
he,  with  great  good  will,  undertook  to  see 
her  safely  home.  In  a  few  minutes  after, 
the  two  set  out,  and  had  proceeded  for  the 

VOL.  II.  ""^ 


distance  of  about  a  mile  or  so,  when  they 
heard  some  one  shouting  behind  them  ; 
and,  turning  round,  they  saw  a  man  run- 
ning towards  them  at  his  utmost  speed. 
It  was  M'Donald.  He  was  the  worse  of 
liquor — considerably  so — and  in  a  state  of 
furious  excitement.  On  coming  close  up  to 
Mary  and  her  companion,  the  ruffian,  v/ith- 
out  saying  a  word,  instantly  knocked  the  lat- 
ter down  with  a  bludgeon  which  he  carried. 
He  then  seized  Mary  rudely  by  the  arm, 
and  was  dragging  her  onwards,  saying  that 
he  would  see  her  home  ;  but  she  resisted, 
and,  upbraiding  him  with  the  brutal  act 
which  he  had  just  committed,  refused  to 
proceed  with  him. 

"  You  won't  go  with  me,  then  V  he 
said,  fiercely  confronting  her. 

"  No,  Duncan,  I  will  not,"  replied 
Mary  ;  *'  you  have  done  a  cruel  and  un- 
manly thing,  and  I  will  have  no  more  of 
your  company." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  M'Donald,  turning  on 
his   heel ;  "  but,   Mary,    if  you    do    not 

dearly  rue  this  yet  " saying  which  he 

left  her,  and  went  off  in  the    direction 
whence  he  had  come. 

On  JM 'Donald's   departure,  Mary  ran 
towards  her  wounded  companion — his  head 
being  severely  cut — and   kneeling  down 
beside  him,  tenderly  raised  him,  and  asked 
if  he  was  much  hurt.     The  young  man, 
who  had  by  this  time  recovered  from  the 
stunning  effects  of  the  blow,  replied  that 
he  did  not  think  he  was,  and  instantly  rose 
to  his  feet.     At  this  instant  two  persons 
came  up — a   man   and  his   wife.     They 
lived  within  a   mile  of  Mary's  mother, 
were  decent  people,  and  well  known  both 
to  Mary  and  her  companion.     To  these 
people  she    related  what   had  occurred. 
The  whole  were  then  about  to  proceed  on 
their  way,  when  Mary  insisted  that  her    I 
companion  should  return  home,  saying  that    | 
she  was  now  in  perfectly  safe  hands.    The    ' 
young  man  for  some  time  peremptorily 
refused  to  leave  her ;  but,  as  she  as  pe- 
remptorily insisted   that   he  should — for 
his  face  was  streaming  with  blood,  and  he 


516 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS, 


was    otherwise  greatly  enfeebled    by  the  | 
severity  of  the  blow  he  had  received — he  , 
at  length  consented,  and  bidding  her  good  j 
nightj  returned  to  Bucklyvie.     Mary  and  i 
her  new  escort  now  resumed  their  journey,  ; 
and  proceeded  without   any  interruption 
until  they  arrived   at  a  place  called  the 
Tinker's  Cove,  when  Mary  proposed  that 
they  should  there  strike  off  the  road,  and 
take  the  short  cut  across  the  burn. 

To  this  proposal  her  companions  would 
by  no  means  agree ;  alleging  it  to  be  un- 
safe to  pass  by  the  bivouac  of  the  tinkers 
after  nightfall — for  we  need  hardly  say  that 
the  place  took  its  name  from  being  a  favo- 
rite resort  of  the  gipsy  race.  We  will  not 
say  that  Mary  did  not  expect  this  objec- 
tion on  the  part  of  her  companions,  far  less 
shall  we  say  that  she  did  not  hope  for  it 
at  any  rate.  Mary,  in  truth, -both  ex- 
pected and  desired  the  refusal  of  her 
friends  to  take  the  "  short  cut "  with  her  ; 
and  we  need  not  say,  therefore,  that  her 
disappointment  on  the  occasion  was  but 
small.  Did  she  then  insist  on  taking  this 
"  short  cut "  alone  ?  She  did— and  there 
was  a  reason  for  it. 

Shortly  after  parting  with  her  compa- 
nions— for  here  she  did  part  witb  them — 
she    came    on    the    encampment    of   the 
gipsies,  as  it  lay  directly  in  her  route.     It 
was  situated  in  a  sheltered  and  compact 
hollow,  of  which  one  side  was  formed  by  a 
wall  of  living  rock.     At  the  moment  of 
her  approach,  the  tinkers'  fire  was  blazing 
brightly ;  and  before  it  were   seated  two 
persons,  father  and  son.     The  former  was 
the  principal  or  chief  of  the  gang  who  just 
now  occupied  the  Tinkers'  Cove  ;  none 
of  whom,  however,  were  present  at  this 
moment,   excepting   the  two    spoken   of. 
His  name  was  Wilson  ;  and,  notwithstand- 
ing his  profession  and  mode  of  life,  which 
might  be  supposed  to  have  imparted  an 
equivocal,    if    not   absolutely   unamiable 
expression  to  his  countenance  and  man- 
ner, his  appearance  was  venerable  in  a 
hiMi  degree,  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  at 
once  mild  and  cheerful.    He  was,  in  truth, 


a   kind-hearted    old  man,    and    one  who 
would  wrong  no  one.     His  son,  again,  was 
a  handsome  young  lad,   of  about  three- 
and-twenty,  and,  though  bom  and  bred  a 
gipsy,  possessed  but  little,  either  in  habit 
or  disposition,  in  common  with  the  race 
from  which  he  sprang.     His  manners  were 
gentle  ;  his  spirit  generous  and  elevated  ; 
and    his    affections   warm     and    sincere. 
Young  Wilson,  in  short,  did  not  move  in 
the  sphere  for  which  nature  had  designed 
him.     Gipsy  as  he  was,  however,  he  waa 
Mary's  favored  lover.      The  secret  is  out, 
good  reader — George  Wilson,  the  tinker, 
was  the   chosen,  over  all  others,  of  Mary 
Blair.     Often  had  they  sported  together, 
when  they  were  children,  on  the  banks  of 
the  burn — for  Geordie  had  come  with  his 
father  and  his  party  to  the  glen  with  the 
cuckoo  and  the  green  leaf  for  fifteen  sum- 
mers ;  and  the  thought  of  him,  when  ab- 
sent, was  the    sunshine  of  Mary's    soul. 
On  her  approach,  on  the  occasion  of  which 
we  have  been  speaking,  old  Wilson,  arose, 
and,  taking  her  kindly  by  the  hand,  said, 
with  some   surprise  at   her  appearance  at 
that  late  hour  in  so  lonely  a  place — 

"  Whereaway,  noo,  Mary,  my  dear  ? 
What  in  a'  the  world  has  brocht  you  this 
way  at  this  time  o'  nicht.-" 

Mary,  blushing  as  she  spoke,  infonned 
him  of  her  case  ;  but  said  nothing  of  the 
motive  which  had  directed  her  route  by 
the  "  Tinkers'  Cove."  It  could  hardly  be 
expected  that  she  should.  There  was  one 
present,  however,  who  guessed  it,  as  might 
have  been  conjectured  by  his  sparkling  eye 
and  the  blush  that  overspread  his  fine  ex- 
pressive countenance. 

"Then,  Geordie,"  said  the  old  man, 
addi-essing  his  son,  "  ye'll  see  IMary,  safely 
owre  the  burn — and  mind  the  crossin,  for 
it's  an  ugly  place  in  the  dark." 

We  need  not  say  how  joyfully  young 
Wilson  acceded  to  his  father's  proposal, 
nor  need  we  say  with  what  satisfaction 
Mary  Blair  concurred  in  it. 

In  a  few  minutes  after,  Mary  and  her 
Gipsy  lover  set   oflF,  and,   in  somewhere 


THE   GIPSY  LOVER. 


547 


about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  arrived  at  the 
"  crossiu  "  to  \vhich  the  old  man  had  so  spe- 
cially alluded.  And  it  was  ]iot  without  rea- 
son that  he  had  made  such  allusion,  for  the 
place  was,  indeed,  rather  a  dangerous  one 
in  the  dark — and  it  was  so  at  this  moment. 
The  burn,  at  the  particular  spot  alluded 
to,  was  crossed  by  two  felled  trees,  strip- 
ped of  tiieir  branches  and  laid  parallel 
from  side  to  side.  The  depth  below  was 
considerable — somewhere,  perhaps,  about 
twenty  feet ;  and  it  was  not  the  less  for- 
midable, probably,  that  it  was  almost  dry, 
beino;  covered  at  the  bottom  with  large 
stones  and  fragments  of  rock,  instead  of 
water. 

On  the  side  of  the  burn  opposite  that 
on  which  Mary  and  her  lover  approached 
it  on  the  occasion  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing, the  bank  rose  with  great  abruptness 
to  a  considerable  height,  and  up  this  ac- 
clivity wound  the  steep,  narrow  path  which 
conducted  to  and  from  the  rude  brido;e 
already  described.  On  reaching  this 
bridge,  George  took  Mary  by  the  hand, 
and  having,  with  great  care  and  tender- 
ness, conducted  her  safely  to  the  opposite 
side,  he  bade  her  good  night,  as  she  had 
now  only  to  ascend  the  path  alluded  to, 
and  to  proceed  a  few  hundred  yards  after- 
wards, to  reach  her  mother's  house. 

On  parting  with  Mary,  George  recrossed 
the  burn,  and  was  bounding  away  on  his 
return  to  the  bivouac  of  his  friends,  when 
his  progress  was  suddenly  and  fearfully 
arrested  by  a  piercing  shriek,  which  was 
instantly  followed  by  a  heavy  fail,  as  if  of 
some  one  precipitated  into  the  hollow  of 
the  burn.  Frantic  with  horror — for  he 
had  no  doubt  it  was  INIary  who  had  fallen 
— he  flew  wildly  back  to  the  bridge,  looked 
down  into  the  abyss  beneath,  and  found 
his  worst  fears  confirmed.  There,  in  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine,  amongst  the  stones 
and  rocks,  lay  the  form  of  his  beloved 
Mary.  Distracted  with  the  horrifying 
sight,  young  Wilson  was  in  an  instant  by 
the  side  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  and  in  the 
nest  her  head  was  resting  on  his  knee,  and 


her  face  bedewed  with  his  tears.  But 
Mary  was  insensible  to  the  sympathies  of 
her  lover.  All  consciousness  had  fled. 
Her  injuries  were  of  the  most  serious  kind. 
In  his  distraction  and  helplessness,  young 
Wilson  called  out  for  assistance  ;  and  his 
cries,  though  by  mere  chance,  were  heard. 
One  of  his  own  party — a  young  man  about 
his  own  age,  and  who,  moreover,  happened 
to  be  provided  with  a  lighted  lantern,  being 
at  the  moment  in  search  of  a  stray  pony — 
was  within  hearing.  He  flew  to  the  spot, 
and  was  quickly  by  the  side  of  his  friend. 
With  the  assistance  of  this  person,  the 
unfortunate  girl,  who  was  still  insensible, 
was  carried  up  to  the  level  ground  above. 

"  But  how  could  she  have  fallen  P^  said 
young  Wilson's  companion,  after  being 
told  by  the  latter  that  he  had  seen  her 
safely  across  the  bridge.  ''It's  not  so 
very  dark,  and  I'm  sure  she  knew  the  path 
well.  I  canna  understand  how  she  should 
have  lost  her  footing  on  the  path." 

''  Nor  I,  either,"  replied  Wilson,  with 
a  mingled  air  of  wildness  and  thoughtful- 
ness.  "  Nor  I  either — nor  I  either,"  he 
repeated,  with  fierce  energy.  Then  gazing 
steadily  but  silently  in  the  face  of  his  friend 
for  a  second — his  countenance,  meanwhile, 
expressive  of  some  violent  internal  work- 
ings— he  burst  out  loudly  with — "  I  have 
it  !  I  have  it,  Sandy !" — which  was  the 
name  of  his  associate — "  Mary's  been 
murdered — she  has  been  thrown  down, 
and  that  villain  M'Donald  has  done  it !  I 
saw  him  pass  about  half  an  hour  since ; 
and,  just  as  I  was  parting  with  Mary,  I 
heard  a  rustling  amongst  the  branches 
above  us.  It  must  have  been  he.  Oh, 
but  I  will  have  sweet  revenge  !  Dearly 
shall  the  villain  rue  this."  And,  without 
saying  more,  he  bounded  alongst  the 
bridge,  ascended  the  path  on  the  opposite 
side  with  the  speed  of  a  chamois,  and  there, 
hidden  amongst  the  brushwood,  did  indeed 
find  M'Donald,  who,  by  the  fatality  which 
so  frequently  attends  the  commission  of 
crime,  still  lingered  on  the  scene  of  his 
guilt,  although  he  might  have  escaped,  at 


648 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


least  for  the  time.  But  it  is  supposed 
that  he  had  desired  to  return  by  the  way 
which  he  had  come  ;  and  that  he  was  wait- 
ing for  the  disappearance  of  young  Wilson, 
whose  position  at  the  bridge  prevented 
him. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  in  the  place  described 
the  latter  found  him,  when,  springing  on 
him  with  the  ferocity  of  a  tiger,  he  accused 
him  of  having  thrown  Mary  from  the 
height.  The  ruffian  in  his  drunkenness 
admitted  the  fact — with  some  confused 
qualification  about  a  want  of  intention  to 
injure  her. 

"  Unintentionally  or  not,  you  ruffian, 
you  have  murdered  her,  and  dearly  shall 
you  pay  for  it !"  shouted  Wilson,  fiercely  ; 
and,  in  the  next  instant,  he  dashed  him  to 
the  earth — for  young  Wilson  was  an  un- 
commonly powerful  man — and,  seizing  him 
by  the  throat,  would  have  strangled  him 
on  the  spot.  But  another  thought  sud- 
denly struck  him.  He  loosened  his  hold, 
and,  seizing  M 'Donald  (who  was  now  al- 
most wholl}''  incapable  of  resistance,  from 
the  process  of  sufibcation  he  had  -  under- 
gone) by  one  of  his  legs,  he  dragged  him 
down  the  path  to  the  bridge.  On  arriving 
there  with  him,  Wilson  called  out,  in  a 
voice  hoarse  with  agitation  and  excitement, 
to  his  friend  to  bring  him  the  cord  which 
he  carried.     It  was  to  halter  the  pony,  of 


which  the  latter  had  been  in  quest.  The 
cord  was  brought.  Wilton,  quick  as 
thought,  took  a  turn  of  it  round  the  logs 
which  formed  the  bridge,  made  a  running 
noose  at  the  other  end,  forced  the  latter 
over  the  head  of  his  miserable  victim,  and 
precipitating  him  from  the  bridge,  exhibit- 
ed him  suspended  from  it  by  the  neck,  and 
almost  immediately  over  the  identical  spot 
where  Mary  had  fallen. 

The  whole  was  the  work  of  but  a  very 
few  minutes.  When  the  tragedy  was 
completed,  Wilson  and  his  friend  carried 
Mary  home.  She  was  still  breathing,  but 
still  insensible.     On  the  foUowinor  morn- 

o 

ing  she  expired ;  but,  long  ere  this,  the 
fire  at  the  gipsy  encampment  at  the  Tin- 
kers' Cove  was  quenched,  their  canvas 
tents  struck,  and  the  inhabitants  of  those 
tents  many  miles  away ;  and  neither  the 
cuckoo  nor  the  green  leaf  ever  again 
brought  George  Wilson  or  any  of  his 
party  back  to  the  verdant  holms  of  Gart- 
navaran. 

When  the  morning  sun  arose,  it  shone 
on  the  lifeless  body  of  Macdonald,  still 
suspended  in  the  air  ;  and  great  was  the 
horror  of  the  neighborhood  at  the  dreadful 
spectacle  ;  but,  when  the  truth  came  to  be 
known,  all  allowed  that  it  was  a  just  and 
well-merited  retribution. 


-••♦♦♦■^ 


THE     CATERAN    OF    LOCHLOY. 

"Were  I  to  lose  sight  of  my  native  hills,  my  heart  would  sink,  and  my  arm  would  wither  like  fern 
i'  the  winter  blast." — Rob  Roy. 


"  And  so,  my  dear  lads,  you  wish  me  to 
relate  my  passage  with  the  Cateraus  of 
Lochloy  .^"  said  General  Dangerfield. 

"  Do,  father,  you  will  so  oblige  me," 
replied  the  younger  of  his  two  sons. 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  the  General, 


laying  his  hand  upon  the  boy's  head,  "  you 
shall  have  it ;  but,  remember,  no  inter- 
ruption ;  I  must  tell  my  story  my  own 
way." 

"Agreed!"  replied  his   eldest  son — 
Edmund,  a  fine  youth  of  sixteen. 


THE  CATERAN  OF  LOCHLOY. 


549 


"  Well — to  begin  at  the  beginning — I 
am  a  native  of  Scotland — born  on  the 
Borders — of  a  respectable  family,  well 
known  there — the  Jar  dines  of  the  Ilk.  I 
entered  the  armv  young,  and  continued 
there  the  best  part  of  my  days.  When 
quartered  in  England,  I  became  acquainted 
with  your  angel  mother  ;  and  upon  her 
marriage  with  me,  some  short  time  after- 
wards, I  was  compelled  by  her  father  to 
assume  her  name,  in  order  that  the  family 
estates  might  still  be  inherited  by  a  Dan- 
gerfield. 

"  I  was  on  service  during  that  lament- 
able rebellion  in  which  so  much  blood  was 
poured  out  in  an  abortive  attempt  to  re- 
store a  doomed  race  to  their  kingly  pos- 
sessions. I  fought  at  Culloden  ;  and  well 
remember,  and  with  horror  witnessed,  the 
cruelties  that  followed  the  victory.  The 
Saxons,  as  we  were  called,  were,  in  con- 
sequence, execrated  ;  and  the  Highlanders 
burned  with  a  fierce  desire  to  aveng-e  their 

o 

slaughtered  friends  and  kinsmen.  So 
circumstanced,  it  is  almost  unnecessary  to 
remark  that  the  Government  troops  were 
peculiarly  obnoxious  ;  and  it  was  conse- 
quently very  dangerous  for  them  to  wander 
to  any  distance  from  their  respective  sta- 
tions ;  as,  in  many  instances,  where  they 
had  been  so  foolhardy  as  to  disregard  the 
strict  injunctions  on  the  subject,  they 
never  returned  to  tell  the  tale. 

"  I  had  leave  of  absence  for  a  short 
time  ;  and  I  therefore  quitted  my  quarters, 
which  were  at  Inverness,  in  order  to  spend 
my  Christmas  with  my  relations  in  Kelso 
— for  I  was  not  then  married.  As  is 
usual,  where  friends  are  happy  and  com- 
fortable, they  were  not  fond  of  separating 
too  soon,  and  I  was  loath  to  leave  the  hos- 
pitable board  of  my  entertainers  ;  so  I 
lingered  as  long  as  I  could,  and  thus  made 
it  a  matter  of  necessity  to  proceed  north- 
wards with  the  utmost  despatch.  It  is  a 
long  way  between  Kelso  and  Inverness  ; 
and  I  had  to  proceed  on  horseback  accom- 
panied by  a  single  servant.  We  got  on 
very  well  till  we  reached  Glasgow,  after 


which  the  journey  was  both  tedious  and 
vexatious. 

"  On  the  second  day,  after  quitting  the 
western  metropolis,  there  came  on  a  great 
fall  of  snow,  partially  obstructing  the 
roads,  which,  in  those  days,  were  not  in 
the  very  best  state,  even  in  good  weather  ; 
and,  after  pursuing,  apparently,  the  proper 
route  for  at  least  a  couple  of  hours,  I  found 
that  we  had  lost  our  way — no  very  agree- 
able discovery  especially  towards  the  close 
of  day.  However,  there  is  nothing  like 
putting  the  best  face  on  a  thing  when  you 
cannot  help  it,  so  we  boldly  pushed  on  in 
the  vain  hope  of  at  last  getting  into  the 
right  path.  Vain  it  assuredly  was  ;  for, 
after  wandering  about  till  it  became  dark, 
we  made  the  important  discovery  that  we 
were  just  as  far  ofi"  as  ever  from  escaping 
from  our  difficulties. 

"  '  Is  not  yon  a  light,  sir  .?'  exclaimed 
my  servant.     '  See  !  it  is  very  high  up.' 

"  I  looked  up,  and,  certainly,  there  was 
a  light ;  but  from  what  it  proceeded  I 
could  not  conjecture.  It  could  hardly  be 
from  a  house,  as  it  was  too  much  elevated. 
I  desired  my  servant  to  follow,  and  we 
made  for  the  mysterious  place,  which  was, 
with  some  difficulty,  reached  ;  and  where, 
to  our  infinite  dismay,  in  place  of  finding 
ourselves  in  the  vicinity  of  a  house,  we 
discovered  that  we  were  at  the  foot  of  a 
tremendous  precipice,  and  the  light  that 
had  guided  us  was  still  glimmering  at  an 
apparently  inaccessible  height  above  our 
heads. 

"  In  this  state  of  desperation,  we  hal- 
looed, and  made  as  much  noise  as  possible, 
and  were  speedily  answered  by  a  human 
voice,  inquiring  why  we  made  such  a  dis- 
turbance, and  what  we  wanted.  I  an- 
swered— 

"  '  Shelter  for  the  night,  and  food,  for 
we  are  nearly  dead  from  hunger.' 

"  To  this  no  reply  was  made  for  a  few 
moments,  when  a  voice  again  answered — 

"  '  Remain  where  you  are,  and  I  will 
descend  and  remove  you  from  this  place 
of  danger.' 


550 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


'-•  A  man  then  descended  from  the 
rocks,  and  desired  us  to  follow  him,  which 
we  did,  with  some  reluctance — more  espe- 
cially as  we  were  compelled  to  leave  our 
horses  below. 

"  '  Never  mind  the  cattle  ;  they  will  be 
taken  good  care  of,'  said  our  conductor, 
laying  especial  emphasis  on  the  word 
'  good.' 

"  I  must  confess  I  did  not  feel  by  any 
means  comfortable.  But  what  was  to  be 
done  }  Starvation  stared  us  in  the  face, 
and  the  danger  of  perishing  by  cold,  or  by 
falling  into  some  of  the  deep  ravines  that 
lay  about  me,  was  but  too  probable  ;  so  I 
mustered  up  all  my  courage,  and  followed 
my  unknown  guide,  who  led  me,  by  a  very 
precipitous  and  dangerous  path,  to  a  large 
cavity  in  the  centre  of  the  rock.  My 
servant  came  last  ;  and,  when  we  reached 
the  place  of  our  destination,  we  beheld  a 
vast  pile  of  faggots  lighted  up  in  the  middle 
of  a  prodigious  vacuity.  "The  warmth,  as 
you  may  readily  suppose,  was  very  grate- 
ful to  two  travellers  benumbed  by  cold  ; 
and,  while  we  were  standing  by  the  fire, 
the  guide  suddenly  disappeared,  but  re- 
turned, some  few  minutes  afterwards,  from 
some  concealed  part  of  the  subterranean 
habitation,  with  above  fifty  armed  men. 

"  At  such  a  very  unexpected,  not  to 
say  disagreeable,  spectacle,  in  circumstan- 
ces otherwise  sufiiciently  alarming,  both 
myself  and  servant  felt  no  small  degree  of 
fear.  Our  trepidation  was  observed  ;  and 
one  of  the  number,  who  seemed  to  have 
the  command  of  the  rest  of  the  band,  ad- 
dressed me  to  the  following  purport  : — 

"  '  You  can  be  at  no  loss  to  conjecture 
who  we  are,  and  what  our  ordinary  occu- 
pation is  ;  but  you  have  nothing  to  fear  ; 
for,  though  we  live  by  what  is  called  vio- 
lence, wo  are  not  destitute  of  humanity. 
Our  depredations  are  never  marked  by 
cruelty,  and  seldom  by  blood  ;  and  those 
whom  necessity  has  thrown  on  our  care 
have  never  either  been  treated  with  bar- 
barity or  sufi"ered  to  want.  We  extort 
only  a  little  from  those  who  are  able  to 


spare  it,  and  rather  augment  than  diminish 
the  property  of  the  poor.  We  know, 
alas  !  too  well,  what  the  consequences 
would  be  were  we  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
the  rich  and  powerful ;  but  we  are  resigned 
to  our  fate.  We  can  only  die  once,  and 
our  enemies  can  inflict  no  greater  ven- 
geance upon  us.  Miserable  we  may  be  ; 
but  we  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  sufferers, 
and  never  take  advantage  of  distress  :  in 
truth,  it  is  from  no  sordid  love  of  gain,  nor 
is  it  to  pander  to  vicious  habits  or  immo- 
ral purposes,  that  we  live  in  this  manner. 
It  is  because  we  have  no  other  mode  of 
support ;  for,  after  the  cruelties  that  have 
been  perpetrated  upon  their  disarmed  op- 
ponents, it  were  in  vain  to  expect  assist- 
ance or  rehef  at  the  hands  of  our  Hano- 
verian oppressors. 

"  '  You  see  our  quarters,  and  shall  have 
every  accommodation  they  can  afford  you ; 
and,  if  you  can  trust  us,  who  have  neither 
inclination  nor  reason  to  deceive  you,  we 
give  you  a  hearty  welcome  to  these  ada- 
mantine abodes,  and  that  with  the  most 
perfect  sincerity.  Our  fare  is  homely  but 
wholesome  ;  and  our  beds,  though  coarse, 
are  clean.  Nor  be  under  any  concern  for 
your  horses ;  they  too  shall  share  om*  pro- 
tection and  hospitality .  We  have  no 
hay  ;  but  they  shall  not  want.  Stables 
we  have  none  ;  but  can  shelter  them,  for 
one  night  at  least,  from  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather.' 

"  This  address  revived  our  courage, 
which  was  not  a  little  augmented  upon 
being  handed  a  bicker  of  whisky — moun- 
tain dew  of  the  most  delicious  description  ; 
at  least  I  thought  so  then,  and  have  never 
changed  my  opinion  since.  Talk  of  the 
wines  of  Spain,  or  of  France,  or  the 
Rhine,  I  never  felt  from  them  half  the 
delight  I  experienced  in  quaffing  the  nec- 
tar of  the  Gael.  When  we  had  finished,  a 
supper  was  laid  before  us  which  might 
have  provoked  the  appetite  of  an  English 
alderman,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
We  had  blackcock  and  ptarmigan  broiled, 
or,  as  it  is  called  in  Scotland,  brandered ; 


THE  CATERAN  OP  LOCHLOY. 


551 


fine  black-faced  Highland  mutton  done  to 
a  turn  in  the  live  ashes  ;  and  a  stew  of 
snipes  and  wild  duck,  the  aroma  of  which 
was  perfectly  ambrosial.  I  did  ample  jus- 
tice to  the  good  cheer,  and  ate  with  as 
much  coolness  and  self  possession  as  if  1 
had  been  seated  in  Dolly's  chop-house,  in 
place  of  an  apparently  interminable  cave 
surrounded  by  caterans  ;  for  so  the  High- 
land banditti  are  termed. 

"  After  having  satisfied  my  craving  ap- 
petite, in  which  example  I  had  a  worthy 
imitator  in  the  person  of  my  servant,  rest 
was  the  next  thing  of  which  both  of  us 
stood  in  need.  My  generous  host  then  led 
me  to  an  inner  apartment  in  the  cave, 
■which  seemed  at  once  to  be  the  treasury 
and  the  magazine.  There  two  sackfuls  of 
heather  were,  by  his  orders,  brought  in 
and  put  on  end,  with  the  flower  upper- 
most. Then  a  rope  was  fastened  about 
the  whole  to  keep  it  together,  and  on  the 
top  of  each  was  placed  a  double  blanket. 
On  this  simple  contrivance,  which  formed 
an  exquisitely  soft  and  delicious  couch, 
we  laid  ourselves  down. 

"  I  had  some  notes  of  value  about  me, 
and  above  twenty  guineas  in  gold,  besides 
a  very  handsome  gold  watch,  and  other 
trinkets  of  no  inconsiderable  value  ;  but, 
as  I  had  given  them  up  for  lost,  1  made  no 
attempt  to  secrete  any  of  them.  My  host, 
apparently  divining  my  suspicions,  insisted 
upon  mounting  guard  over  us — a  proposal 
which  I  strenuously  opposed  ;  but  he  told 
me  plainly  that,  unless  he  kept  by  me,  he 
would  not  answer  for  the  conduct  of  his 
companions.  Against  this  there  was  no 
appeal ;  and  he  remained  beside  us,  on  the 
bare  rock,  all  the  night. 

"  In  the  morning,  we  found  ourselves 
alone  with  this  sinsfular  beinn;.  Everythinix 
remained  as  it  had  been  the  preceding 
evening,  with  this,  to  us,  very  pleasant 
exception,  that  the  band  of  caterans  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  Another  fire  of  wood 
was  speedily  kindled ;  and,  as  our  host 
told  us  that,  before  we  could  reach  any 
place  of  refreshment,  we  had  to  go  twenty 


miles  and  a  bittick — which,  being  inter- 
preted, means  somewhere  about  five  miles 
more — we  took  the  precaution  to  lay  in  a 
good  stock  of  cakes,  butter,  and  cheese, 
which  we  washed  down  with  a  moderate 
quantity  of  the  nectar  of  the  night  pre- 
ceding. 

"  Our  repast  over,  we  descended  the 
circuitous  path  which  led  from  the  cavern, 
and  which  one,  uninitiated,  mip-ht  have 
searched  for  in  vain  ;  and,  at  the  bottom, 
found  a  lad  or  gilly  holding  our  horses, 
which  had  been  well  fed,  and  were  in  fine 
spirits.  Our  host  then  declared  his  in- 
tention of  putting  us  upon  the  right  track, 
otherwise,  he  said,  we  were  sure  of  losing 
our  way.  I  desired  my  servant  to  dis- 
mount and  follow  us  on  foot ;  but  this  the 
stranger  refused  to  allow,  assigning  as  a 
reason,  that  he  preferred  walking,  and 
could,  without  the  slightest  difficulty,  keep 
up  with  the  horses.  In  this  way,  there- 
fore, we  proceeded  nearly  three  miles  ; 
and,  it  was  evident  that,  but  for  his  friend- 
ly assistance,  the  chances  of  getting  out 
of  our  difficulties  w^ould  have  been  very 
problematical.  At  last,  he  stopped,  and 
said — 

"  '  Pursue  that  path  for  half  a  mile  far- 
ther, and  you  will  enter  upon  the  great 
road,  after  which  you  can  have  no  difficulty 
in  journeying  to  the  place  of  your  destina- 
tion.' 

"  I  was  quite  overpowered  with  this 
kindness,  and  felt  reluctant  to  part  with 
my  new  friend  without,  at  least,  showing 
how  much  I  appreciated  his  services. 

"  '  Sir,'  said  I, '  I  am  deeply  afi"ected  by 
the  whole  of  your  conduct  towards  me  and 
my  servant.  1  can  only  hope  that,  some 
day  or  other,  I  may  have  it  in  my  power 
to  serve  you.  I  have  been  treated  like  a 
prince,  when  I  expected,  if  not  to  have  my 
throat  cut — which  I  once  thought  was 
inevitable — at  least,  to  have  been  robbed 
of  everything  about  me.  At  present  I  can 
only  ofier  you  this  small  remuneration, 
which  1  trust  you  will  accept.  I  am  only 
sorry  that  it  is  not  more.     As  I  said  this, 


552 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


tunes  compelled  me  to  conceal  my  name 
and  family,  and  I  enlisted  as  a  private 
soldier.  iMy  conduct  in  the  army  attracted 
the  attention  of  my  superiors  ;  but,  I  had 
have  seen  the  way  in  which  1  and  my  I  no  interest  to  rise  higher  than  a  halbert, 
companions  live,  and  you  may  easily  guess  !  and  was  discharged  with  the  regiment  in 


I  drew  forth  my  purse  with  the  intention 
of  giving  him  all  the  gold  I  had  about  me, 

but  he  stayed  my  hand. 


Sir  I'  exclaimed  the  unknown,   ' 


you 


that  to  us  gold  can  be  no  object.  I  thank 
you  for  the  free  and  liberal  way  in  which 
it  was  proffered ;  but  I  most  respectfully 
beg  to  decline  accepting  it.  In  serving 
you,  I  merely  followed  a  j^recept,  which  I 
ever — though  a  cateran — keep  in  view,  to 
do  to  others  as  I  would  be  done  by  myself. 
You  were  in  distress,  and  I  relieved  you  ; 
there  was  no  merit  in  doing  what  I  knew 
was  merely  my  duty ;  and  Ranald  More 
will  take  no  reward  for  having  done  that 
which  his  heart  told  him  it  was  right  to 
do.' 

"  *  Heavens  ."  I  cried,  '  are  you  Ranald 
More  ?^ 

"  '  I  am  .?' 

"  '  Why,'  I  rejoined,  '  your  name  is  a 
terror  to  all  the  country  round.' 

"  '  I  know  it ;  but  what  care  1 1  Let 
the  bloodhounds  take  me  if  they  can. ' 

"•  '  Are  you  aware  that  a  reward  is  offer- 
ed for  your  apprehension  .^' 

^"Perfectly.' 

"  '  Why,  then,  should  you  trust  yourself 
alone  with  two  armed  men  .^' 

"  To  show  that  he  was  perfectly  re- 
gardless of  fear,  he  merely  pointed  to  his 
claymore,  and  I  must  confess  that  I  should 
not  have  been  anxious  for  a  single  combat, 
and,  even  with  the  assistance  of  my  ser- 
vant, 1  am  not  quite  sure  that  we  might 
not  have  come  off  second  best. 

"  '  But,'  continued  the  cateran,  '  you 
are  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor.  My 
secret  is  safe  with  you.  Bid  your  servant 
ride  on  a  few  paces.'  I  gave  the  necessary 
order;  and,  when  we  were  alone,  the  ca- 
teran proceeded  to  narrate  to  me  the 
following  particulars  of  his  life  : — 

"  '  I  was  born  in  the  hio-her  ranks  of 
society  ;  but  circumstances,  which  I  need 
not  recapitulate,  reduced  me  to  the  hum- 
ble condition  of  a  peasant.     Early  misfor- 


which  I  served.  When  Prince  Charles 
landed  on  his  native  shores,  I  refused  to 
join  him,  as  I  considered  myself  in  a  man- 
ner bound,  by  my  former  services,  to  his 
opponent.  I  took,  therefore,  no  further 
interest  in  this  civil  broil  than  to  give  my 
humble  assistance  to  many  of  those  perse- 
cuted men  whom  the  bloody  mandates  of 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland  had  marked  out 
for  destruction.  In  this  way  I  have  gra- 
dually collected  around  me  a  band  of 
gallant  fellows,  who  are  ready  to  follow 
me  on  any  enterprise,  however  desperate. 
It  was  not  choice  but  necessity  that  com- 
pelled me  to  my  present  way  of  life.  Some 
day  or  other  I  shall,  in  all  human  proba- 
bility, be  taken,  and  made  an  example  of, 
to  deter  others  from  following  the  like 
courses.  All  I  ask,  when  you  hear  of  my 
death — in  whatever  way  that  may  happen 
— that  you  will  not  forget  you  owed  your 
life  to  him  who  never  took  one  but  in  the 
cause  of  his  country,  when  he  fought  for 
his  king,  and  exposed  his  own.  Farewell.' 

"  Then  pressing  my  proffered  hand  in 
his,  he  turned  away  ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes, 
the  Highland  Cateran  was  out  of  sight." 

"  Did  you  never  see  him  again,  father  !" 
inquired  Edmund. 

"  I  did  ;  but  in  circumstances  extremely 
painful ;  although,  to  the  last  interview  I 
had  with  him,  I  owe  that  portion  of  hap- 
piness with  which  Providence  was  gra- 
ciously pleased  to  bless  me." 

"Indeed  ! — O  father,  do  continue  your 
story. 

"  Well,  Edmund,  have  patience,  and 
you  shall  hear  all.  Time  hurried  on  im- 
perceptibly ;  and,  in  a  couple  of  years 
afterwards,  I  found  myself  raised  to  the 
rank  of  a  captain.  The  regiment  had  been 
ordered  to  Ireland,  where  it  remained  for 
about  a  year  ;  but  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 


THE  CATERAN  OF  LOCHLOY. 


553 


land  not  being  in  a  very  settled  state,  it 
■was  ordered  to  that  kingdom  ;  and,  in  the 
month  of  January,  1748,  I  found  myself 
once  more  in  my  old  quarters  ;  a  circum- 
stance far  from  displeasing,  as  I  had  many 
friends  there  anxious  to  make  me  com- 
fortable. 

"  The  severity  of  Government  had  by 
this  time  considerably  relaxed  ;  and  as  all 
fears  of  any  new  rebellion  were  at  an  end, 
an  anxious  endeavor  was  made  to  reduce 
the  restless  Highlanders  to  some  sort  of 
order,  and  put  down  the  straggling  bands 
of  caterans  that  disturbed  the  tranquillity 
of  the  country,  and  kept  the  proprietors  in 
a  perpetual  state  of  anxiety,  by  lifting,  as 
it  was  called,  their  cattle,  and  other  pre- 
datory acts. 

"  Upon  inquiring  after  my  old  friend, 
Ranald,  I  was  told  he  had  not  been  heard 
offer  a  long  time,  and  that  it  was  generally 
supposed  he  had  been  killed  in  some  of 
his  maurading  expeditions. 

"  One  individual  seemed  to  be  pecu- 
liarly obnoxious  to  these  worthies,  and  his 
cattle  had  not  only  been  repeatedly  car- 
ried off,  but  his  granaries  had  been  de- 
spoiled. He  had  bought  some  of  the  for- 
feited estates  at  small  value,  and  having 
the  misfortune — for  so  it  was  reckoned 
amongst  the  proud  Highlanders,  whose 
pedigrees  were  generally  as  long  as  their 
purses  were  short — to  be  a  parvenu^  his 
father  bavins;  been  a  grocer  in  the  Luck- 
enbooths  of  Edinburgh,  he  experienced 
no  mercy  from  the  caterans,  and  little 
sympathy  from  the  gentry  in  his  vicinity, 
who  laughed  at  his  misfortunes.  To  crown 
all,  he  had  been  a  commissary  in  the  army 
of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  ;  and,  though 
neither  a  bad  man  nor  a  hard  landlord, 
still  his  original  connexion  with  the 
bloody  Duke  was  a  sin  not  to  be  forgiven, 
and  hence  the  reason  of  his  peculiar  per- 
secution. 

"  Irritated  by  a  series  of  provoking  out- 
rages, Peter  Penny,  Esq.,  of  Glenbodle, 
appealed  to  our  commander ;  and,  as  he 
volunteered  to  guide  a  small  detachment 


to  the  place  where  he  had  good  reason  to 
believe  his  tormentors  were  concealed, 
his  appeal  was  listened  to  ;  and,  under  the 
charge  of  one  of  our  lieutenants,  a  party 
of  some  twenty  or  thirty  soldiers  proceed- 
ed to  capture  the  caterans.  As  resistance 
was  anticipated,  they  were  well  armed, 
and  every  precaution  was  adopted  to  pre- 
vent surprise  by  ambush. 

"  Of  all  this  I  thouo-ht  nothino:.  Such 
occurrences  were  common  ;  and,  usually, 
the  objects  were  accomplished  with  no 
very  great  difficulty.  In  this  case,  the 
result  was  different ;  and,  although  the  de- 
tachment was  successful,  and  it  was  only 
so  at  a  great  expenditure  of  life  ;  for  the 
caterans  gave  battle,  and  were  eventually 
subdued,  after  killing  five  of  the  King's 
troops,  and  severely  wounding  the  com- 
mander. The  laird  himself  escaped  free  ; 
for,  holding  the  truth  of  the  adage,  that 
the  better  part  of  valor  is  discretion,  he 
prudently  kept  in  the  rear,  and  thus  ran 
no  other  risk  than  a  chance  shot.  Poor 
fellow,  he  assured  me — and  I  believe  he 
spoke  with  perfect  sincerity — that,  had  he 
imagined  so  much  blood  was  to  be  shed 
on  his  account,  he  had  much  rather  the 
caterans  had  stolen  every  animal  on  his 
estate,  and  carried  off  its  entire  pro- 
duce. 

"  The  defence  had  been  well-ordered  ; 
and  it  required  little  observation  to  see 
that  the  chief  of  the  caterans  was  skilled 
in  military  tactics.  He  fought  with  in- 
finite bravery,  and  it  was  not  until  a  great 
proportion  of  his  band  was  either  killed  or 
wounded  that  his  capture  was  effected  ; 
and  even  this  would  have  been  doubtful, 
had  he  not  been  weakened  by  loss  of  blood. 
He  was,  however,  brought  to  Inverness, 
with  one  or  two  of  his  confederates,  who 
had  also  been  severely  wounded.  The 
rest  retreated  safely  to  the  fastnesses  of  the 
mountains. 

"  The  day  following,  I  was  somewhat 
surprised  by  an  intimation,  that  one  of  the 
captives  was  desirous  of  seeing  me.  I 
proceeded  to  the  prison,  when  I  found  a 


554 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


man  lying  on  a  heap  of  straw,  evidently  j 
in  a  very  exhausted  state.  j 

"  '  This  is  kind,  Captain  Jardine,  very 
kind,'  he  exclaimed.     Then,  after  pausing  ! 
a  minute,  he    proceeded,    whilst    a    faint  t 
smile  passed    over   his  face — *  When  we  i 
last  met  it  was  in  other  circumstances.'  " 

'*  '  Gracious  Providence  !'  I  answered, 
*  can  it  be — do  I  see  Ranald  More  r' 

"  '  You  see  all  that  remains  of  him — a 
few  short  hours,  and  I  shall  be  beyond  the 
reach  of  earthly  foes.  I  had  once  hoped 
that  better  days  would  have  come  ;  but 
they  came  not.  I  sought  pardon,  but  it 
was  refused — driven  back  to  my  old 
courses,  I  am  about  to  pay  the  penalty  of 
my  sins. 

"  I  endeavored  to  reassure  him  ;  for,  in 
truth,  I  felt  a  sincere  esteem  for  him,  and. 
personally,  knew  his  honorable  principles, 
and  deeply  regretted  that  so  noble  a  fel- 
low should  have  been  thrown  away.  I  got 
the  best  medical  advice,  procured  a  com- 
fortable bed,  and  everything  that  might 
tend  to  alleviate  his  sufferings  during  the 
brief  remainder  of  his  days. 

"  He  was  gratified  by  my  attentions — 
'  One  thing  consoles  me,'  he  said — '  1 
shall  not  die  the  death  of  a  felon.  Your 
soldiers  have  spared  me  that  disgrace.' 

"  '  Do  not  despond,'  I  rejoined  ;  '  whilst 
there  is  life  there  is  hope, — and' 

"  Here  he  interrupted  me  with — 

"  '  No — no — no.  I  would  not  live  if  I 
could  ;  I  am  weary,  and  need  rest  in  my 
grave.  Captain,'  he  continued,  '  you 
have  dealt  with  me  kindly  and  consider- 
ately ;  would  you  make  me  your  debtor 
still  farther  ?  1  have  one  request  to  make, 
which,  as  it  does  not  compromise  you  in 
the  smallest  degree,  you  will  probably 
grant,  it  is  to  convey  this  ring  to  the 
only  female  in  this  world  for  whom  I  feel 
regard  ;  iind  tell  her,  that  the  being  she 
cherished  when  all  others  neglected  him, 
died  blessing  her.' 

"  I  assured  him  I  would  obey  his  com- 
mands, and  that  the  ring  should  be  per- 
sonally delivered. 


''  Ranald,  then,  as  soon  as  cessation 
from  pain  would  allow  him,  disclosed  his 
history,  which  was  brief  but  painful.  The 
son  of  a  gentleman  of  an  ancient  family  in 
Northumberland,  proud  of  his  descent  and 
large  possessions,  he  had  formed  an  at- 
tachment to  one  of  the  bondagers  on  his 
father's  estate  ;  and,  in  a  luckless  hour, 
crossed  the  Borders,  and  was  united  to 
her  at  Lamberton — the  Gretna  Green  of 
that  part  of  the  country.  The  result  was 
the  ordinary  one — he  was  disinherited,  and 
cast  off  by  his  father  ;  and  his  wife,  not 
matching  with  one  of  her  own  rank,  could 
not  put  up  with  her  husband's  ways,  or 
reconcile  herself  to  those  habits  of  pro- 
priety which  were  essential  to  her  new 
station  in  society.  Unhappiness  followed 
— poverty  made  him  fretful  and  impa- 
tient ;  although  well-educated,  he  would 
turn  his  attentions  to  no  useful  purpose, 
and,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  he  enlisted. 
During  his  banishment  from  home,  he  saw 
none  of  his  relatives  excepting  his  niece, 
then  a  girl  of  fourteen,  who  loved  her  un- 
cle, and  used,  by  stealth,  to  bring  to  his 
humble  dwelling  such  articles  as  she 
thought  he  might  fancy  ;  and  endeavored, 
so  far  as  was  in  her  power,  to  soften  the 
severity  of  his  situation.' 

"  The  uncle's  unexpected  departure  did 
not  prevent  the  niece  showing  similar  at- 
tentions to  the  wife  ;  but  these  were  soon 
terminated  by  the  demise  of  the  latter, 
who  died  with  the  infant,  in  her  accouche- 
ment. For  several  years  after  this,  no- 
thing was  heard  of  Ranald  ;  but  the  anger 
of  his  father  continued  unabated. 

"  Quitting  the  army,  as  I  formerly  men- 
tioned, he  joined  the  caterans  ;  and  after 
our  interview,  determined  to  make  an  ef- 
fort to  obtain  paternal  forgiveness.  He 
left  his  retreat ;  and  one  evening  present- 
ed himself  suddenly  before  his  father,  who 
was  residing  at  the  family  seat.  He  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  and  asked  pardon. 

"  ^  Go,'  said  his  father.  *  Degenerate 
son,  disgrace  not,  by  your  presence,  the 
halls  of  your  ancestors.     In  vain  you  sup- 


THE  CATERAN  OF  LOCHLOY. 


555 


plicate — in  vain  you  attempt  to  move  me 
from  my  fixed  purposes  by  your  assumed 
penitence.' 

''  Have  you  no  pity  for  your  own  off- 
spring— for  a  being  who,  but  for  one  un- 
happy act,  never  caused  you  a  moment's 
pain — who  has  ever  venerated  and  obeyed 
you  ?' 

"  No  answer  was  returned. 
^'  ^  Say  you  forgive  me — I  seek  no 
more  ;  and  I  will  leave  you  never  to  re- 
turn, until  my  future  acts  have  shown  that 
I  am  not  entirely  unworthy  of  the  proud 
race  from  whence  I  have  sprung.' 

'^  The  old  man  was  silent. 

"  '  For  years  a  father's  malison  has  em- 
bittered my  life,  and  rendered  me  reckless 
of  all  consequences.  Your  pardon  will 
restore  me  to  myself;  and  can  you  refuse 
to  grant  it  .^" 

"  Still  no  response. 

"  Mf  not  for  one  so  unworthy  as  the 
miserable  wretch  before  you,  at  least  on 
her  account  who  gave  me  birth.  Say  you 
forgive  mo.' 

"  'Never.' 

*'  '  Father,  we  meet  for  the  last  time  ; 
one  word  would  have  restored  your  son  to 
happiness,  and  you  refuse  it.  Farewell 
for  ever  !' 

"  At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
a  beautiful  girl  of  twenty  rushed  in,  and 
threw  herself  into  the  old  man's  arms. 

"  '  Oh,  sir,  do  not  part  in  anger  with 
your  son  ;  you  are  so  good,  so  kind.  I 
am  sure  you  will  resto-re  him  to  your  favor.' 

"  He  gently  disengaged  her  from  liis 
embrace. 

"  '  Emily,'  said  he,  'you  are  a  good 
girl ;  and  on  any  other  subject  you  might 
be  sure  I  would  listen  to  your  wishes  ;  but 
on  this  point,  I  am  immovable  ;  and  as 
Reginald  deliberately  dissolved  the  tie  be- 
tween father  and  son,  1  no  longer  recomise 
him  as  my  child.' 

"  Saying  this,  he  left  the  room. 

"  Emily  was  sadly  overcome  by  this 
unexpected  repulse.  She  knew  her  grand- 
father's inflexibility,  but  imagined  that  the 


lapse  of  time  would  have  softened  his  re- 
sentment. Her  father — the  heir  apparent 
— was  then  on  the  Continent ;  and  it  was 
doubtful  how  far  even  his  influence  would 
produce  any  change  on  the  unnatural  an- 
ger of  his  incensed  parent. 

"  '  Dear  uncle,  you  know  not  how  deep- 
ly I  grieve  at  this  unkind  reception.  Of- 
ten have  I  thought  on  you  during  your 
tedious  absence,  and  longed  to  see  you 
again  ;  and  now  when  my  wish  is  gratified, 
I  have  no  home  here  to  offer  you ;  but  we 
must  not  part — time  yet  may  make  all 
right ;  and  if  you  would  only  take  up  your 
abode  near  us,  I  would  do  everything  to 
save  you  ;  and  when  my  father  returns, 
we  will  unite  our  entreaties  to  obtain  your 
pardon.^ 

"  '  Sweet  girl  !'  replied  Ranald,  '  I 
duly  appreciate  your  kindness ;  but  it  is 
vain  to  contend  against  fate,  and  here  I 
cannot — will  not  stay.' 

"  The  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  a  footman,  who,  with 
some  confusion  and  hesitation,  intimated 
that  his  master  wished  the  strange  gentle- 
man would  make  his  visit  as  short  as  pos- 
sible. Having  delivered  this  message,  he 
withdrew. 

"  '  Emily,  farewell  !  I  have  ever  loved 
you  ;  and  your  kindness  in  this  hour  of 
trial  shows  my  love  was  not  misplaced.' 

"  '  Do  not  leave  me,  uncle  ;  better  days 
will  come.' 

"  '  It  is  vain  to  urge  my  stay ;  my  fa- 
ther shall  be  obeyed.  Once  more,  fare- 
well !' 

"  His  niece  found  his  resolution  im- 
movable. She  entreated  him  to  take  her 
purse  ;  this  he  refused.  She  then  placed 
on  his  finger  a  ring  ;  it  was  the  fatal  one 
— the  cause  of  all  his  misery.  The  sight 
of  it  overcame  him.  He  wept  bitterly. 
Clasping  his  niece  to  his  arms,  he  said,  in 
faltering  accents — 

"  '  Beloved  girl  !  this  fatal  testimonial 
shall  part  from  me  only  with  death  ;  and, 
when  you  see  it  again,  be  assured  that  all 
my  earthly  cares  are  over.' 


556 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS. 


"  He  then  quitted  the  home  of  his  fore- 
fathers, never  again  to  return.  After 
wandering  about  for  months,  necessity 
drove  him  back  upon  his  ohi  companions. 
But  he  had  lost  his  energy  ;  and  it  was 
not  until  th-3  attack  upon  the  caterans 
that  he  ao-ain  became  the  Ranald  More  of 

o 

olden  times. 

"  The  kindness  and  affection  of  his  niece 
made  a  deep  impression  on  Ranald's  mind  ; 
and  his  chief  anxiety  now  was  to  make 
her  acquainted  with  his  fate,  and  to  let  her 
know  that  he  died  a  repentant  man,  in  the 
hope  of  forgiveness  in  '  another  and  a  bet- 
ter world.' 

"  The  night  before  he  expired,  I  sat  be- 
side him,  Ranald  was  composed.  He 
said — 

"  *  Often,  very  often,  kind  friend,  have 
I  meditated,  after  my  last  repulse,  putting 
an  end  to  my  existence  ;  but  religion 
came  to  my  aid,  and  I  resisted  manfully 
the  temptings  of  the  fiend.  Resignation 
to  the  Divine  will,  under  every  disappoint- 
ment and  affliction,  is  a  duty  we  all  owe 
to  our  great  Creator,  and  his  precept  of 
my  dear  mother  was  too  deeply  implanted 
in  my  mind  ever  to  be  entirely  eradicated. 
Forgiveness  of  our  enemies  she  also  incul- 
cated ;  and  I  can  say,  with  perfect  sinceri- 
ty, that  I  die  in  peace  with  a,ll  man- 
kind.' 

"  '  Even  your  father  .''  I  inquired. 

"  ^  Yes  ;  even  that  cruel  parent,  through 
whose  obduracy  I  am  now  a  degraded 
felon,  is  forgiven  by  me.  But  no  more  of 
this.  When  you  see  Emily,  give  her  my 
blessing.  Tell  her  that  her  dying  uncle 
had  her  always  in  his  thoughts  ;  and  that, 
in  his  last  moments,  he  prayed  for  her 
prosperity  and  happiness.' 

"  As  he  was  evidently  much  exhausted, 
I  entreated  him  not  to  fatigue  himself  by 
farther  conversation.  The  clergyman  ar- 
riving, I  took  my  leave,  and  returned  in 
the  morning.     He  was  still  sensible  :  and 


the  man  who  had  sat  up  with  him  men- 
tioned that  he  had  been  very  quiet  all 
night,  though  he  apparently  slept  very 
little.  When  I  approached  the  bedside, 
he  recognised  me  ;  and,  with  extreme  dif- 
ficulty, articulated — 

'^  '  Remember  !' 

*^  I  assured  him  that  his  request  should 
be  implicitly  complied  with.  His  last 
words  were  'Bless you!'  Raising  him- 
self, he  placed  his  wife's  marriage  ring  on 
my  finger,  pressed  my  hand  feebly,  and, 
overcome  by  the  exertion,  fell  back  on  his 
pillow  ;  a  gentle  slumber  seemed  gradual- 
ly to  come  over  him,  from  which  he  never 
awoke. 

^^  As  he  was  only  known  as  Ranald 
More,  the  secret  of  his  birth  and  rank 
was  carefully  preserved  by  me ;  my  ad- 
venture with  him  of  former  years  was 
generally  known,  and  my  anxiety  about 
him,  and  my  following  his  body  to  the 
grave,  created  no  manner  of  surprise. 
His  companions  were  tried,  convicted,  and 
executed.  The  death  of  their  leader,  and 
the  capital  punishment  inflicted  on  his  fol- 
lowers, had  a  wholesome  effect  in  that  dis- 
trict, and  '  lifting'  of  cattle,  from  that 
time,  became,  at  least  there,  somewhat 
uncommon. 

"  Resolved  to  redeem  my  pledge,  I  pro- 
cured leave  of  absence,  and  journeyed  to 
Northumberland,  where  1  found  the  family 
in  mournino;  for  the  old  irentleman,  who 
had  died,  strange  to  say,  about  a  week  be- 
fore his  son.  The  delivery  of  the  ring  at 
once  announced  the  cause  of  my  visit,  and 
my  attentions  to  the  unhappy  donor  were 
repaid  by  the  extreme  kindness  of  his  re- 
latives. Her  brother,  Edmund,  thought 
he  could  never  do  too  much  for  me  ;  and 
the   kind-hearted  and  beautiful  niece   of 

the  ill-fated  Ranald  became" (Here 

he  paused.) 

"  What,  father  .-"  inquired  Edmund. 

"  Your  Mother." 


ADVENTURES  OP  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTON. 


557 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTON 
AND  HIS  NEPHEW  MARK: 


A    TALE    OF    LINDISFERNE.  ' 


Every  person  in  Islandshire  has  heard  of 
the  adventures  of  bold  Launcelot  Errins;- 
ton  and  his  nephew  Mark.  They  were 
both  seamen.  Launcelot  was  skipper  and 
owner  of  a  small  coasting  brig,  and  his 
nephew  was  his  mate.  They  were  related 
to  the  Erringtons  of  Beaufront,  an  ancient 
Northumbrian  family,  remarkable  for  its 
devotion  to  the  house  of  Stuart.  It  was 
in  the  October  of  1715  that  Launcelot  ran 
his  brig  into  Holy  Island  roads,  and  cast 
anchor  about  midway  between  the  castle 
and  the  abbey.  Every  person  on  the 
island  knew  Launcelot ;  for  he  often  paid 
it  a  visit,  and  especially  on  returning  from 
a  trip  across  "  the  herring  pond ;"  on 
which  occasions  he  never  failed  to  lighten 
the  hearts  of  the  fishermen,  by  dealing  out 
to  them  a  cargo  of  "  the  real  genuine 
moonlight,"  or,  in  less  classic  phrase, 
brandy  and  Geneva.  But,  in  the  particu- 
lar instance  referred  to,  his  vessel  was 
light,  and  apparently  had  only  ballast  on 
board  to  keep  her  in  sailing  trim.  The 
islanders  were  therefore  disappointed,  and 
they  wondered  what  had  brought  him  into 
their  harbor  then,,  there  being  no  wind  or 
appearance  of  weather  that  need  cause 
him  to  seek  shelter  ;  and  he  being  a  bold, 
active  fellow,  and  owner  of  his  own  ves- 
sel withal,  it  was  impossible  that  he  could 
have  put  in  (as  the  manner  of  some  is) 
merely  to  skulk  for  a  day  or  two.  But 
the  object  of  Launcelot 's  putting  into  the 
island  will  appear. 

"  Boy  !"  cried  he,  to  an  urchin  who  re- 
sembled a  water-imp,  and  who  was  mop- 
ping the  deck  near  the  top  of  the  cabin 
Btairs,  "go  to  the  forecastle,  and  tell  my 


nevy,  Mark,  that  I  want  him ;  and  don't 
you  be  after  coming  back  mopping  there, 
unless  I  send  for  you.     You  hear  that .?" 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  replied  the  boy. 

In  less  than  a  minute,  Mark  Errington, 
a  tall,  powerful,  and  fine-looking  young 
seaman,  entered  the  cabin. 

"  Sit  down,  Mark,  my  lad,"  said  his 
uncle — and  Mark  sat  down.  "  I  say, 
nevy,"  added  Launcelot,  "  I'll  bet  you're 
wondering  what  has  caused  me  to  run  the 
brig  in  here,  when  you  expected  I  was  to 
go  right  across  to  Hamburgh." 

"  Why,  I  do  think  it  a  little  strange, 
uncle,"  said  the  nephew  ;  "  but  you  know 
it  is  your  business  and  not  mine.  The 
ship  is  your  own,  and  you  can  do  as  you 
like,  I  suppose." 

"  Well  said,  Mark,  my  boy,"  replied 
Launcelot ;  "  you  speak  like  a  fellow  that 
has  some  sense  aboard ;  and  I  tell  you 
what,  if  you  go  on  as  you  have  done,  the 
brig  shall  be  yours  one  o'  these  days." 

"  Don't  talk  of  that  uncle,"  said  the 
youth ;  "I  am  very  well  as  I  am,  and 
wouldn't  think  myself  better  by  you  hurt- 
ing yourself." 

'' Hurting  myself !"  repeated  Launce- 
lot; "  d'ye  think  I  couldn't  live  as  well  as 
I  do  now,  though  the  brig  were  at  Davy 
Jones  to-morrow .-  Don't  you  suppose 
but  that  I  can  leave  her  to  you  when  I 
like,  and  something  worth  more  than  her 
when  I  die,  too.  I  have  no  family  of  my 
own,  and  you  are  my  brother's  son,  Mark ; 
and  I  say,  my  lad,  that  while  you  are  his 
son,  you  are  my  heir.  So  make  yourself 
useful,  my  hearty ; — draw  a  cork,  and  let 
us  have  a  peep  at  the  old  island  through 


558 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


'  moonlight.'  "  And  Mark  drew  the  cork 
of  a  bottle  of  brandy  which  stood  upon  the 
table. 

Launcelot  filled  the  glasses,  and  added, 
"I  say,  Ma;k,  let  us  driuk  th3  King.'^'* 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir,"  said  the 
other  ;  "  only,  before  I  do  so,  I  should 
like  to  know  what  king  you  mean,  uncle. 
Is  it  he  that  came  here  fiom  Hanover  last 
year  when  the  queen  died,  or  he  that  is 
across  the  water,  and  that  should  be  king  ?" 

"Smash  it,  iVJark!"  said  the  skijiper, 
"  I  didn't  think  thou  was  the  lad  that 
would  hae  needed  to  hae  asked  such  a  ques- 
tion. Why,  isn't  your  name  Errington  } 
Aren't  you  my  brother's  son.?  And  you 
pretend  to  ask  me  what  king  I  mean ; 
Why,  then,  I  mean  our  King ! — King 
James  !  and  here's  luck  to  him  in  a  bum- 
per." 

"  So  be  it,"  responded  Mark  ;  and,  af- 
ter drinking  off  his  glass,  he  added — 
"but,  uncle,  the  House  of  Commons  and 
the  Lords,  and  th  :  army  too,  1  believe  are, 
almost  to  a  man,  on  the  side  of  the  Elec- 
tor of  Hanover ;  and  I  should  like  to  know, 
if  you  think  there  is  an}'  likelihood  of  the 
King  returning  to  this  country — if  there 
would  be  any  chance  for  him  if  he  should 
return — or  if  his  cause  is  really  kept 
alive .?" 

"  Why,  Mark,  man,"  returned  Launce- 
lot, "is  that  all  thou  knows  about  it.? 
Listen,  lad,  and  I  will  tell  thee  something, 
if  thou  art  a  true  Errington.  You  know 
that  I  was  ashore,  when  we  were  at  Shields 
last  week,  four  or  five  days  V 

"  I  must  know  that,"  replied  the  ne- 
phew, "  for  you  left  the  brig  under  my 
charge  ;  but  I  didn't  know  where  you  were, 
or  what  you  were  doing  ;  and,  as  I  say,  it 
was  no  business  of  mine  to  ask." 

"  Right  again,  my  lad,"  continued 
Launcelot  \  "  thou  shalt  have  the  ship,  for 
thou  dost  deserve  her.  But  1  will  tell 
thee  what  I  was  doing  on  shore.  I  was  on 
the  King's  service — I  was  seeing  what  I 
could  do  for  him.  Ye  ask  me  if  the 
cause  be  kept  alive !     Why,  man,  does 


the  wind  blow  when  ye  take  in  a  reef.-* 
You  know  Mr.  Foster,  the  member  for 
the  county,  don't  you  .?" 

"  I  do — perfectly  well,"  replied  Mark. 

"  Then,  if  you  do,"  added  Launcelot, 
"  you  know  a  chip  of  the  right  block.  He 
is  a  Trojan,  every  inch  of  him — a  king's 
man  to  the  backbone.  The  king  will 
never  stand  in  need  of  a  friend  while  such 
a  man  as  Foster  is  alive.  But,  as  I  was  ' 
telling  you  of  being  ashore  last  week,  I 
went  across  the  country,  as  far  as  Cor- 
bridge  ;  and,  at  the  house  of  our  relation, 
Thomas  Errington  of  Beaufront,  I  met 
Mr.  Foster,  no  longer  member  for  North- 
umberland in  the  Elector's  parliament, 
but  General  of  his  Majesty's  forces  south 
of  the  Tweed." 

"  I  can't  say  I  understand  you  well," 
interrupted  Mark  ;  "  what  forces  do  you 
mean .?" 

"  Why,  hark  ye,  lad,"  said  Launcelot — 
"  the  spirit  that  used  to  stir  up  our  fa- 
thers in  the  days  of  old,  is  alive  again  in 
Northumberland,  and  our  friends  have 
mounted  the  saddle  and  drawn  the  sword 
for  the  kino-.  At  Beaufront,  I  did  not 
only  meet  General  Foster  (for  such,  as  I 
told  you,  he  now  is),  but  I  also  met  that 
excellent  young  nobleman,  the  Earl  of 
Derwentwater,  his  brother  Charles  Rat- 
cliffe,  and  Captain  Shaftoe ;  with  Mr. 
Swinbourn  of  Capheaton,  all  the  Charle- 
tons  of  Reedsmouth,  Philip  Hodgson  of 
Sandow,  the  Sandersons  of  Hely,  Shaftoe 
of  Bavington,  and  his  son  Joblyn  of  Ben- 
well,  with  twenty  others ;  and  all  their 
followers,  mounted,  armed,  and  ready  for 
the  field !  The  sight  warmed  my  heart, 
Mark.  It  made  me  feel  twenty  years 
younger  than  I  am.  Our  relation  is  one 
of  the  chief  commanders  under  General 
Foster ;  and  when  I  saw  so  many  noble 
fellows  round  me,  all  ready  to  lay  down 
their  lives  in  the  good  and  true  cause,  my 
blood  took  fire,  and  I  went  forward  to  the 
General,  and,  stretching  out  my  hand — 
'  I  beg  your  pardon,  INIr.  Foster,'  said  I, 
*  but  you  were  good  enough  to  say  that  I 


ADVENTURES  OF  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTOK 


559 


was  of  some  service  to  you,  by  my  vote 
and  otherwise,  at  the  last  election,  and  I 
should  only  like  to  know  if  I  cannot  be 
useful  now  ;  my  heart  is  as  warm  as  any 
man"'s  in  the  cause,  and  my  arm  is  none 
of  the  weakest.'  ^  Ah  !  my  old  friend, 
Launcelot,'  said  he,  'I  am  glad  to  find 
you  here.  We  just  want  such  spirits  as 
you— you  can  be  of  much  service  to  us.' 
'  Why,  I  don't  know,  your  honor,'  said  I, 
'  that  I  am  very  like  a  spirit ;  I  should 
rather  think  that  I  am  a  piece  of  as  good 
and  as  heavy  flesh  and  blood  as  the  most 
of  folk.  But,  however,  only  tell  me  how 
1  can  be  of  service  to  the  cause,  and,  by 
St.  George  !  General,  the  thing  is  done  !' 
And  so,  Mark" 

"  Well,  what  then  ?"  asked  the  nephew. 

"What  then  !"  continued  Launcelot — 
"  why,  he  told  me  how  I  could  be  of  ser- 
vice to  him,  to  be  sure.  But  come,  lad, 
I  think  we  wouldn't  be  the  worse  of  an- 
other drop  of  the  '  moonlight,'  just  to 
brighten  both  eyes ;  so,  pour  out  another, 
and  let  us  drink — '  Luck  to  the  Earl  of 
Mar,  and  the  right  cause.'  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Mark  ;  and 
they  drank  success  to  the  Earl  of  Mar. 

"  I  say,  nevy,"  resumed  Launcelot,  after 
a  pause,  "  what  do  you  think  of  the  castle 
on  the  island,  here — do  you  think  you  and 
I  could  take  it  ?" 

>'Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  Mark,  "that 
is  a  good  joke  ! — the  first  shot  from  their 
batteries  would  send  the  little  brio;  out  of 
the  water ;  and,  I  suppose,  the  garrison 
won't  consist  of  less  that  twenty  men.'' 

"  And  what  of  all  that .'"  replied  Laun- 
celot, gravely ;  "I  ask  you,  if  you  think 
we  could  take  it  ?  Why,  lad,  I  find  thy 
intellects  need  to  be  rubbed  up — take  an- 
other glass.  Although  I  dont  give  a  snap 
of  my  fingers  for  the  score  of  foggies  who 
keep  the  castle,  you  don't  take  me  to  be 
such  a  flat-fish  as  to  think  of  forcing  it 
from  them  by  assault  ?  No,  man,  I  shall 
undermine  them." 

"  Ha  !  ha !  ha  I — worse  and  worse  T" 
said   Mark;   *^ undermine   them,   uncle! 


why,  the  castle  is  built  upon  a  rock,  which 
you  and  I  might  pick  at  for  seven  years 
(if  they  would  let  us),  before  we  were  able 
to  blow  them  up." 

"  Well,  Mark,"  said  the  uncle,  "  I  find 
it  is  of  no  use  talking  to  you.  You  are  a 
fearless  fellow  ;  but  you  are  as  thick  about 
the  upper  works  as  a  millstone.  If  you 
saw  a  way  by  which  the  castle  might  be 
taken,  and  the  flag  of  the  Stuarts  hoisted 
on  it  instead  of  the  Hanoverian  rao;,  would 
you  help  me  to  do  it  ?  I  say,  would  you 
help  me,  Mark  .^  If  you  wouldn't,  you 
don't  deserve thou  art  no  Evrinsrton." 

"  Would  I  help  thee  !"  replied  the  other 
— "  why,  to  be  sure  I  would,  and  die  by 
your  side,  too,  if  it  were  necessary." 

"  Give  me  thy  hand,  my  lad,"  said 
Launcelot ;  "  that  is  just  what  I  want — 
and,  to-morrow,  when  you  hear  me  say 
'  St.  George  r  do  as  you  see  me  do.  In 
the  meantime,  send  one  of  the  men  ashore, 
and  tell  him  to  go  across  the  Low  to 
Goswick  for,  a  couple  of  salmon ;  or,  if 
he  can't  get  them  tbere,  let  him  go  to 
Berwick  for  them.  You  will  find,  my 
boy,  that  a  salmon-fin  may  undermine  a 
garrison  as  effectually  as  gunpowder." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !"  added  Mark,  "  I  begin  to 
see  something  now." 

"  Never  mind  what  you  see,"  replied 
his  uncle  ;  "  send  a  man  ashore." 

On  the  following  day,  Launcelot  went 
upon  the  island ;  and,  strolling  carelessly 
along  towards  the  castle,  with  his  pipe  in 
his  teeth,  he  met  the  sergeant  who  had 
the  command  of  the  garrision.  "Well, 
sergeant,"  said  the  skipper,  "  what  news 
have  you  this  morning  .^" 

"  Why,  ha'nt  you  heard  them,  mas- 
ter .^"  replied  the  other  ;  "  I  hear  as  how 
the  whole  mainland  is  in  arms,  and  some 
say  the  Pretender  has  arrived  in  Scot- 
land." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  returned  Launcelot,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  that  story  may  do  to  frighten  old 
women,  but  it  won't  go  down  with  men. 
I  say,  friend,  the  people  on  shore  are  not 
quite  such  fools  as  that  would  prove  them 


560 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


to  be ;  neither  do  I  believe  that  the  Pre- 
tender is  so  much  of  an  ass  as  to  venture 
his  head  in  this  country  again." 

"  Well,  well,  you  may  laugh,  master," 
rejoined  the  sergeant ;  "  but  I  know  it  is 
no  laughing  matter.  Our  commanding 
officer  mentions  it  in  the  instructions 
be  sent  me  from  Berwick  this  morning." 
"Why,  are  the  people  mad.?"  said 
Launcelot ;  "  do  they  intend  to  plunge  the 
country  in  civil  war  for  the  sake  of  any 
man  ?  Hang  the  whole  race  of  fools,  say 
I ;"  and  as  he  spoke,  he  dashed  his  pipe 
upon  the  ground  and  broke  it  to  pieces. 

"Well  done,  master,"  added  the  ser- 
geant ;  "  I  am  glad  to  find  your  principles 
are  of  the  right  sort ;  so  come  along  to  my 
room  in  the  castle,  and  we  will  drink  the 
health  of  his  Majesty  King  George,  and 
confusion  to  his  enemies,  in  a  tankard  of 
nut-brown  ale." 

"  Whew !  whew  !"  whistled  the  skipper  ; 
"  no,  my  hearty,  when  I  drink  his  health 
it  is  in  brandy — brandy  redder  than  the 
rising  sun ;  none  of  your  slops  for  me. 
But,  as  I  believe  you  to  be  an  honest  fel- 
low, come  aboard  of  my  brig,  now  lying 
alongside  here  ;  bring  all  your  men  with 
you  that  aren't  upon  duty — there  is  room 
enough  in  the  cabin  for  all — and  you  shall 
have  a  drop  of  the  real  blood-warmer,  pure 
as  imported  ;  and  I'm  blowed  but  you've 
too  honest  a  face  not  to  wink  at  how  it 
was  imported.  By  the  way,  1  have  also 
o-ot  two  beautiful  salmon  on  board,  and 
we  shall  demolish  them  amongst  us  as  a 
relish  to  the  brandy.  So  tip  your  men 
the  boatswain's  whistle,  and  I'll  call  a  boat 
ashore." 

The  rarity  of  brandy  and  salmon  was 
too  much  for  the  sergeant's  stomach  ;  and, 
though  he  at  first  said  there  was  no  neces- 
sity for  taking  his  men  with  him — "  Oh, 
the  more  the  merrier — that  is  alwa3's  my 
way,"  said  Launcelot ;  and,  within  ten 
minutes,  the  sergeant  and  every  soldier 
belonging  to  the  garrison,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  corporal,  two  privates,  and  an  old 
gunner,  were  on  board  the  little  brig. 


Launcelot  did  the  honors  of  the  table, 
and  his  nephew,  Mark,  acted  as  croupier. 
The  salmon  quickly  disappeared,  and  the 
brandy  went  merrily  round.  The  skipper, 
to  use  his  own  phrase,  was  a  "  seasoned 
cask ;"  and,  after  pouring  the  contents  of 
a  bottle  down  his  throat,  he  could  draw 
another  cork,  and  say  he  would  "  wet  both 
eyes.''  Mark  was  more  abstemious; 
though,  being  used  to  the  liquor,  it  re- 
quired no  small  quantity  to  produce  a 
visible  effect  upon  him.  But  it  was  too 
potent  for  the  soldiers.  Launcelot  plied 
them  with  the  "  dry  stuff,  neat  as  import- 
ed." The  brig,  too,  began  to  heave  a 
little  ;  for  an  easterly  breeze  had  sprung 
up,  and  she  began  to  toss  up  and  down, 
bow  and  stern,  and  caused  divers  of  the 
soldiers  to  shake  on  and  from  their  seats. 
But  the  skipper  cried — "  Never  mind,  my 
hearties  ! — up  again  ! — there  is  nothing 
like  a  drop  of  the  real  stuff  for  soa-sick- 
ness." 

The  sergeant  had  just  finished  his  ninth 
glass,  and  returned  it  to  the  table  with 
the  flourish  of  a  hero,  hiccuping,  and 
stretching  out  his  arm  to  the  skipper  to 
shake  hands  with  him,  when  the  brig  giv- 
ing a  sudden  plunge,  down  went  the  man 
of  war,  with  his  face  upon  the  cabin  floor, 
and  three  of  his  companions  fell  upon 
him.  They  strove  to  rise,  but  it  was 
vain.  They  had  become  drunk,  dead 
drunk,  as  in  a  moment,  and  they  groaned 
in  sickness — deadly  sickness.  Their  com- 
panions laughed  at  their  disaster,  and 
commenced  in  full  chorus  to  sing  a  bac- 
chanalian sono;.  Launcelot  ioined  in  the 
,  chorus,  and  cried — "  Fill  again,  my  boys ! 
— fill  ao-ain ! — never  mind  the  sergeant — 

o  o 

he'll  soon  come  round,  no  fear  of  him." 
Another  glass,  and  the  vociferating  of 

the   song,    produced    the    desired   effect. 

Every  soldier's  head  reeled — they  began 

to  see  double. 

*' St.  George  I"  exclaimed  Launcelot, 

"  but  I  must  on  shore  ;   I   have  something 

to  do."     And,  as  he  ascended  the  cabin 

stairs,  Mark  rose  and  followed  him. 


ADVENTURES  OP  LAUNCELOT  ERPJNGTON. 


561 


*'  Hollo,  master  ! — where  are  you  going, 
ell  ?"  cried  the  soldiers ;  "  you  are  not 
going  to  leave  us  in  this  way  ?" 

"  No,  no,  my  brave  fellows,"  cried  the 
skipper  ;  "  draw  another  cork,  and  make 
yourselves  at  home  ;  I'll  be  with  you  pre- 
sently." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  rejoined  they  ;  '^  we'll  do 
that,  and  quickly  too — good  luck  to  ye  " 

"  Now,  Mark,  my  lad,"  said  the  skip- 
per, "just  keep  by  me,  and  you  shall  see 
a  bit  of  sport."  And  going  to  the  head 
of  the  vessel,  he  called  to  him  a  seaman, 
and  said — "  Bob,  take  a  handspike  and  go 
aft  to  the  companion,  and  the  first  of  those 
lobsters  in  the  cabin  that  offers  to  crawl 
upon  deck,  give  him  a  tip  over  the  sconce 
with  it,  and  send  him,  heels  up,  down 
again." 

"  Very  well.  Sir,"  said  the  seaman  un- 
concernedly, stooping,  and  lifting  up  a 
handspike  as  he  spoke  ;  "  I'll  do  that." 

"  Skull  us  ashore,  boy,"  said  Launce- 
lot,  to  the  urchin  of  whom  we  have  already 
spoken,  as  resembling  a  water-imp  ;  and 
leaping  into  the  boat,  while  his  nephew 
followed  him — "  Now,  Mark,  my  lad," 
continued  he,  ''  now  for  a  touch  at  glory !" 
They  were  landed  within  a  hundred  yards 
of  the  castle,  and  immediately  proceeded 
towards  it.  The  sentinel  at  the  gate, 
knowing  them  as  the  boon  companions  of 
his  fellow-soldiers,  suffered  them  to  ap- 
proach him. 

"  Well,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  Launce- 
lot,  addressing  him,  "  I  must  say  it  is  too 
bad  to  keep  you  fixed  up  here  like  a  pillar, 
or  lark  in  a  cage,  while  your  comrades  are 
all  as  merry  as  old  Bacchus,  on  board  of 
my  little  brig.  But  I  didn't  forget  you, 
and  have  brought  a  drop  of  the  creature 
to  comfort  your  heart." 

The  sentinel  was  about  to  thank  him, 
when  Launcelot,  instead  of  producing  the 
bottle,  suddenly  grasped  him  by  the  throat, 
dashing  him  on  the  ground,  and  wrested 
his  musket  from  his  hands,  crying  as  he 
did  so,  "  Now,  Mark,  into  the  castle,  and 
down  with  the  corporal !" 
VOL.  n.  ''3 


Th'C  soldier  was  as  a  child  in  the  iron 
grasp  of  Launcelot  Errington,  who,  pulling 
a  quantity  of  rope-yarn  from  his  breast, 
tied  his  pri-soner  hand  and  foot,  and  left 
him  on  the  ground.  His  nephew  in  the 
meantime,  had  hurried  into  the  castle, 
where,  meeting  the  corporal,  he  as  easily 
overcame  him,  as  his  uncle  had  disarmed 
the  sentinel.  There  remained  but  another 
soldier  and  the  old  gunner  to  conquer. 
Seizing  the  arms  of  his  hand-and-foot- 
bound  prisoner,  Launcelot  hastened  to  the 
eastern  side  of  the  castle,  where  the  other 
soldier  stood  guard,  and  approaching,  un- 
observed, within  a  few  yards  of  him,  and 
presenting  the  musket,  cried,  "  Yield  ! — 
down  with  your  arms  !" 

The  soldier  refused  to  comply  with  his 
command,  and  was  levelling  his  musket 
towards  the  besieger,  when  Launcelot,  to 
use  his  own  phrase,  "  sent  a  bit  of  lead 
through  the  shoulder  of  his  left  wing,"  and 
the  soldier  and  his  musket  fell  on  the  bat- 
tlement together. 

Mark,  in  the  meantime,  having  secured 
the  corporal,  seized  the  old  gunner  (wha 
had  ventured  out  of  the  armory  on  hear- 
ing the  cries  of  the  corporal  for  assistance) 
by  the  breast,  and  held  him  until  he  should 
receive  the  commands  of  his  uncle  con- 
cernino"  him. 

"  Tie  the  old  chap's  wrists,  but  not  his 
feet,  Mark,"  cried  Launcelot,  on  behold- 
ing his  nephew  with  his  foot  on  the  body 
of  the  corporal,  and  his  hand  on  the  breast 
of  the  gunner  ;  ^'  only  tie  his  hands  to 
prevent  his  doing  mischief ;  I  have  a  uso 
for  his  feet." 

Mark  pinioned  the  veteran  accordingly  ; 
and  Launcelot,  drao-rrins;  the  two  soldiers 
and  the  corporal  into  separate  apartments, 
locked  them  up  ;  and  returning  again  to 
his  nephew  and  the  gunner,  he  clenched 
his  fist  in  the  face  of  the  latter,  and  said, 
"  Now,  my  old  man,  without  a  word  of  a 
murmur,  you  show  me  where  to  find  the 
keys  of  the  gates  ;"  and  the  gunner  did 
so. 

Launcelot  took  the  keys,  and  he  and 


562 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


his  nephew,  shutting  the  gates,  locked 
themselves  within  the  walls  of  the  castle, 
constituting  themselves  its  governors  and 
garrison.  Again,  addressing  the  guniier, 
the  skipper  added,  "  Now,  old  one,  I  have 
just  another  piece  of  service  for  you  to 
perform,  and  then  I  shall  lock  you  up  as 
I  have  done  your  comrades.  Lead  us  to 
where  we  shall  get  the  keys  of  the  maga- 
zine and  the  arsenal,  and  then  conduct  us 
to  them." 

But  the  old  man  having  perceived  a 
body  of  fishermen  proceeding  across  the 
field  that  lay  between  the  castle  and  the 
town,  and  judging  that  the  alarm  would 
soon  be  given  to  the  sergeant  and  his  men, 
he  took  courage,  and  ventured  to  grumble 
between  his  teeth,  "  No,  confound  me  if 
I  do  !'' 

"Oh,  thou  won't  show  me  to  them,  old 
lad  .'"'  said  Launcelot ;  "  you  wont,  eh  ? 
— Well,  take  hold  of  his  feet,  Mark  ;  I 
have  a  short  way  of  dealing  with  all  stub- 
born rebels." 

Mark  seized  the  old  gunner  by  the  feet, 
while  his  uncle  pulled  back  his  shoulders  ; 
and  lifting  him  from  the  ground,  they  car- 
ried him  to  the  highest  point  of  the  battle- 
ments, and  immediately  over  the  perpen- 
dicular cliff  that  rose  from  the  beach. 

"  Once! — twice  ! — thrice  !"  cried  Laun- 
celot, while  he  and  his  nephew  swung  the 
gunner  in  the  air,  suspending  him  over  the 
piled  battlement  and  cliff.  Launcelot 
paused ;  and,  addressing  his  victim,  stern- 
ly said,  "  Do  you  consent  to  show  us  all, 
now  .''  Refuse  again,  and  I  will  hurl  you 
headlong  over  the  precipice,  to  be  a  morn- 
ing meal  to  the  sea-birds  from  the  Fern 
isles  !"  The  veteran  was  no  coward,  but 
his  heart  failed  as  he  felt  himself  tossed  in 
the  air,  with  death  yawning  beneath  him. 
"  I  will  show  you — show  you  every- 
thing," he  gasped. 

He  took  them  to  where  the  arms  and  the 
powder  were  kept,  and  Launcelot  and  his 
nephew,  having  loaded  the  few  cannon 
upon  the  ramparts,  loaded  also  every  mus- 
ket that  they  could  find  in  the  castle,  and 


placed  them  on  the  turrets,  ready  for  de- 
fence. 

Above  a  hundred  inhabitants  of  the 
island — men,  momen,  and  children — now 
stood  before  the  gate  of  the  castle,  mar- 
velling at  the  doings  of  the  bold  skipper 
Errington,  and  his  nephew  Mark.  But 
he  kept  them  not  long  in  suspense  as  to  his 
intentions  ;  fov^ "galling  down  the  union  flag 
of  the  united  k'iii^om  from  the  pole  upon 
the  ramparts,  he  hoisted  in  its  stead  the 
symbol  of  the  house  of  Stuart ;  and,  taking 
off  his  hat,  waved  it  towards  the  people, 
and  cried,  at  the  utmost  pitch  of  his  sten- 
torian voice,  "  I  hereby  proclaim  our  only 
lawful  sovereign,  James,  the  Third  of  Eng- 
land and  Ninth  of  Scotland,  King  of  these 
realms ;  and  let  all  good  men  and  true 
come  now  and  enrol  themselves  under  his 
standard  I  God  save  the  King  !  say  I ; 
and  let  every  traitor  be  choked  that  won't 
say  the  same.'' 

Then  Launcelot  and  his  nephew  fired 
two  pieces  of  cannon,  and  gave  three  cheers 
for  King  James  ;  but  the  spectators  re- 
sponded not  to  their  shout. 

Some  said,  "  Why  the  old  skipper  and 
his  mate  are  drunk,  and  it  is  only  a  frolic  ; 
but  they  are  carrying  the  joke  too  far." 
Others  said  they  were  mad. 

But  Mark  said  to  him,  "  Well,  uncle, 
we  have  got  the  castle  into  our  own  keep- 
ing, and  what  are  we  to  do  with  it,  now 
that  we  have  got  it  ?  We  shall  have  a 
whole  regiment  of  soldiers  against  us  from 
Berwick  to-morrow,  I  have  no  doubt,  and 
you  and  I  can't  defend  it." 

"  Look  ye,  Mark,"  said  Launcelot, 
"  don't  be  showing  the  white  feather,  or  I 
will  swear  again  you  are  no  Errington,  no 
brother's  son  of  mine,  or  a  drop's  blood  to 
me,  and  the  brig  may  sink  where  she  lies 
at  anchor  for  all  that  I  care.  But  now,  I 
say,  Mark — I  am  saying,  don't  you  be 
thinking  but  that  I  know  what  I  have  been 
about  all  this  time.  Why,  man,  the  two 
guns  that  I  fired  just  now,  were  a  signal 
to  three  French  privateers,  that  I  have  no 
doubt  are  lying  snugly  enough  behind  the 


ADVENTURES  OF  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTON. 


563 


Ferns,  out  of  sight,  but  within  hearing. 
We  shall  have  them  here  to-night ;  and, 
if  you  keep  your  eye  across  the  Low,  upon 
Beal  bushes  in  the  morning,  you  will  see 
a  troop  of  General  Foster's  men  coming 
to  our  assistance.  Then,  my  lad,  I  shall 
be  governor  of  the  castle,  and  you  shall 
be  my  lieutenant,  and  owner  of  the  brig 
into  the  bargain." 

"  Well,"  said  Mark,  "  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter much.  I  can't  say  I  have  any  fancy 
to  be  mewed  up  in  a  stand-still,  stone-and- 
lime  castle,  with  always  the  same  thing 
before  my  eyes ;  but  I  take  it  that  I  can 
stand  fire  as  well  as  any  man,  and  I  will 
stand  it  too,  as  you  shall  see,  if  it  comes 
to  that ; — only,  as  we  had  put  in  here,  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  for  a  different  sort 
of  amusement  to-night. " 

"  And  what  sort  of  amusement  might 
that  be  t — To  go  a  sweethearting,  eh  .?" 

*'  Why,  I  daresay,  it  was  there  and 
thereabouts.  I  intended  to  have  gone 
along  as  far  as  Bamborough,  to  have  seen 
an  old  acquaintance." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  Sally  Beadnell,"  interrupt- 
ed the  uncle  ;  "  you  must  defer  that  to 
another  day,  Mark.  At  present,  my  lad, 
as  the  saying  goes,  you  have  other  fish  to 

fry." 

"  I  see  that,"  said  Mark  ;  ''  and  I  sup- 
pose, if  we  have  thrust  our  heads  into  a 
trap,  we  must  defend  them  as  we  best 
can.  However,  happen  what  may,  I'll 
stand  by  you  while  I  have  a  foot  to  stand 
upon." 

"Give  me  your  hand  again,  nevy,'' 
cried  Launcelot ;  "  you're  a  famous  fel- 
low ! — Mark,  I'm  proud  of  you  !" 

Now,  in  the  course  of  the  night,  the  ser- 
geant awoke  from  the  sleep  in  which  his 
drunkenness  had  sealed  up  his  senses,  and 
gathering  himself  up  upon  the  cabin  floor, 
wondering  where  he  was,  and  positive  that 
north  had  become  south,  and  south  north, 
while  the  motion  of  the  vessel  rendered 
his  "  confusion  worse  confounded,"  and 
he  stumbled  now  over  one  of  his  com- 
panions  in   dissipation,    and   again   over 


another,  until  shouting  at  the  utmost  pitch 
of  his  voice — "  Hollo  !  where  am  I .''  I 
am  Sergeant  Chadwell,  commander-in- 
chief  of  Holy  Island  Castle !  Hollo  ! 
where  am  I  .^"  And  his  shouting  aroused 
them  from  their  death-like  slumbers. 
Rising  on  their  hands  and  knees,  sick  and 
shivering,  one  by  one,  they  began  to  be 
conscious  of  their  situation  ;  and  one  of 
them  ventured  to  ascend  the  cabin  stairs. 
But  no  sooner  had  he  raised  his  head  upon 
a  level  with  the  deck,  than  the  seaman, 
faithful  to  the  injunctions  of  his  comman- 
der, made  the  handspike  descend  upon  it 
with  sufficient  force  to  cause  the  soldier  to 
go  reeling  backwards  and  downwards 
amongst  his  comrades.  Another  attempt- 
ed to  lead  the  way,  and  met  with  the  same 
fate.  "  Fire  and  thunder  !"  shouted  the 
valorous  sergeant, — "  what  is  the  meaning 
of  this  ?  We  are  in  France,  or  the  High- 
lands, and  in  the  hands  of  the  Pretender 
and  his  cannibal  Scotchman,  I'll  be  sworn 
for  it." 

He  drew  his  sword  and  flourished  it  at 
the  foot  of  the  cabin  stairs  ;  and  terror 
causing  his  followers  to  forget  their  shiver- 
ing, thirst,  and  sickness,  they  unsheathed 
their  bayonets,  and  threatened,  loud  and 
deeply,  destruction  to  all  who  should  op- 
pose them.  Their  wild  and  desperate 
noise  attracted  the  attention  of  the  crews 
of  several  boats  that  had  been  out  at  the 
herring-fishing  ;  and  they  pulling  alongside 
of  the  brig,  in  a  few  minutes  the  sergeant 
and  his  company  were  released  from  their 
captivity  ;  and,  on  being  brought  ashore 
to  the  island,  made  conscious  af  all  that 
had  taken  place  during  their  nap  in  the 
lap  of  oblivion. 

The  men  looked  stupid  and  silly,  and 
now  the  sergeant  raved,  that,  like  a  Ro- 
man, he  would  turn  his  sword  upon  his 
own  breast,  for  he  could  not  live  deprived 
of  his  honor  ;  and  again  he  threatened  to 
storm  the  castle,  sword  in  hand;  which 
threat,  while  the  fumes  of  the  brandy  still 
reeked  in  his  brain,  he,  in  some  measure, 
carried  into   effect ;  for,  marshalling  out 


564 


TALES  OP  THE   BORDERS. 


his  fifteen  rank  and  file  in  front  of  the  ab- 
bey— he  with  his  sword  in  his  hand,  and 
they  with  their  bayonets — he  marched 
them  in  front  of  the  castle-gate,  over 
which  they  found  Mark  Errington  stand- 
ing sentinel,  with  a  firelock  over  his  shoul- 
der. The  sergeant  commanded  him  to 
surrender.  Mark  was  prone  to  laugh ; 
and  he  now  laughed  aloud,  and  inquired, 
"  Who  brought  them  ashore  '?"  In  vain 
the  sergeant  demanded  that  he  should 
come  down  and  open  the  gates,  and  in  vain 
he  brandished  his  sword,  and  his  company 
their  bayonets ;  for  Mark  laughed  the 
more.  Finding  their  threats  and  the 
flourishing  of  their  weapons  of  no  efi"ect, 
they  began  to  gather  stones,  and  hurled  at 
his  head  a  volley  of  missiles.  Mark 
crouched  for  a  moment  behind  the  battle- 
ment, and  springing  up  so  soon  as  the 
shower  of  stones  had  fallen  beyond  him, 
levelled  his  firelock,  and,  touching  the 
trigger,  carried  away  a  portion  of  the  right 
cheek  and  ear  of  the  sergeant  command- 
ing in  chief.  He  raised  his  hand  to  his 
head,  and,  as  he  shouted — "  I'm  shot ! — 
I'm  dead  !" — his  followers  turned  upon 
their  heels,  and  ^'  fled  for  safety  and  for 
succor  ;"  and,  as  he  shouted,  and  they 
ran,  again  Mark's  loud  laugh  was  heard 
half  over  the  island.  Throughout  the 
night,  Launcelot  made  such  signals  as  had 
been  agreed  on ;  but  the  day  dawned,  and 
neither  the  French  privateers,  nor  the 
troop  that  General  Foster  was  to  send,  ar- 
rived to  his  assistance. 

The  firing  of  the  two  pieces  of  cannon 
on  the  previous  day  had  attracted  the  at- 
tention of  the  inhabitants  of  Berwick  ;  and 
the  commander  of  the  garrison,  proceed- 
ing with  glass  in  hand  to  the  look-out  upon 
the  ramparts,  to  his  consternation  beheld 
the  standard  of  the  house  of  Stuart  waving 
in  the  wind  from  Holy  Island  Castle.  The 
garrison  in  that  fortress  was  but  a  part  of, 
or  a  dependency  on  his,  and  he,  as  well  as 
the  sergeant,  felt  his  honor  implicated  in 
the  transaction.  In  a  few  minutes  the  news 
Bpread  from  street  to  street,  that  the  re- 


bels were  in  possession  of  Holy  Island ;  ' 

and  great  was  the  excitement  that  prevail-  i 

ed.      Early,   therefore,   in  the  morning,  ; 

three    companies    of   infantry,    preceded  * 

by  as  many  pieces  of  artillery,  proceeded  i 

along  the  bridge  and  over  Tweedmouth  '' 
Moor,  until,  arriving  at  Beal  Bushes,  they,-; 


directed  their  march  upon  the  island. 


J 


Mark,  being  told  by  his  uncle  to  keep  i 
his  eyes  in  the  morning  fixed  upon  Beal 
Bushes,  was  the  first  to  perceive  them  ; 
and,  calling  to  his  uncle,  he  said — "  Well, 
yonder  is  a  goodly  company  of  red-coats 
coming  towards  the  island  ;  but  I  don't 
think,  uncle,  they  are  the  gentlemen  that 
Mr.  Foster  was  to  send  to  our  assistance." 
Mark  spoke  this  in  a  tone  of  what  may  be 
called  subdued  irony. 

"  No,  splice  me  if  they  are,  nevy !"  an- 
swered Launcelot ;  "  I'd  bet  a  stiver  they 
are  the  Elector's  lobsters  from  Berwick. 
But  never  mind,  my  boy  ;  I  am  governor 
here  in  the  name  of  the  king,  and  they 
shan't  compel  me  to  give  up  the  keys 
while  there  is  a  shot  left  in  the  lockers  of 
the  castle." 

As  the  tide  began  to  ebb,  what  a  short 
time  before  had  been  a  sea  of  two  or  three 
miles  in  width,  separating  the  island  from 
the  mainland,  became  a  dry  sand,  with 
only  the  streamlet  Lindis  winding  through 
it,  and  leaving  a  footway  communication 
from  Beal  to  the  island. 

The  soldiers  now  began  their  march 
across  the  Low,  and,  about  noon,  drew  up 
in  hostile  array  before  the  castle.  The 
first  act  of  their  commanding  officer,  on 
learning  the  actual  situation  of  afi'airs,  was 
to  cause  the  sergeant  and  his  outwitted 
company  to  be  placed  under  arrest.  He 
then,  with  his  brother  officers  and  about 
fifty  men,  marched  forward  to  the  foot  of 
the  rock  on  which  the  small  but  formida- 
ble castle  stands,  and  summoned  its  occu- 
pants to  surrender  at  discretion. 

"  You,  Sir,  may  surrender  if  you 
please,"  answered  bold  Launcelot ;  *'  but 
I  can  tell  thee,  thou  wilt  find  no  such  word 
in  any  dictionary  in  Holy  Island  Castle — 


ADVENTURES  OF  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTOiN". 


566 


therefore,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I !  Do  thou  thy  best,  and  I'll  do  mine  !  Make 
■  ready,  Mark,  my  lad,"  he  added ;"  we 
i !  may  hold  out  until  the  General  or  some  of 
j  I  them  come  to  our  assistance,  and  when 
'     they  hear  the  sound  of  our  being  at  warm 

work  it  will  hasten  them." 
^1\  The  three  pieces  of  artillery  were  point- 
ed  against  the  gate  of  the  castle,  and  the 
j  soldiers  poured  a  shower  of  musketry 
i  ■  wherever  the  heads  of  Launcelot  or  his 
nephew  were  for  a  moment  visible.  The 
two  kinsmen,  however,  maintained  along,  a 
desperate,  and  an  active  resistance.  Some 
lay  dead  around  the  foot  of  the  rock,  and 
many  wore  borne  wounded  to  the  town. 
The  fishermen,  who  stood  at  a  distance, 
spectators  of  the  siege,  while  they  pro- 
fessed to  be  enemies  of  the  Pope  and  the 
Pretender  (whom  some  of  them  consider- 
ed one  and  the  same  person — or,  at  least 
father  and  son),  wished  success  to  bold 
Launcelot  and  his  nephew,  and  loudly  ex- 
pressed their  admiration  of  their  coolness 
and  courage,  and  the  noble  stand  which 
they  made.  But  the  gate  of  the  castle 
was  at  length  forced,  and  the  soldiers 
rushed  in. 

"  Well,  Mark,  my  boy,"  said  Launce- 
lot, "  since  it  is  to  be,  I  suppose  it  must 
be.  Brave  men  have  had  to  use  their 
heels  as  well  as  their  hands  before  to-day. 
Follow  me." 

Escaping  through  a  small  window  in 
the  castle,  they  clung  to  the  sides  of  the 
almost  precipitous  rocks,  and  after  a  most 
perilous  descent,  succeeded  in  reaching 
the  beach.  They  attempted  to  conceal 
themselves  among  the  sea-weed  ;  but 
being  discovered,  were  compelled  to  con- 
tinue their  flight  towards  the  mainland. 
The  sea  had  again  set  in,  and  communica- 
tion -with  the  opposite  coast  was  cut  off ; 
and  when  Launcelot  saw  this,  he  said — 
*'  The  sea  is  in,  but  never  mind,  Mark,  it 
is  so  much  the  better,  we  won't  drown  ; 
we  can  swim  for  it,  and  they  daren't  fol- 
low us." 

They  had   reached  within    a  hundred 


yards  of  the  point  where  they  proposed  to 
plunge  into  the  sea  and  swim  for  the 
mainland,  when  a  shot  from  one  of  a  party 
of  soldiers,  who  closely  pursued  them, 
pierced  Launcelot  through  the  thigh, 
shattering  the  bone,  and  he  fell,  unable  to 
rise  again,  upon  the  sand.  "  Run,  Mark  ! 
run,  my  lad  !"  he  cried — "  never  mind 
me."  But  Mark  turned,  and  raising  his 
uncle  upon  his  shoulders,  ran  with  him  to 
the  sea  and  plunged  in.  Ho,  however, 
had  not  reached  beyond  his  own  depth, 
when  a  dozen  soldiers,  rushing  into  the 
water  after  him,  surrounded,  and  pointing 
their  muskets  at  his  head,  brought  him 
with  his  burden  to  the  shore.  "  Keep  a 
good  heart,  Mark,"  said  the  wounded 
uncle,  on  finding  that  they  were  prisoners 
— "  you  know  the  saying — '  They  who 
are  born  to  be  drowned  will  never  be 
hanged  ;'  and  I  should  like  to  know  who 
were  born  to  be  drowned  if  you  and  I  were 
not.  Fear  nothing,  Mark — I  say,  fear 
nothing.  When  the  King  arrives,  if  he 
be  a  man  at  all,  he  won't  be  forgetting' 
Mark  and  Launce  Errington,  and  this 
day's  work.  I  say,  you  swabs,"  added 
he,  addressing  the  soldiers,  "  if  you  will 
have  me  for  a  prisoner,  you  must  carry 
me,  for  I  can't  set  a  timber  to  the  ground." 
And  he  muttered  something  about  the 
cowardliness  of  shooting  a  man  behind  his 
back. 

The  uncle  and  nephew  were  fettered, 
and  conveyed  in  a  cart  to  Berwick  jail, 
where,  notwithstanding  his  confinement, 
Launcelot's  wound  healed  rapidly,  and  his 
limb  acquired  strength.  Their  trial  was 
to  come  on  at  the  ensuing:  sessions  ;  and 
as  death,  at  least,  was  their  certain  doom, 
their  fate  created  a  wondrous  sensation  in 
the  town.  Burgess  and  stallenger  spoke 
of  nothing  else  ;  and  some  even  did  not 
think  the  town  safe  with  two  such  terrible 
rebels  imprisoned  in  it.  However,  I  am 
persuaded  that  they  had  friends  in  Ber- 
wick, though  their  names  are  not  record- 
ed. Be  this  as  it  may,  the  skipper  and 
his  nephew  looked  forward  to  their  fate. 


566 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


not    only  with    perfect  indiflPcrence,  but 
they  sang  from  morning  until  night — "  no 
lark  so  blithe  as  they."     They  astonished 
the    jailor,    and,    being     catholics,   they 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  chaplain. 
Berwick  prison-house  stood  then,  as  it 
does  now  (though  the  present  is  not  the 
same  building),  a   huge  nuisance   in  the 
midst  of  the  street  called  Marygate  ;  and 
then,  as  now,  debtors  and  felons  often  met 
together  within  it.     Now,   one   day,  the 
prisoners  had  suspended   by  cord,   from 
their  iron-grated  windows,  a  tin  can,  on 
which  was  pasted  a  piece  of  paper,  and  on 
the  paper  was  written  this  simple  petition 
— "  Remember   the   poor    Prisoners." 
Benevolent  people,  in  passing  along  the 
street,   occasionally  dropped  a   coin  into 
the  tin  can.     But  one  day,  some  waggish 
boy,  or  secret  friend  of  the  Stuart  family, 
slipped  into  it  a  mason's  chisel !     Some 
of  the  prisoners,  on  drawing  up  the   can, 
and   perceiving    the  chisel,   proposed  to 
throw   it  over    the    window   again,    but 
Launcelot,  who  had  never  been  a  partaker 
of  the  alms  which  they  received,  seized  it, 
and  concealing  it  in  his  bosom,  exclaimed 
— "You  take  the  pence,  I  take  the  chisel." 
Mark  smiled    significantly  as    the  latter 
placed  the  iron  instrument  in  his  breast. 

Great  was  the  consternation  of  the 
jailor,  about  a  fortnight  after  this,  when, 
on  visiting  his  wa,rds  in  the  morning, 
according  to  custom,  he  found  one  after 
another  deserted,  and  on  entering  that  in 
which  Launcelot  and  his  nephew  had  been 
confined,  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun  and 
the  morning  breeze  met  his  face  together. 
The  man  of  keys,  bolts,  and  bars,  stood 
petrified,  horror-stricken !  A  flag-stone 
from  the  pavement  of  the  floor  was  re- 
moved, and  there  yawned  an  aperture 
sufficient  to  admit  the  dody  of  a  man,  and 
from  which,  as  hath  been  stated,  issued 
the  morning  light  and  the  morning  air. 
There  was  an  old  oven  in  the  cell,  the 
door  of  which  stood  open,  and  the  oven 
was  filled  with  stones  and  earth  !  Of  all 
who  had  been  under  his  charge,  the  jailor 


found  but  one  or  two  peaceable  debtors 
left.  He  hastened  to  the  street,  and  gave 
the  alarm  to  the  magistrates  and  the  gar- 
rison, and  within  half  an  hour,  constables 
and  soldiers  were  sent  in  every  direction 
in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives.  But,  leaving 
them  to  pursue  their  different  courses,  we 
shall  follow  the  fortunes  of  Launcelot  and 
his  nephew  Mark. 

Launcelot  made  no  bad  use  of  his  chi- 
sel. Having  raised  a  flag-stone  in  the 
floor  of  his  cell,  he  began  to  dig  the  earth 
under  it,  towards  the  street,  carefully 
concealin2;  the  earth  so  duor  in  the  oven 
already  mentioned,  and  with  equal  care 
replacing  the  flag-stone,  before  the  stated 
periods  of  the  jailor's  visits.  The  other 
prisoners,  however,  being  aware  of  the  fact 
of  his  being  in  possession  of  the  chisel,  it 
became  necessary  that  they  should  be 
privy  to  his  scheme,  and  partake  in  its 
consequences.  When,  therefore,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  he  effected  an  opening  to 
the  street,  they  escaped  with  him. 

Launcelot  and  his  nephew,  on  finding 
themselves  once  more  at  liberty,  ran  down 
Hide  Hill,  and  through  what  is  now  called 
the  Shore  Gate,  to  the  river,  where  they 
found  lying  an  oared  boat  belonging  to  the 
Custom  House.  (The  bridge  being  guard- 
ed, and  secured  also  by  treble  gates — for 
there  was  the  English  gate  where  the  sol- 
diers stood,  and  two  strong  gates,  called 
the  Blue  gates,  between  that  and  the  cen- 
tre arch — escape  by  it  was  impossible.) 
They  had  not  pulled  off  a  dozen  yards 
from  the  shore,  when  two  thieves,  who 
had  escaped  with  them,  arrived  at  the  side 
of  the  river,  and  begged  to  be  taken 
across.  Launcelot  growled  and  pulled  on  ; 
but  Mark,  who  was  fond  of  a  jest,  answer- 
ed— "  No,  I  thank  you.  You  don''t  pull 
In  our  boat !  It  is  every  man  for  himself 
to-night,  and  we  don^t  exactly  wish  the 
company  of  thieves  yet." 

The  sentinels  at  the  bridge  heard  the 
sound  of  the  voices,  and  the  dipping  of 
the  oars  in  the  water  ;  but,  through  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  they  could  perceive 


ADVENTURES   OF  LAUNCELOT  ERPJNGTON. 


56- 


nothing,  and  imagined  that  the  sounds 
proceeded  from  some  vessel  about  to  sail 
with  the  moruino;  tide.  Launcelot  and 
Mark  pulled  ashore  at  what  is  called  the 
Carr  Rock,  and  proceeding  to  Spittal, 
they  called  at  the  house  of  a  fisherman, 
with  whom  the  former,  in  his  capacity  of 
smuggler,  had  had  frequent  dealings.  The 
fisherman  was  one  who  cared  nothing 
either  about  Kinirs  or  Pretenders  ;  but  he 
gave  his  old  friends,  Launcelot  and  Mark, 
a  hearty  welcome  ;  and,  as  it  was  known 
a  vigilant  search  would  be  made  after  them, 
he  concealed  them  in  his  stow-hole,  which, 
he  said,  ''  All  the  men  alive  would  never 
find  out." 

I  should  have  told  you,  however,  that 
Mark,  on  leaping  out  of  the  boat,  pushed 
it  adrift,  so  that  no  trace  of  where  they 
had  landed  mio-ht  be  discovered,  and  within 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  their  leaving  it,  it 
was  carried  out  to  sea. 

After  the  jailor  had  spread  the  alarm, 
so  dilio-ent  was  the  search  that  had  been 
made,  that  within  six  hours  every  prison- 
er who  had  escaped,  save  Mark  and  his 
nephew,  were  captured  and  brought  back 
to  the  jail.  But  they  were  the  principal 
objects  of  search.  The  commander  of  the 
garrison  offered  a  reward  for  their  being 
secured,  and  a  price  was  set  upon  their 
heads  ;  while  they  remained  secure  in  the 
stow-hole  of  the  Spittal  fisherman,  and 
from  ni^ht  ta  nisht  he  brousrht  them  tid- 
ings  of  all  that  had  passed.  One  night  he 
entered,  after  they  had  been  concealed 
about  ten  days,  and  the  dim  lamp  revealed 
that  his  countenance  was,  beyond  expres- 
sion, rueful. 

"  Ah  !  Master  Errington,  said  he, 
shaking  his  head,  "  I  doubt  you  and  your 
nevy  canna  bide  here  in  safety  ony  langer. 
1  was  ower  in  the  toon  the  day,  an'  I  see 
prented  bills  aboot  the  street,  and  govern- 
ment offerin'  a  reward  o'  five  hundred 
pounds  to  onybody  that  will  discover  or 
apprehend  outher  the  one  or  the  other  o' 
ye.  And  ye  knaw  Jem  Phillips — him  that 
ye  refused  to  trust  the  brandy  to  last  year 


— I  knaw  he  hates  you  ever  since  ;  I  saw 
him  reading  the  prented  bill  the  day,  an' 
I  hae  my  awn  reasons  for  thinking  that 
Jem  knaws  where  ye  are.  Therefore,  as 
a  friend,  I  would  advise  ye  baith  to  shift 
yer  quarters  this  very  nicht."  They 
deemed  it  prudent  to  take  his  advice,  and, 
within  half  an  hour,  left  their  place  of 
concealment ;  but  not  until,  from  the 
wardrobe  of  his  wife,  he  had  arrayed  them 
as  fish-women — and  with  their  own  jackets 
over  the  gowns,  their  heads  ornamented 
with  red  and  yellow  handkerchiefs  tied 
beneath  their  chins,  and  descending  in  a 
loose  point  down  their  necks,  and  each 
with  a  creel  upon  his  shoulders,  they  bade 
farewell  to  their  friend,  and  wandered 
forth  upon  the  moor. 

"  Now,  Mark,  lad,"  said  Launcelot, 
"  what  road  dost  thou  think  we  should 
steer  ^  I  have  a  thought  that  General 
Foster  will  either  be  about  Wooler  or 
Kelso,  and  I  think  our  best  way  will  be  to 
strike  west,  and  try  to  find  him.  What 
dost  thou  say  .^" 

"  Why,  uncle,  I  say  that  we  might  seek 
him  until  we  were  found  ourselves,  and 
that,  I  suppose,  is  what  neither  you  nor  I 
wish.  No  ;  if  there  is  any  one  that  will 
prove  a  friend  to  us  now,  and  not  betray 
us,  it  is  Sally  Beadnell ;  and  I  could  trust 
her  father,  too." 

Launcelot  continued  walkins;  across  the 
moor  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence,  and,  at 
length,  replied — "  Well,  Lbelieve  you  are 
right,  Mark — Bamborough  be  it.  Only 
you  know  daylight  will  be  in,  and  every 
person  astir,  before  we  could  reach  Belford. 
Now,  1  propose  that  we  strike  across  the 
Kyloe  hills,  and  conceal  ourselves  all  the 
day  among  the  rocks,  and  we  shall  bear 
down  on  Sally  Beadnell's  at  midnight." 

"  Agreed,''  replied  Mark  ;  and  as  they 
passed  over  the  grounds  of  Scremerston, 
Launcelot  said — "  We  should  be  able  to 
get  some  tidings  of  the  General's  move- 
ments here ,  if  we  knew  where  to  make  the 
inquiry,  for  we  are  now  on  the  property 
of  the  brave  young  Derwent water." 


568 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  Very  likely,"  added  Mark  ;  ^'  but  we 
don't  know  friend  from  foe,  or  who  to  in- 
quire at,  and  I  prefer  pushing  on  to  Sally 
Beadnell's." 

So  they  continued  their  flight  through 
Cheswick,  Haggerston,  and  Lowlin,  and, 
before  day  dawned,  both  sat  down  in  a 
desolate  place,  behind  a  grey  rock,  on  the 
Kyloe  hills.  When  the  sun  arose,  Launce- 
lot  raised  his  head  over  the  bare  rock,  and 
from  his  situation  he  had  a  full  view  of 
Lindisferne  and  its  bay  ;  and,  after  gazing 
for  a  few  minutes,  he  said,  with  a  sort  of 
sigh — "  I  say,  Mark,  look  !  the  rascals 
have  our  brig  away  from  the  island ;  there 
isn't  a  square-rigged  vessel  in  the  roads — 
nothing  but  a  Scotch  sloop  from  Grange- 
mouth, or  thereabouts — I  know  by  her 
build."  Mark  looked  over  the  rock,  and, 
half  pathetically,  half  indignantly  exclaim- 
ed— "  Jingo  !  so  they  have  !  The  fellows 
could  not  sail  without  your  orders — who 
can  have  taken  her  ?"  "  Oh  !  the  Elec- 
tor's sharks  !"  said  Launcelot  ;  "  but, 
never  mind,  nevy — let  her  go,  and  sink 
with  them  too.  If  we  get  out  of  this  scrape, 
I  can  still  leave  you  something  handsome 
that  they  can't  touch."  ''  Don't  talk  about 
that,  uncle,"  said  Mark  ;  "  but  they  shan't 
keep  the  brig  when  I  learn  who  has  her." 
Launcelot  gave  his  nephew  a  slap  upon  the 
shoulder,  and  cried — "  Well  said,  boy  !  I 
like  you  better  and  better,  Mark." 

The  day  passed  on,  and  they  had  seen 
people  nt  a  distance,  but  none  observed 
them.  A.  little  before  midnight  they  left 
their  retreat  among  the  hills,  and  began 
to  descend  towards  Bamborough.  Now, 
the  father  of  Sally  Beadnell  was  a  farmer, 
and  his  house  lay  about  a  mile  distant 
from  Bamborough  Castle,  and  it  was 
drawing  towards  three  o'clock  in  a  winter 
morning,  when  a  gentle  tapping  was  heard 
at  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  Sally 
slept. 

*'  Who's  there  .?"  she  inquired,  in  a  low 
and  timid  voice. 

"It  is  me,  Sally— Mark  !"  was  the 
answer. 


"  Mark  !"  she  responded,  in  a  low  faint 
tone  of  astonishment,  and  approaching  the 
window,  anxiously  whispered — "  Don't 
speak,  darling  ! — don't  stir  I — lest  you  be 
heard  !  I  will  come  to  you  in  a  minuto  ! 
But,  oh  !  why  have  you  ventured  here  .?" 

"  There  is  to  be  danger  here  too," 
muttered  Launcelot. 

Mark  shook  his  head,  and  in  the  same 
manner  answered — '^  I  doubt  it." 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  door  was  gently 
turned  upon  its  hinges,  and  a  female  issued 
from  the  house.  Even  the  dim  starlight 
of  the  morning  revealed  that  she  was  young 
and  beautiful.  She  started,  when,  instead 
of  meeting  her  fugitive  lover,  she  beheld 
two  tall,  uncouth-looking  fishwomen,  with 
creels  upon  their  backs,  before  her. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Sally,  dear,"  whis- 
pered Mark,  approaching  her — "  it  is 
me.     You  must  save  my  life,  love  !" 

She  threw  herself  in  his  arms,  and  said 
— '^  O  Mark! — dear  Mark! — why  have 
you  ventured  here  ?  How  can  I  save  you  .'* 
You  are  surrounded  by  the  government 
soldiers.  We  are  suspected  of  harboring 
you  as  it  is,  and  two  of  them  are  billeted, 
I  think  they  call  it,  in  the  house.  Oh  ! 
where  can  you  go  ? — where  can  I  hide 
you }  I  have  heard  even  our  servants 
saying,  amongst  themselves,  that  they 
wished  they  could  get  the  five  hundred 
pounds  that  are  set  upon  your  head  !" 

Mark  was  silent ;  and  his  uncle  added 
— "  This  is  no  harbor  for  us,  lad — we  must 
push  our  boat  off  in  another  direction, 
though  it  be  through  the  breakers.  There 
is  no  help  for  it  now.  It  is  only  dying  at 
the  worst,  and  we  have  met  death  in  the 
face  many  a  time." 

Sally  clung  around  Mark's  neck  and 
wept. 

'^  Don't  cry,  dear,"  said  he  ;  "  since  it 
is  so,  and  we  can  have  no  shelter  here,  we 
must  just  risk  every  danger,  and  try  to 
find  our  way  to  Foster's  army.  Belike 
you  can  tell  us,  love,  where  it  now  is  .^" 

"  Alas  I"  replied  she,  and  she  wept 
more  bitterly,  "  he  has  no  army  now.     I 


ADVENTURES  OF  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTON. 


569 


heard  the  soldiers  in  the  house  telling  my 
father  how  the  rebels,  as  they  called  them, 
had  all  been  defeated  and  made  prisoners, 
and  that  the  gallant  Derwentwater  was  in 
the  Tower,  and  Squire  Foster  in  a  place 
they  call  Newgate."  The  uncle  and  the 
nephew  exchanged  looks  with  each  other 
■ — they  were  looks  of  grief. 

"  Let  us  fight  for  it,  Mark,"  said 
Launcelot,  bitterly  ;  "  and  if  we  can't 
escape  from  the  country,  we  shall  die  in 
the  attempt.  I  say,  girl,  it  is  not  in  your 
power  to  conceal  us  ;  but  your  father  has 
arms  in  the  house — pistols,  powder,  bul- 
lets— get  us  them  !  If  you  love  Mark — 
if  you  would  give  him  a  chance  for  his  life 
— go  bring  them  !" 

Her  head  fell  as  if  lifeless  on  her  lover's 
arm. 

"  Sally !  Sally  dear  I"  said  he,  and  he 
kissed  her  cheek  as  he  spoke — "'  look 
up — speak  to  us  — we  cannot  stay — get  us 
the  pistols — we  shall  meet  hereafter  !" 

"Hereafter!"  repeated  the  agonized 
girl  ;  "  no,  no,  you  cannot  go — you  could 
not  escape.  They  are  still  in  search  of 
you  over  the  whole  country."  She  was 
silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  ao-ain  add- 
ed — "  I  think — I  think  I  could  conceal 
you  for  a  few  days — perhaps  until  they 
have  done  searching  for  you  in  these  parts. 
There  is  a  pea-stack  behind  the  house 
here  ;  the  straw  is  loose  on  the  top  of  it, 
and  the  wind  can't  reach  it.  1  think  no 
one  would  find  you  there,  and  I  could  bring 
you  food  every  night.'' 

"  Bless  thee,  my  own  sweet  one  !"  said 
Mark.  "  Ay,  bless  her,  indeed  !"  added 
Launcelot — "  she  is  a  good  girl." 

She  conducted  them  to  the  pea-stack ;  and 
when  she  had  seen  the  straw  drawn  over 
them,  she  stole  again  to  the  house.  Each 
ni^ht  she  visited  them,  communicatinjy  to 
them,  in  anxious  whisperings,  all  that  she 
had  heard  during  the  day,  and  of  the  search 
that  was  still  made  after  them.  But,  al- 
thou2rh  her  father  was  fond  of  Mark,  she 
feared  to  communicate  to  him  what  she  had 
done  ;  for  a  traitor's  daath  was  denounced 


against  any  one  who  should  be  found  guilty 
of  harboring  or  concealing  the  Erring- 
tons. 

On  the  third  day  after  their  concealment, 
the  two  soldiers  who  were  billeted  in  the 
house  came  forth,  and  leanincc  against  the 
stack,  began  to  pull  the  peas  from  it. 

"  It  is  plaguy  strange,"  said  the  one  to 
the  other,  "  that  nothing  has  been  heard 
about  these  fellows,  the  Erringtons.  / 
thought,  when  we  were  sent  here,  that  we 
stood  a  good  chance  of  dividing  the  reward 
between  us  ;  for  I  expected,  from  all  that 
I  had  heard,  to  find  the  young  one  skulk- 
ing about  the  place." 

"  And  I  believe  he  is  nearabouts,  too," 
answered  the  other  ;  "  I  could  swear  the 
girl  Sally  knows  where  he  is.  I  observe 
she  watches  every  step  we  take." 

So  saying,  they  returned  to  the  house, 
leaving  the  fugitives,  for  whose  lives  they 
sought,  and  who  had  overheard  them,  with 
the  disagreeable  consciousness  that  the 
neighborhood  in  which  they  were  conceal- 
ed was  more  than  suspected.  Nine  days 
passed  on,  and  they  remained  undiscover- 
ed in  their  painful  hiding-place.  But,  on 
the  tenth  night,  the  thrasher  or  barn-man 
came  into  the  room  where  Mr.  Beadnell 
and  his  family  sat,  and  inquired,  "  What 
stack  he  should  begin  to  thrash  next  .'*" 

"■  The  poa-stack,  John,"  answered  Mr. 
Beadnell. 

''  No  !  oh  no  !  it  must  not  be  thrashed 
to-morrow!"  exclaimed  his  daughter  hur- 
riedly ;  and  her  looks  yet  more  plainly  be- 
spoke her  agitation. 

The  barn-man  was  a  sln-ewd  man,  and 
he  failed  not  to  observe  her  confusion, 
and  while  he  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon  her, 
he  beo;an  to  ruminate  on  its  cause. 

"  What  do  you  mea;i,  Sally,  love  .?"  in- 
quired her  father  ;  "  why  may  not  the 
stack  be  thrashed  to-morrow  .''" 

"  Because — because,"  answered  she 
falteringly,  "  I  wish — John  to  go  to  Aln- 
wick for  me." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  repHed  her  father — 
"  he  may  go." 


570 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS, 


"  Very  well,"  repeated  the  barn-man  ; 
"  at  what  hour  must  1  be  ready,  Ma'am  ?" 
But  there  was  a  withering  smile  on  his  face 
as  he  spoke.  He  looked  as  a  man  who  has 
found  a  treasure,  and  wishes  to  conceal  it. 

"  At  six,"  faltered  the  trembling  girl. 

When  the  barn-man  withdrew,  Mr. 
Beadnell  desired  his  other  children  to  go 
into  the  kitchen,  and  said — "  I  must 
speak  to  you,  Sally."  She  placed  her 
hands  before  her  eyes  and  sobbed  aloud. 
"  Come  dear,"  said  he,  soothingly,  "  I  am 
not  angry  with  you ;  but  you  have  not 
acted  fairly  with  me,  Sally.  You  know 
where  Mark  Errington  is — you  have  him 
concealed."  "  Father!  father!"  she  ex- 
claimed, wringmg  her  hands — "  oh,  do  not 
betray  my  poor  Mark!"  "Me  betray 
him  !  silly  girl !"  said  he  ;  "  Why  would 
you  not  trust  your  father  ? — you  knew  that 
I  was  his  friend.  You  have  betrayed  him, 
Sally  I"  "  Oh  !  no,  no  !"  she  cried— ^'  do 
not  say  so  !  how  have  I  betrayed  him  .^" 
"  Is  he  not  concealed  about  the  pea-stack  .^" 
added  he.  "  Yes,"  replied  she,  trembling- 
ly, and  wept  the  more  ;  "  he  and  his  uncle 
have  been  concealed  there  these  nine  days." 
"  Nine  days  .^"  said  her  father  ;  "  Sally, 
you  are  a  strange  girl.  I  suspected  that 
you  knew  where  they  were  ;  but  now  the 
old  knave  of  a  barn-man  knows  where  they 
are  also,  and  before  morning  he  will  betray 
them.  They  must  leave  this  place  this 
very  hour,  or  their  blood  will  be  on  our 
head." 

The  father  and  his  daughter  crept  slow- 
ly to  the  stack  where  the  fugitives  lay. 
They  informed  them  of  their  place  of  re- 
treat being  known ;  and  the  honest  farmer, 
furnishing  them  with  money,  provisions, 
and  the  garb  of  countrymen,  urged  them 
to  fly  for  their  lives,  and  offered  up  a  brief 
but  earnest  prayer  for  their  protection. 

The  parting  of  Mark  and  Sally  was 
abrupt  but  agonizing  ;  and  even  his  uncle 
let  fall  a  tear  upon  her  hand,  as  he  took 
it  to  bid  her  farewell. 

Within  three  hours  from  the  time  of 
their  departure,  and  when  the  family  had 


retired  to  rest,  but  neither  the  father  nor 
his  daughter  to  sleep,  the  barn-man,  with 
a  party  of  soldiers  from  the  castle,  arrived, 
and  surrounding  the  stack,  they  thrust 
their  bayonets  into  it,  and  began  to  level 
it  with  the  ground.  Disappointed  in  find- 
ing their  expected  prey,  they  proceeded 
to  search  the  house,  which  Mr.  Beadnell 
said  they  were  welcome  to  do  ;  and,  taking 
his  treacherous  servant  by  the  throat,  he 
dragged  him  to  the  door,  in  the  presence 
of  the  soldiers,  flinging  his  wages  after 
him. 

Concealing  themselves  in  the  moors  by 
day,  and  travelling  by  night,  on  the  third 
night  after  leaving  Bamborough,  Launcelot 
and  his  nephew  arrived  at  Gateshead 
House,  where  they  obtained  shelter ; 
and,  after  remaining  there  a  few  days, 
hearing  of  a  vessel  that  was  about  to  sail 
from  Sunderland  to  France,  the  gentle- 
man who  was  then  concealing  them  pro-  { 
cured  them  a  passage  in  her.  They  arriv- 
ed at  Sunderland  about  midnight,  and,  be- 
fore daybreak,  once  more  breathed  their 
ocean  air  upon  its  bosom. 

After  their  arrival  in  France,  Mark 
kept  up  his  correspondence  with  Sally 
Beadnell,  trusting  to  see  better  days,  and 
cheering  her  with  the  hope  that  they 
would  see  them.  In  one  of  her  letters, 
there  was  the  following  passage — "  A 
neighbor  of  ours,  the  rich  old  man  that 
always  used  to  try  to  set  my  father  against 
you,  and  strive  to  get  him  to  marry  me  to 
him,  has  got  your  uncle's  ship.  She  was 
'fiscated,  I  think  they  call  it.  He  got  it 
for  a  mere  trifle — father  says  for  nothing 
at  all,  but  for  some  low  work  that  he  did 
for  the  government.  She  was  brought 
into  North  Sunderland,  and  I  hear  is  to 
sail  for  some  place  they  call  Hamburgh  ; 
and  if  that  be  anyway  near  where  you  are, 
I  think  it  is  a  pity  but  that  you  and  your 
uncle  could  go  there  and  take  her — for 
every  man  has  a  right  for  his  own."  So 
wrote  Sally  Beadnell.  Mark  showed  the 
letter  to  his  uncle.  "  Nevy,"  said  Launce- 
lot, after  perusing  it,  "  I  always  said  Sally 


ADVENTURES  OF  LAUNCELOT  ERRINGTON. 


571 


was  a  sensible  girl.  I'll  buy  her  her  wed- 
ding-dress for  that  letter.  We  will  off  to 
Hamburgh  to-morrow.  The  brig  is  mine  .? 
No  man,  no  king,  nobody  had  a  right  to 
take  her  from  me.  I  bought  her  with  my 
own  money — I  have  ventured  my  life  in 
her.  She  shall  be  mine  again.  I  say  it ! 
Set  us  make  ready  for  Hamburgh,  Mark." 

Two  days  before  the  brig  was  to  sail 
from  Hamburgh  for  London,  two  strangers, 
apparently  German  merchants,  wearing 
beards  and  mustachios,  came  on  board, 
and  in  broken  English  bargained  for  their 
passage.  The  terms  were  agreed  upon 
and  the  money  paid. 

It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night,  and 
the  vessel  had  not  proceeded  twenty  miles 
from  the  land.  The  two  merchants  were 
walking  the  deck  together.  They  separat- 
ed ;  and  the  one  suddenly  dashed  the  man 
at  the  helm  upon  the  deck,  while  the  other, 
seizing  the  hatchway,  placed  it  over  the 
forecastle,  and  standing  upon  it,  drew  a 
pistol  and  presented  it  at  the  head  of  the  sea- 
seaman  on  watch.  It  was  the  work  of  a 
moment. 

"  Tie  your  prisoner,  Mark,"  cried  he 
who  stood  over  the  forecastle,  "  and  shoot 
the  skipper,  if  he  peep  from  the  cabin  to 
show  resistance."  The  captain  was  in  the 
habit  of  indulging  in  "  potations  pottle 
deep,"  and  at  the  moment  was  in  no  con- 
dition to  offer  effective  resistance.  Before, 
therefore,  he  was  aroused  from  his  fit  of 
stupefaction,  Mark  had  bound  the  helms- 
man, and  left  him  helpless  on  the  deck ; 
and  as  the  skipper  reeled  up  the  cabin 
stairs,  he  shouted,  as  he  ascended — 
"  Hollo  !  hollo  there  ! — what  are  you 
after  ?  I  hope  none  o'  you  are  uncivil  to 
the  strange  gentlemen,  eh.^" — and  this 
was  spoken  with  sundry  well  know  drunk- 
en interruptions.  The  moment  that  he 
had  raised  his  head  above  the  deck,  Mark 
burst  into  his  wonted  laugh,  and  grasping 
him  by  the  breast,  said — "  Come  up  old 
boy,  and  I'll  show  you  what  we  are  after  !" 

Thus  saying,  he  pulled  him  upon  the 
deck,  and  laid  him  prostrate  by  the  side 


of  the  helmsman.  The  skipper  fumed, 
kicked,  and  raged  most  wickedly.  But 
Mark,  causing  him  to  feel  the  cold  muzzle 
of  a  pistol  on  his  cheek,  and  threatening, 
at  the  same  time,  to  give  him  its  contents 
through  his  head  if  he  struggled  more,  he 
suddenly  sobered  down  into  tranquillity, 
and  suffered  his  hands  and  feet  to  be  bound. 

Mark  now  proceeded  to  assist  his  uncle, 
who  still  stood  on  the  hatchway,  over  the 
forecastle,  in  which  the  rest  of  the  crew 
clamored  lustily,  demanding  to  know  the 
cause  of  their  confinement,  and  shouting 

promiscuously "  Mutiny  ! — Piracy  ! — 

Murder  I" 

"  Silence,  ye  rascals !"  vociferated 
Launcelot,  stamping  his  foot  upon  the 
hatchway  ;  "  I  am  Launce  Errington,  if 
ever  you  heard  of  such  a  man — this  ship 
is  mine — I  bought  her  and  never  sold  her — 
and  death  to  the  first  man  who  disputes 
my  right  to  command  her  !" 

"  Launcelot  Errington  !"  exclaimed  the 
men  confined  in  the  forecastle,  in  a  tone 
which  bespoke  that  a  sudden  "  change  had 
come  over  the  spirit  of  their  dream." 

"  My  old  master  !"  cried  the  man  who 
ha'd  been  on  the  watch,  and  at  whose  head 
the  pistol  had,  till  now,  been  levelled — 
"  Forgive  me.  Sir,"  added  he — "  I  am 
your  old  cabin-boy,  Bill  Smith  of  North 
Shields,  that  sailed  with  you  twenty  years 
ago,  and,  for  your  kindness  to  me  then,  I 
am  ready  to  go  to  Davy  Jones  with  you, 
if  you  say  the  word." 

^'  Bravo,  Bill,  my  lad  ! — give  me  your 
hand,"  said  Launcelot ;  "I  remember 
you  now,"  and  he  thrust  the  pistol  into 
the  breast-pocket  of  a  greatcoat  which  he 
wore.  And  as  the  seaman  shook  the  hands 
of  his  old  master  he  added — "  And  be  this 
your  nevy.  Master  Mark,  that  took  Holy 
Island  with  you,  Sir — the  Castle,  I  mean  .?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Launcelot,  "  this  is  my 
nevy,  your  commander  that  will  be  ;  for 
I  don't  intend  to  sail  the  brig  myself,  and 
neither  will  I  part  with  you,  Bill." 

"  Ah,  master  !  you're  the  old  man," 
said  the  seaman.     "  Never  heard  an  ill 


572 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


word  of  you.  You  were  always  a-doing 
good  to  somebody."  Mark  shook  Bill 
Smith  by  the  hand,  and  said  he  "  liked  to 
meet  a  fellow  that  had  gratitude  aboard, 
and  didn't  forget  old  friends."  For  some 
minutes  the  crew,  who  were  cooped  up  in 
the  forecastle,  were  silent,  listening  to 
what  was  passing  over  their  heads. 

"Master,"  added  Bill  Smith,  "I  see 
Master  Mark  has  got  the  skipper  of  the 
brig  that  was,  and  his  mate,  fast  enough 
aft  there  ;  and  I'm  sure  there  is  only  one 
of  my  messmates  below  that  wont  stand 
by  you  as  stiffly  as  1  will." 

The  hatchway  was  removed,  and  the 
crew  were  let  up  one  by  one,  each  taking 
a  vow,  before  he  was  permitted  to  put  his 
foot  upon  the  deck,  that  he  would  be  true 
to  the  real  owner  and  master  of  the  vessel. 
But,  as  the  last  man  made  his  appearance — 
"  Ah  !  don't  trust  him,"  said  Bill  Smith  ; 
"  that  is  him  I  meant — I  would'nt  believe 
him  on  his  oath.  Set  him  adrift  with  the 
skipper  and  mate." 

"  I'll  trust  to  you,  Bill,"  said  Launcelot. 

The  stern -boat  was  lowered,  and  in  it 
were  placed  a  quantity  of  biscuits,  beef, 
water,  and  rum.  The  skipper  and  mate 
were  hoisted  over  the  side  of  the  vessel 
into  it,  and  after  them  the  seaman,  whom 
Bill  Smith  said  was  7wt  to  be  trusted. 
Launcelot  eagerly  siezed,  the  helm  of  his 
old  vessel — as  eagerly  as  along  absent  son 
would  embrace  his  mother — and  steering 
away  from  them,  with  a  loud  voice  wished 
them  "■  Good  bye  !" 

They  had  sailed  about  a  league,  when 
he  called  his  nephew  to  him,  and  said — 
"  JN  ow,  Mark,  my  lad,  you  are  to  pass 
yourself  off  for  the  skipper  whom  we  have 
set  adrift.  I  shall  act  as  j^our  mate.  Wc 
shall  proceed  direct  to  London,  deliver  the 


cargo  as  consigned,  and  I  am  off  with  my 
vessel  again — and,  in  taking  my  own,  who 
dare  say  that  I  rob  any  man  .^" 

They  arrived  in  London,  the  cargo  was 
delivered.  They  were  ready  to  sail  for 
France,  when  Launcelot  heard  that  his 
old  friend,  Mr.  Foster,  late  member  for 
Northumberland,  and  General  of  the 
Chevalier's  forces  south  of  the  Tweed, 
was  still  in  Newgate,  and  that  in  a  few 
weeks  he  would  be  led  to  the  scaffold. 
Launcelot  had  risked  his  life  frequently, 
and  he  was  not  the  man  who  would  not 
risk  it  again  to  save  a  friend.  In  the  dis- 
guise of  a  Northumbrian  farmer  he  gained 
admission  into  Newgate.  How  he  accom- 
plished the  rest  of  his  task  remains  a 
mystery ;  but  certain  it  is,  that  with  him 
General  Foster  escaped  from  his  cell,  and 
in  the  brig  was  conveyed  safely  to  France. 

I  have  but  little  more  to  add  ;  Laun- 
celot Errington  gave  up  the  brig  to  his 
nephew,  who  continued  to  trade  with  suc- 
cess from  the  French  ports  to  the  Medi- 
terranean. When  a  general  pardon  was 
granted  to  all  who  had  been  engaged  in  the 
Chevalier's  cause,  the  uncle  and  nephew 
returned  to  their  native  land.  Launcelot 
lived  for  more  than  thirty  years  after  his 
taking  of  Holy  Island  fortress,  and  died 
in  Newcastle  in  1746,  from  grief  and  old 
ase,  on  hearing  the  result  of  the  battle  of 
Culloden. 

1  have  but  another  word  to  add  respect- 
ing his  nejjhew  Mark.  When  he  return- 
ed to  his  native  land,  Sally  Beadnell  gave 
him  her  hand  ;  and  to  their  children  and 
their  grandchildren,  when  half  a  century 
had  passed,  they  told  the  tale  of  Holy  Is- 
land Castle,  of  Berwick  gaol,  and  the  pea- 
stack  ;  and  if  there  be  aught  strange  in 
it,  it  is  as  true  as  strange. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STORM. 


573 


THE     MOUNTAIN     STORM. 


For  several  days  tlie  wind  had  "been  east- 
erly, with  an  intense  frost.  At  last, 
however,  the  weather  subsided  into  a  calm 
and  dense  fog,  under  which,  at  mid-day, 
it  was  difficult  to  find  one's  way  amidst 
those  mountain  tracts  along  which,  in 
general,  my  route  lay.  The  grass  and 
heath  were  absolutely  loaded  with  hoar 
frost.  My  cheeks  became  encompassed 
by  a  powdered  covering  ;  my  breath  was 
intensely  visible,  and  floated  and  lingered 
about  my  face  with  an  oppressive  and  al- 
most sufibcating  density.  No  sun,  moon, 
or  star  had  appeared  for  upwards  of  forty- 
eight  hours  ;  when,  according  to  my  pre- 
concerted plan,  I  reached  the  farm  town 
of  Burnfoot,  I  was  now  in  the  centre  of 
Queensberry  Hills,  the  most  notable  sheep 
pasturage  in  the  south  of  Scotland.  It 
was  about  three  o'clock  of  the  15th  day  of 
January,  when,  under  a  cheerful  welcome 
from  the  guidwife,  I  rested  my  pack  (for, 
be  it  known,  I  belong  to  this  class  of  pe- 
ripatetic merchants)  upon  the  meal  ark, 
disengaged  my  arms  from  the  leather  straps 
by  which  the  pack  was  suspended  from 
my  shoulders,  and  proceeded  to  light  my 
pipe  at  the  blazing  peat-fire.  Refresh- 
ments, such  as  are  best  suited  to  the 
packmaii's  drouth^  were  soon  and  amply 
supplied,  and  I  had  the  happiness  of  see- 
ing my  old  acquaintances  (for  I  visited 
Burnfoot  twice  a-year,  on  my  going  and 
coming  from  Glasgow  to  Manchester) 
drop  in  from  their  several  avocations,  one 
after  another,  and  all  truly  rejoiced  to  be- 
hold my  face,  and  still  more  delighted  to 
inspect  the  treasure  and  the  wonders  of 
"  the  pack."  At  last  the  guidman  him- 
self suspended  his  plaid  from  the  mid-door 
head,  put  off  his  shoes  and  leggings,  as- 
sumed his  slippers,  together  with  his  pre- 
scriptive seat  at  the  head  or  upper  end  of 


the  lang-settle.  The  guidwife,  returning 
butt  from  bedding  the  youngest  of  some 
half-score  of  children,  welcomed  her  hus- 
band with  a  look  of  the  most  genuine  af- 
fection. She  put  a  little  creepy  stool  un- 
der his  feet,  felt  that  his  clothes  were  not 
wet,  scolded  the  dogs  to  a  respectful  dis- 
tance, and  inspired  the  peats  inio  a  double 
blaze.  The  oldest  daughter,  now  "  wo- 
man grown,"  sat  combing  the  hoar  frost 
from  her  raven  locks,  and  looking  out  from 
beneath  beautifully  arched  and  bushy 
eyebrows  upon  the  interesting  addition 
which  had  been  made  to  the  meal  ark. 
Some  half  a  score  of  healthy  lads  and 
lasses  occupied  the  bench  ayont  the  fire, 
o'er  canopied  by  sheep-skins,  aprons, 
stockings,  and  footless  hose.  The  dogs, 
after  various  and  somewhat  noisy  differ- 
ences had  been  adjusted,  fell  into  order 
and  position  around  the  hearth,  enjoying 
the  warmth,  and  licking,  peacefully  and 
carefully,  the  wet  from  their  sides.  The 
cat,  by  this  time,  had  made  a  returning 
motion  from  the  cupboard  head,  from 
which  she  had  been  watching  the  arrange- 
ments and  movements  beneath.  As  this 
appeared  to  "  Help  "  to  be  an  infringe- 
ment of  the  terms  of  armistice  and  of  the 
frontier  laws,  he  sprang  with  eagerness 
over  the  hearth.  Pussy,  finding  it  danger- 
ous, under  this  sudden  and  somewhat  un- 
expected movement,  "  dare  terga,^^  in- 
stantly drew  up  her  whole  body  into  an 
attitude,  not  only  of  defence,  but  defi- 
ance ;  curving  herself  into  a  bristling 
crescent,  with  the  head  of  a  dragon  at- 
tached  to  it,  and  with  one  horrid  hiss  and 
sputter,  compelled  Help  first  to  hesitate 
and  then  to  retreat. 

"  Three  paces  back  the  youth  retired, 
And  saved  himself  Irora  harm." 

The  guidwife,  however — who  seemed 


574 


TALES  OP  TPIE  BORDERS. 


not  unaccustomed  to  such  demonstrations, 
and  who  manifestly  acted  on  the  humane 
principle  of  assisting  the  weaker,  by  as- 
sailing the  stronger  combatant  —  gave 
Help  such  demonstrations  of  her  inten- 
tions, as  at  once  reduced  matters  to  the 
status  quo  ante  helium.  (I  have  as  good 
a  right  to  scholarship  as  my  brother  pack- 
man, Plato,  who  carried  oil  to  Egypt.) 
Thus  peace  and  good  order  being  restored, 
the  treasures  of  my  burden  became  an  im- 
mediate and  a  universal  subject  of  inquiry. 
I  was  compelled,  nothing  loath,  to  unstrap 
my  various  packages,  and  disclose  to  view 
all  the  varied  treasures  of  the  spindle  and 
loom.  Shawls  were  spread  out  into  enor- 
mous display,  with  central,  and  corner, 
and  border  ornam.ents,  the  most  amazing 
and  the  most  fashionable  ;  waist-coat 
pieces  of  every  stripe  and  figure,  from  the 
straight  line  to  the  circle,  of  every  hue 
and  coloring  which  the  rainbow  exhibits, 
were  unfolded  in  the  presence  and  under 
the  scrutinizing  thumb  of  many  purchasers. 
The  guidwife  herself  half  coaxed  and  half 
scolded  a  fine  remnant  of  Flanders  lace, 
of  most  tempting  aspect,  out  of  the  guid- 
man's  reluctant  pocket.  The  very  dogs 
seemed  anxious  to  be  accommodated,  and 
applied  their  noses  to  some  unopened 
bales,  with  a  knowing  look  of  inquiry. 
Things  were  proceeding  in  this  manner, 
when  the  door  opened,  and  there  entered 
a  young  man  of  the  most  prepossessing 
appearance  ;  in  fact,  what  Burns  terms  a 
"  strapping  youth."  I  would  observe 
that,  at  his  entrance,  the  daughter "'s  eye 
(of  whom  I  had  formerly  made  mention) 
immediately  kindled  into  an  expression  of 
the  most  universal  kindness  and  benevo- 
lence. Hitherto  she  had  taken  but  a 
limited  interest  in  what  was  ffoina;  on ;  but 
now  she  became  the  most  prominent  figure 
in  the  group — whilst  the  mother  dusted  a 
chair  for  the  welcome  stranger  with  her 
apron,  and  the  guidman  welcomed  him 
with  a — 

"  Come  away,  Willie  Wilson,  an'  tak  a 
seat.     The  nicht's  gay  dark  an'  dreary. 


I  wonder  hoo  ye  cleared  the  Whitstane 
Cleugh  and  the  Side  Scaur,  man,  on  sic 
an  eerie  nicht.'' 

''  Indeed,"  responded  the  stranger, 
casting  a  look,  in  the  meantime,  towards 
the  guidman's  buxom,  and,  indeed,  lovely 
daughter — "  indeed,  it's  an  unco  fearfu 
nicht — sic  a  mist  and  sic  a  cauld  I  hae 
seldom  if  ever  encountered  ;  but  I  dinna 
ken  hoo  it  was — I  couldna  rest  at  hame 
till  I  had  tellt  ye  a'  the  news  o'  the  last 
Langhom  market." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  interrupted  the  guidwife  ; 
"  the  last  Langhom  market,  man,  is  an 
auld  tale  noo,  I  trow.  Na,  na,  yer  mither's 
son  camna  here  on  sic  a  nicht,  and  at  sic 
an  hour,  on  sic  an  unmeaning  errand" — 
finishing  her  sentence,  however,  by  a  whis- 
per into  Willie's  ear,  which  brought  a 
deeper  red  into  his  cheek,  and  seemed  to 
operate  in  a  similar  manner  on  the  appa- 
rently deeply  engaged  daughter. 

"  But,  Watty,"  continued  my  fair  pur- 
chaser, "  you  must  give  me  this  Bible  a 
little  cheaper — it's  owre  dear,  man — heard 
ever  onybody  o'  five  white  shillings  gien 
for  a  Bible,  and  it  only  a  New  Testament, 
after  a'  ? — it's  baith  a  sin  an'  a  shame, 
Watty  !" 

After  some  suitable  reluctance,  I  was 
on  the  point  of  reducing  the  price  by  a 
single  sixpence,  when  Willie  Wilson  ad- 
vanced towards  the  pack,  and,  at  once 
taking  up  the  book  and  the  conversa- 
tion— 

"  Owi'e  dear,  Jessie,  ray  dear  !  —  it's 
the  word  o'  God,  ye  ken — his  ain  precious 
word ;  and  I'll  e'en  mak  ye  a  present  o' 
the  book,  at  Watty's  ain  price.  Ye  ken 
he  maun  live,  as  we  a'  do,  by  his  trade." 

The  money  was  instantly  paid  down 
from  a  purse  pretty  well  filled  ;  for  Wil- 
liam Wilson  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy  and 
much  respected  sheep-farmer  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  had  had  his  name  once  call- 
ed in  the  kirk,  along  with  that  of  "  Janet 
Harkness  of  Burnfoot,  both  in  this 
parish." 

"  Hoot,  noo,  bairns,"  rejoined  the  mo-  t 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STORM. 


575 


ther  ;  "  ye 're  baith  wrang — that  Bible 
"winua  do  ava.  Ye  maun  hae  a  big  ha' 
Bible  to  take  the  bulk  wi',  and  worship 
the  God  o'  yer  fathers  nicht  an'  morning, 
as  they  hae  dune  afore  ye  ;  and  Watty 
will  bring  ye  ane  frae  Glasgow  the  next 
time  he  comes  roun  ;  and  it  will,  maybe, 
usefu,  ye  ken,  in  anither  way.'''' 

"  Tout,  mither,  wi'  yer  nonsense,"  in- 
terrupted the  conscious  bride  ;  "  I  never 
liked  to  see  my  name  and  age  marked  and 
pointed  out  to  onybody  on  oor  muckle 
Bible  ;  sae  just  baud  yer  tongue,  mither, 
and  tak  a  present  frae  William  and  ?7ie," 
added  she,  blushing  deeply,  "  o'  that  big 
printed  Testament.  The  minister,  ye  ken, 
seldom  meddles  wi'  the  auld  Bible,  unless 
it  be  a  bit  o'  the  psalms  ;  and  yer  een  now 
are  no  sae  gleg  as  they  were  whan  ye  were 
married  to  my  faither  there." 

The  father,  overcome  by  this  well-timed 
and  well-directed  evidence  of  goodness, 
piety,  and  filial  affection,  rose  from  his 
seat  on  the  lang  settle,  and  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  pronounced  a  most  fervent  bene- 
diction over  the  shoulders  of  his  child. 

"  O  God  in  heaven,  bless  and  preserve 
my  dear  Jessie!"  said  he  —  his  child's 
tears  now  falling  fast  and  faster.  ''  Oh, 
may  the  God  of  thy  fathers  make  thee 
happy — thee  and  thine — him  there  and 
his  ! — and  when  thy  mother's  grey  hairs 
and  mine  are  laid  and  hid  in  the  dust, 
mayst  thou  have  children,  such  as  thy  fond 
and  dutiful  self,  to  bless  and  comfort,  to  re- 
joice and  support  thy  heart !" 

There  was  not,  by  this  time,  a  dry  eye 
in  the  family  ;  and,  as  a  painful  silence 
was  on  the  point  of  succeeding  to  this 
outbreaking  of  nature,  the  venerable  pa- 
rent slowly  and  deliberately  took  down 
the  big  ha'  Bible  from  its  bole  in  the  wall, 
and,  placing  it  on  the  lang-settle  table,  he 
proceeded  to  family  worship  with  the  usu- 
al solemn  prefatory  annunciation — '^  Let 
tis  worship  God." 

Love,  filial  affection,  and  piety — what 
a  noble,  what  a  beautiful  triumvirate  ! 
By  means  of  these,  Scotland  has  rendered 


herself  comparatively  great,  independent, 
and  happy.  These  are  the  graces  which, 
in  beautiful  union,  have  protected  her 
liberties,  sweetened  her  enjoyments,  and 
exalted  her  head  amongst  the  nations,  and 
which,  over  all,  have  cast  an  expression 
and  a  feature  irresistibly  winning  and  na- 
tionally characteristic.  It  is  over  such 
scenes  as  the  kitchen  fireside  of  Burnfoot, 
now  presented,  that  the  soul  hovers  with 
ever-awakening  and  ever-intenser  delight ; 
that,  even  amidst  the  coldness,  and  uncon- 
cern, and  irreligion  of  an  iron  age,  the 
mind,  at  least  at  intervals,  is  redeemed 
into  ecstacy,  and  feels,  in  spite  of  habit, 
and  example,  and  deadened  apprehen 
sions,  that  there  is  a  beauty  in  pure  and 
virgin  love,  a  depth  in  genuine  and  spon- 
taneous filial  regard,  and  an  impulse  in 
communion  with  Him  that  is  most  high, 
which,  even  when  taken  separately,  are 
hallowing,  sacred,  and  elevating  ;  but 
which,  when  blended  and  softened  down 
into  one  great  and  leading  feature,  prove 
incontestibly  that  man  is,  in  his  origin  and 
unalloyed  nature,  but  a  little  lower  than 
the  angels. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  matters  in  this 
sequestered  and  sanctified  dwelling,  when 
the  house  seemed,  all  at  once,  to  be  smit- 
ten, like  Job's,  at  the  four  corners.  The 
soot  fell  in  showers  into  the  grate ;  the 
rafters  creaked  ;  the  dust  descended  , 
every  door  in  the  house  rattled  on  its 
sneck  and  hinges ;  and  the  very  dogs 
sprung  at  once  from  their  slumbers  and 
barked.  There  was  something  so  awful 
in  the  suddenness  and  violence  of  the  com- 
motion, that  the  prayer  was  abruptly  and 
suddenly  brought  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Ay,  fearfu,  sirs  V  were  John  Hark- 
ness'  first  words  when  springing  to  his 
feet ;  ^'  but  there  is  an  awfa  nicht.  Open 
the  outer  door,  Jamie,  and  let  us  see  what 
it  is  like."  The  outer  door  was  opened; 
but  the  drift  burst  in  with  such  a  suffocat- 
ing swirl,  that  a  strong  lad  who  encoun- 
tered it,  reeled  and  gasped  for  breath. 

"  The  hogs  !"  exclaimed  the  guidman, 


576 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


''  and  the  gimmers  !— where  did  ye  leave 
them,  Jamie  ?" 

*'  In  Capleslacks,"  was  the  answer,  "  by 
east  the  Dod.  The  wind  has  set  in  frac 
the  nor'-cast,  and  fifty  score  o'  sheep,  if 
this  continue,  will  never  see  the  morn- 
ing." 

But  what  was  to  be  done  .'* 

"  The  wind  blew  as  'twould  blawn  its  last,'' 

and  the  whole  atmosphere  was  one  almost 
solid  wreath  of  penetrating  snow  ;  when 
you  thrust  forth  your  hand  into  the  open 
air,  it  was  as  if  you  had  perforated  an  ice- 
berg. Burnfoot  stands  at  the  convergence 
of  two  mountain  glens,  adown  one  of 
which  the  tempest  came  as  from  a  funnel 
—  collected,  compressed,  irresistible. 
There  was  a  momentary  look  of  sus- 
pense— every  one  eyeing  the  rest  with 
an  expression  of  indecision  and  utter 
helplessness.  The  young  couple,  by 
some  law  of  affinity,  stood  together  in 
a  corner.  The  shepherd  lads,  with 
Jamie  Hogg  at  their  head,  were  em- 
ployed in  adjusting  plaids  to  their  per- 
sons. The  guidman  had  already  resumed 
his  leggings,  and  the  dogs  were  all  ex- 
ceedingly excited — amazed  at  this  unex- 
pected movement,  but  perfectly  resolved 
to  do  their  duty. 

"  Jamie,"  said  the  guidman,  ''  you  and 
I  will  try  to  mak  oor  way  by  the  Head 
Scaur  to  Capleyetts,  where  the  main  hirsel 
was  left  ;  and  Will,  Tam,  and  Geordie 
will  see  after  the  hogs  and  gimmers  ayont 
the  Dod." 

"  I,  too,"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  the 
corner,  over  which,  however,  a  fair  hand 
was  pressed,  and  which  was  therefore  but 
indistinctly  heard — "  I  will — (canna  ye 
let  me  speak,  Jessie  !) — I  will  not,  I  shall 
not  be  left  behind — I  will  accompany  the 
guidman,  and  do  what  I  can  to  seek  and 
to  save." 

"  Indeed,  and  indeed,  my  dear  James, 
ye  can  do  nae  guid — ye  dinna  ken  the 
grun  like  my  faither  ;  and  there's  mony  a 
kittle  step,  forby  the   Head  Scaur  ;  and, 


the  Lord  be  wi'  us  !  on  sic  a  nicht  too." 
So  saying,  she  clasped  her  betrothed  firmly 
around  the  neck,  and  absolutely  compelled 
him  to  relinquish  his  purpose.  Having 
gained  this  one  object,  the  fair  and  affec- 
tionate bride  rushed  across  the  room  to 
her  father,  and  falling  down  on  her  knees, 
grasped  him  by  the  legs,  and  exclaimed — 

"  O  raither,  mither  !  come  and  help 
me  !  faither,  my  dear  faither,  let  Jamie 
Hogg  gang,  and  the  rest  ;  they  are  young, 
ye  ken,  and  as  weel  acquent  as  yersel  wi' 
the  ly  o'  the  glens  ;  but  this  is  no  a  nicht 
for  the  faither  o'  a  family  to  risk  his  life 
to  save  his  substance.  O  faither,  faither  I 
I  am  soon,  ye  ken,  to  leave  you  and  bonny 
Burnfoot — grant  me,  oh,  grant  me  this 
one,  this  last  request !" 

The  mother  sat  all  this  while,  wringing 
her  hands  and  exclaiminsj — 

"  Ay,  ay,  Jenny,  get  him  to  stay,  get 
him  to  stay  !" 

The  father  answered  not  a  word,  but, 
making  a  sign  to  Hogg,  and  whistling  on 
Help,  and  at  the  same  time  kissing  his 
now  all  but  fainting  child,  he  rushed  out 
of  the  door,  (as  Mrs.  Harkness  said,) 
"like  a  fey  man,"  and  he  and  his  com- 
panion, with  a  suitable  accompaniment  of 
dogs,  were  almost  instantly  invisible.  The 
three  other  lads,  suitably  armed  and  ac- 
companied, followed  the  example  set  to 
them  ;  and  tlie  guidwife,  the  two  lovers, 
five  or  six  younger  branches,  and  the  fe- 
male servants  of  the  family,  with  myself, 
remained  at  home  in  a  state  of  anxiety 
and  suspense  which  can  be  better  conceiv- 
ed than  expressed. 

"  The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door." 

with  a  force  and  a  stroke  loud  and  painful 
in  the  extreme,  struck  first  ten,  then 
eleven,  then  twelve  ;  but  there  was  no  re- 
turn :  again  and  again  were  voices  heard 
commingling  with  the  tempest's  rush ; 
ac;ain  and  acjain  did  the  outer  door  seem 
to  move  backwards  on  its  hinges ;  but  no- 
thing entered,  save  the  shrill  pipe  of  the 
blast,  accompanied  by  the  comminuted 
drift,   which    penetrated    through    every 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STORM. 


577 


seam  and  cranny.  This  state  of  uncer- 
tainty was  awful — even  the  ascertained 
reality  of  death,  partial  or  universal,  had 
perhaps  less  of  soul-benumbing  cold  in  it 
than  this  inconceivable  suspense.  It  re- 
quired Willie  Wilson's  utmost  efforts  and 
mine  to  keep  the  frantic  woman  from  mad- 
ly rushing  into  the  drift ;  and  the  voice  of 
lamentation  was  sad  and  loud  amongst  the 
children  and  the  servant  lasses — each  of 
the  latter  class  lamented,  indeed,  the  fate 
of  all,  but  there  was  always  an  under 
prayer  offered  up  for  the  safety  of  Geor- 
die,  or  Will,  or  Jamie,  in  particular.  At 
last  the  three  lads  who  had  encompassed 
the  Dod,  arrived — alive,  indeed,  but  al- 
most breathless  and  frozen  to  death.  They 
had,  however,  surmounted  incredible  diffi- 
culties, and  had  succeeded  in  placing  their 
hii'sel  in  a  position  of  comparative  securi- 
ty ;  but  where  were  Jamie  Hogg  and  the 
guidman  ?  The  violence  of  the  storm  had 
nothing  abated,  the  snow  was  every  mo- 
ment accumulating,  and  the  danger  and 
difficulty  increasing  tenfold.  Spirits,  heat, 
and  friction  gradually  restored  the  three 
lads  to  their  senses,  and  to  the  kind  at- 
tentions of  their  several  favorites  of  the 
female  order ;  but  there  sat  the  mother 
and  daughter,  whilst  the  father  was  either, 
in  all  probability,  dead  or  dying.  The 
very  thought  was  distracting ;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, the  young  bride,  now  turning 
to  her  lover  with  a  look  of  inexpressible 
anguish,  exclaimed — 

"  0  Willie !  my  ain  dear  Willie  !  ye 
maun  gang,  after  a' — ye  maun  gang  this 
instant"  ( Willie  was  on  his  feet  and  plaid- 
ed  whilst  yet  the  sentence  was  unfinished), 
"  and  try  to  rescue  my  dear,  dear  faither 
from  this  awfu  and  untimely  end  ;  but  take 
care,  oh,  take  care,  o'  the  big  scaur,  and 
keep  far  west  by  Caplecleuch,  and  maybe 
ye '11  meet  them  coming  back  that  way." 
These  last  words  were  lost  in  the  drift, 
whilst  Willie  Wilson,  with  his  faithful 
follower.  Rover,  were  penetrating,  and 
flouncing,  and  floundering  their  way  to- 
wards the  place  pointed  out. 

VOL.  II.  ''^ 


In  about  half-an-hour  after  this,  the  howl 
and  scratch  of  a  dog  were  heard  at  the 
door-back,  and  Help  immediately  rushed 
in,  the  welcome  forerunner  of  his  master 
and  Hogg.  They  had,  indeed,  had  a  fear- 
ful struggle,  and  fearful  wanderings ;  but, 
in  endeavoring  to  avoid  the  dangerous, 
because  precipitous  Head  Scaur,  they  had 
wandered  from  the  track,  and  from  i}iQ 
object  of  their  travel ;  and,  after  having 
been  inclined,  once  or  twice,  to  lie  down 
and  take  a  rest — (the  deceitful  messenger 
of  death) — they  had  at  last  got  upon  the 
track  of  Caple  Water  ;  and,  by  keeping  to 
its  windings— which  they  had  often  traced, 
at  the  risk  of  being  drowned — they  had  at 
least  weathered  the  old  cham'er,  the  byre, 
and  peat-stack,  and  were  now,  thank  God ! 
within  "  bigget  wa's." 

But  where,  alas  !  was  W^ilHe  Wilson  .? 
Him,  in  consequence  of  their  deviations, 
they  had  missed ;  and  over  him,  thus  ex- 
posed, the  tempest  was  still  renewing,  at 
intervals,  its  hurricane  gusts.  There  was 
one  scream  heard,  such  as  would  have 
penetrated  the  heart  of  a  tiger,  and  all 
was  still.  There  she  lay,  the  beauteous, 
but  now  marble  bride  ;  her  head  reposing 
on  her  mother's  lap — her  lips  pale  as  the 
snow-drop— her  eyes  fixed  and  soulless — 
her  cheek  without  a  tint — and  her  mouth 
half-open  and  breathless.  Long,  long  was 
the  withdrawment ;  again  and  again  was 
the  dram-glass  applied  to  the  mouth,  to 
catch  the  first  expiration  of  returnino- 
breath  ;  ere  the  frame  began  to  quiver,  the 
hands  to  move,  the  lips  and  cheeks  to 
color,  and  the  eyes  to  indicate  the  ap- 
proaching return  to  reason  and  perception. 

"  I  have  killed  him,  I  have  killed  him  !" 
were  the  first  frantic  accents.  "  I  have 
murdered,  murdered  my  dear  Willie  !  It 
was  me  that  sent  him — forced  him — com- 
pelled him  out — out  into  the  drift — the 
cold,  cold  drift.  Away!"  added  the  ma- 
niac— "  away  !  I'll  go  after  him — I'll 
perish  with  him — where  he  lies,  there  will 
I  lie,  and  there  will  I  be  buried.  What ! 
is  there  none   of  ye  that  will  make  an  ef 


578 


TALES  OF  THE   BORDERS, 


'/ 


fort  to  save  a  perishing — a  choking — oh, 
my  God  !  a  suffocating  man  ?" 

Hereupon  she  again  sank  backwards, 
/ind  was  prevented  from  falling  by  the 
arms  of  a  father. 

"  O  my  child  !"  said  parental  love  and 
affection — "  O  my  dear  wean ! — oh,  be 
patient ! — God  is  guid — He  has  preserved 
MS  all — He  will  not  desert  him  in  the  hour 
of  his  need — He  neither  slumbers  nor 
sleeps — His  hand  is  not  shortened  that  He 
cannot  save — and  what  He  can,  He  will — 
He  never  deserted  any  that  trusted  in  him, 
0  my  child  !  my  bairn — my  first  born  ! — 
be  patient — be  patient.  There — there — 
there  is  a  scratch  at  the  door-back — it  is 
Rover." 

And  to  be  sure  Rover  it  was ;  but  Ro- 
ver in  despair.  His  faithful  companion 
and  friend  only  entered  the  house  to  so- 
licit immediate  aid — he  ran  round  and 
round,  looking  up  into  the  face  of  every 
one  with  an  expression  of  the  most  im- 
ploring anxiety.  The  poor  frantic  girl 
sprung  from  her  father's  embrace,  and 
clung  to  the  neck  of  the  well-known  cur — 
she  absolutely  kissed  him — (oh,  to  what 
will  not  love,  omnipotent,  virtuous  love, 
descend !) — then  rising  in  renewed  recol- 
lection, she  sat  herself  down  on  the  long 
settle  beside  her  father,  and  burst  into 
loud  and  passionate  grief. 

It  was  now  manifest  to  all  that  some- 
thing must  be  attempted,  else  the  young 
farmer  must  perish.  Hogg,  though  aw- 
fully exhausted,  was  the  first  to  volunteer 
a  new  excursion.  The  whole  band  were 
at  once  on  their  feet ;  but  Jessie  now 
clung  to  her  father,  as  she  had  formerly 
done  to  her  lover,  and  would  not  let  him 
go — indeed,  the  guidman  was  in  no  dan- 
ger of  putting  his  purpose  into  effect,  for 
he  could  scarcely  stand  on  his  feet.  He 
sat,  or  rather  fell  down,  consequently, 
beside  his  daughter,  and  continued  in 
constant  prayer  and  supplication  at  the 
throne  of  grace.  The  daughter  listened, 
and  said  she  was  comforted — the  voyagers 
were  again  on  their  way — the  tempest  had 


somewhat  abated — the  moon  had  once  or 
twine  shone  out — and  there  was  now  a 
greater  chance  of  success  in  their  under- 
taking. 

How  we  all  contrived  to  exist  during  an 
interval  of  about  two  hours,  I  cannot  say ; 
but  this  I  know,  that  the  endurance  of 
this  second  trial  was  worse  than  the  first, 
to  all  but  the  sweet  bride  herself.  Her 
mind  had  now  taken  a  more  calm  and 
religious  view  of  the  case.  She  repeated, 
at  intervals  and  pauses  in  her  father's 
ejaculatory  prayer — 

"  Yes — oh,  yes — His  will — His  holy 
will  be  done  !  The  Lord  giveth  and  the 
Lord  taketh  away — blessed  be  the  name 
of  the  Lord  for  ever !  We  shall  meet 
again — oh,  yes — where  the  weary  are  at 
rest. 

"  '  A  few  short  years  of  evil  past, 
We  reach  the  happy  shore 
V/here  death-divided  friends  at  last 
Shall  meet  to  part  no  more.'  " 

0  father,  is  not  that  a  gracious  saying, 
and  worthy  of  all  acceptation  !" 

At  length  the  door  opened,  and  in 
walked  William  Wilson. 

The  reader  needs  scarcely  to  be  told 
that  the  sagacious  dog  had  left  his  master 
floundered,  and  unable  to  extricate  him- 
self in  a  snow  wreath  ;  that  the  same  faith- 
ful guide  had  taken  the  searchers  to  the 
spot,  where  they  found  Wilson  just  in  the 
act  of  falling  into  a  sleep — from  which, 
indeed,  but  for  the  providential  sagacity 
of  his  dog,  he  had  never  wakened ;  and 
that,  by  means  of  some  spirits  which  they 
had  taken  in  a  bottle,  they  completely 
restored  and  conducted  him  home. 

"  Lives  there  one  with  soul  so  dead" 

as  not  now  to  image  the  happy  meeting 
betwixt  bride  and  bridegroom  ;  and,  above 
all,  the  influence  which  this  trial  had  upon 
the  happiness  and  religious  character  of 
theu'  future  married  and  prosperous  lot .'' 

It  is,  indeed,  long  since  I  have  laid 
aside  the  pack — to  which,  after  a  good 
education,  I  had  taken  from  a  wandering 
propensity — and  taken  up  my  residence 


FALSEHOOD  REPROVED. 


579 


in  the  flourishing  village  of  Thornhill, 
Dumfriesshire  ;  living,  at  first,  on  the  pro- 
fits of  mj  shop,  and  now  retired  on  my 
little,  but,  to  me  ample  competency ;  but 
I  still  have  great  pleasure  in  paying  a 


yearly  visit  to  my  friends  of  Mitchelslacks, 
and  in  recalling  with  them,  over  a  com- 
fortable meal,  the  interesting  incidents  of 
the  snow  storm,  1794. 


FALSEHOOD     REPROVED. 


The  following  anecdote  of  the  Rebellion 
was  at  one  time  current  in  Maxwellton, 
and  generally  believed. — A  widow  of  the 
name  of  Janet  Brown,  residing  there, 
some  connection  of  the  Orchardtowns  in 
the  Stewartry,  thought  that  she  could  not 
do  justice  to  the  love  she  bore  the  "  bonny 
Prince"  otherwise  than  by  sending  her  son 
— a  young  man,  a  slater  by  trade,  and 
called  John  after  his  father,  who  followed 
the  same  occupation — to  fight  for  the 
descendant  of  our  old  kings,  and  help  to 
place  him  on  the  throne.  The  young 
man,  who  neither  felt  the  enthusiasm,  nor 
could  perceive  the  rationale  of  the  feeling 
with  which  his  mother  was  inspired,  felt 
no  great  love  for  the  task  ;  but,  having 
been  bribed  by  a  small  sum  of  money 
given  him  by  Sir  Thomas  Maxwell,  and 
blown  up  with  large  hopes  of  rising  to 
eminence  in  the  event  of  the  Prince's 
success,  he  agreed  to  put  on  the  bonnet 
and  badge,  and  to  "  follow  Prince  Char- 
lie." The  new-born  valor  of  the  slater, 
like  that  of  all  the  artisans  who  espoused 
the  same  cause,  was  destined  to  a  severe 
trial  and  a  rapid  decrease.  At  the  battle 
of  Culloden  he  fought  at  first  with  some 
spirit,  and  then  fled,  leaving  all  his  accou- 
trements, with  the  exception  of  a  small 
dagger,  which  he  retained  for  the  purpose 
of  self-defence,  in  a  field  not  far  from  the 
scene  of  his  disgrace.  The  impetus  of 
terror  had  been  so  strong,  that  he  had 
gone  over  a  score  of  miles  befi^re  he  began 


to  reflect  on  the  best  means  of  escaping 
from  his  foes ;  and  now  he  was  satisfied 
that  the  advantage  he  possessed  from  the 
nature  of  his  occupation — the  capability 
of  walking  or  sleeping  on  the  house-tops, 
like  the  Pharisees  of  old — might  be 
turned  into  the  means  of  his  salvation. 
Without  stopping  he  hurried  on  to  Max- 
wellton, where  he  arrived  about  nightfall, 
and  his  familiarity  with  the  roof  of  the 
house  where  his  mother  lived — occupying 
only  a  small  garret,  from  the  necessity  of 
her  limited  means — suggested  that  situa- 
tion as  the  best  calculated  for  concealment, 
until  the  rage  of  pursuit  was  over,  and  he 
could  again  follow  his  ordinary  avocations. 
Getting  unobserved  to  the  back  of  the 
house,  he,  by  means  of  a  skylight,  which 
opened  from  the  top  of  the  circular  stair- 
case, got  to  the  roof,  where  he  felt  himself 
perfectly  at  home,  and  in  the  enjoyment 
of  as  much  security  as  if  he  had  been  in 
the  back  settlements  of  America.  By 
taking  ofi"  his  shoes,  and  walking  lightly 
along  the  slates,  he  could  look  down  on 
his  aged  mother,  who  was,  doubtless  occu- 
pied with  thoughts  of  her  son,  who  was 
fighting  at  Culloden,  or  perhaps  lying  dead 
on  the  bloody  field  ;  but  Brown  knew  the 
nature  of  his  parent  too  well  to  entrust 
her  with  the  secret  of  his  place  of  con- 
cealment— a  fact  which  she  would  have 
told  instantly  to  her  neighbors,  with  that 
addition  which  would  have  made  it  go  like 
wildfire,  that  it  was  a  great  secret,  and 


580 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


was  not  to  be  divulged.  His  self-denial 
in  this  respect  was,  however,  wonderful, 
considering  that  he  had  scarcely  tasted 
meat  since  he  came  from  Culloden,  and 
was  therefore  laboring  under  hunger,  cold, 
and  fatigue,  all  of  which  might  have  been 
removed  or  ameliorated,  by  the  assistance 
of  his  mother,  and  the  refuge  of  her 
dwelling,  into  which  he  might  have 
descended  through  the  skylight.  If  she 
was  ignorant  of  his  proceedings,  he  was  as 
ignorant  of  hers  ;  for  she  had  been,  during 
the  day  and  evening,  busily  engaged  in 
making  the  people  believe  that  her  son  had 
not  engaged  actively  for  the  Prince,  but 
had  repented  and  returned  to  his  allegi- 
ance to  King  George.  Several  ofl&cers 
from  Dumfries  had  called  at  her  house 
with  a  view  to  catch  the  rebel,  and  at  the 
very  moment  when  Brown  was  looking 
dehberately  down  through  the  skylight 
window,  calculating  how  he  could  reaeh 
with  his  dagger  a  tempting  loaf  of  bread 
that  lay  on  a  shelf,  he  saw  enter  a  sheriff's 
beagle,  who  soon  engaged  with  his  parent 
in  earnest  conversa^tion.  The  officer 
insisted  that  her  son  was  in  the  house,  and 
she,  though  a  godly  woman,  not  only 
denied  that  he  was  there,  but  alleged  (lay- 
ing her  hand  on  her  big  Bible),  that  he 
had  never  engaged  in  the  Rebellion  at  all. 
This  act,  on  the  part  of  his  parent,  aston^ 
ished  the  son :  his  mother  had  told  a  lie, 
though  all  the  energies  of  her  life  had 
been  directed  towards  inculcating  good 
principles  on  her  son,  and,  above  all,  a 
love  of  strict  truth  in  everything  he  said 
or  did.  So  much  had  he  been  impressed 
with  the  importance  of  veracity,  that  he 
himself,  if  taken,  would  not  have  denied 
(even  if  that  would  have  saved  him),  that 
he  had  been  in  the  rebel  ranks  ;  and  yet 
the  very  parent  who  had  done  him  this 
good  service,  had  swerved  from  her  own 
principles,  and  sealed  a  lie  by  an  appeal 
to  holy  writ.  The  circumstance  could 
only  be  accounted  for  by  the  love  she 
bore  to  him  ;  but  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say,  that  it  produced  to   him  as   much 


uneasiness  as  his  own  danger.  Continu- 
ing his  examination,  he  saw  the  officer 
depart ;  and,  in  a  short  time  afterwards, 
the  good  widow,  on  retiring  to  bed,  re- 
quired to  perform  her  evening  devotion. 
She  got  upon  her  knees  for  this  purpose  ; 
but  the  pangs  of  remorse,  for  the  false- 
hood she  had  told,  prevented  her  for  a 
time  from  uttering  her  prayer.  At  last 
she  succeeded  in  getting  utterance,  and 
began  to  ask  forgiveness  of  heaven  for  the 
great  sin  she  had  committed  that  night,  in 
denying  that  her  son  had  engaged  in  the 
Rebellion ;  she  then  proceeded  to  return 
thanks  for  the  daily  bread  with  which, 
notwithstanding  of  her  sins,  she  had  been 
blessed ;  and  strongly,  and  with  tears, 
declared  her  utter  unworthiness  of  the 
gift.  She  had  proceeded  so  far,  when  as 
she  turned  round  her  eyes,  filled  with 
repentant  tears,  she  saw  that  very  loaf  for 
which  she  had  returned  and  was  still 
returning  thanks,  in  the  act  of  gradually 
moving  from  the  shelf  towards  the  sky- 
light, and  in  a  moment  disappear,  without 
the  assistance  of  mortal  hand,  or  any  other 
lifting  or  suspending  power !  In  what 
manner  could  heaven  better  declare  that 
her  repentance  was  not  registered  above  ? 
The  gift  was  taken  back  to  the  place  from 
whence  it  came,  because  she  had  lied,  and 
attempted  inconsistently  to  return  thanks 
for  that  of  which  she  was  so  unworthy. 
The  celestial  light  broke  in  upon  her  in  a 
moment.  Starting  to  her  feet,  she  flew 
out  of  the  house  ;  and  Brown  sat  quietly 
down  on  the  roof  to  enjoy  the  loaf,  which, 
with  his  dagger,  he  had  removed  from  the 
shelf  for  the  purpose  of  allaying  his 
hunger.  He  remarked  that  his  mother  did 
not  return  to  her  house  that  night ;  and, 
suspecting  that  he  was  in  dangerous 
quarters,  descended  in  the  morning,  and 
removed  himself  to  a  greater  distance. 
After  the  heat  of  pursuit  was  over,  he 
returned  ;  and  heard  "  many  a  time  and 
oft,"  his  mother  relate  how  heaven  had 
interfered  to  punish  the  crime  she  had 
committed,  in   denying,  on  the  faith  of 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED'S  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


581 


holy  writ,  that  her  son  had  been  engaged 
in  the  ranks  of  Prince  Charles.  Brown 
was  too  prudent  to  say  a  word  of  the  true 


cause  ;  for,  a  great  lover  of  truth  himself, 
he  was  pained  by  the  falsehood  of  his  mo- 
ther, which  had  been  so  strangely  cured. 


-^^^►•^ 


DUNCAN    SCHULEBRED'S   VISION   OF   JUDGMENT. 


We  see  so  many  examples  of  the  extraor- 
dinary discovery  of  evil  designs  attempted 
to  be  concealed  by  all  the  craft  of  cunning 
man,  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt,  even 
with  the  many  cases  before  us  of  the  ap- 
parent success  of  criminal  schemes,  that 
it  is  a  part  of  God's  providence  to  lay 
open  the  secret  actings — nay,  often  the 
secret  thoughts — of  those  who  contravene 
his  laws.  The  modes  by  which  this  pur- 
pose is  fulfilled,  are  as  various  as  the  de- 
sisrns  themselves :  and  though  some  of 
them  may  not  appear  to  be  consistent  with 
the  seriousness  and  gravity  of  an  avenging 
and  punishing  retribution,  we  are  not,  on 
that  account,  to  doubt  their  authority  or 
undervalue  theu*  eflfect.  In  elucidation  of 
this  statement,  we  have  a  case  to  record 
of  an  extraordinary  and  ludicrous  disco- 
very of  roguery,  which,  as  well  on  aecount 
of  its  truth,  as  the  moral  which,  amidst  all 
its  grotesqueness  of  humor,  it  inculcates, 
we  cannot  withhold  from  the  public.  An 
incorrect  and  unauthenticated  version  of 
the  story  may  probably  have  found  its 
way  to  the  public  ear ;  but  this,  in  place 
of  forming  any  reason  against  our  publish- 
ing it,  renders  our  exposition  of  the  real 
truth  itself  the  more  necessary  and  the 
more  acceptable. 

In  that  manufacturing  town  which  has 
lately  risen  to  considerable  eminence, 
called  Dunfermline,  there  lived,  some 
time  ago,  a  person  of  the  name  of  Duncan 
Schulebred,  by  trade  a  weaver — or,  as  he 
chose  rather  to  be  called,  a  manufacturer, 
a  term  which  the  inhabitants  love  to  apply 


to  every  man  who  can  boast  the  property 
of  a  loom  and  its  restless  appendage.  We 
believe  the  people  of  that  town  to  be  as 
honest  and  industrious  as  those  of  any 
mercantile  place  in  the  kingdom ;  but 
they  have  too  much  good  sense  to  think 
of  claiming  for  their  entire  community,  a 
total  exemption  from  the  inroads  of  dis- 
honesty and  deceit — vices  which  prevail  in 
every  corner  of  this  land.  Unhappily, 
the  individual  we  have  mentioned,  had 
allowed  himself  to  become  a  slave  to  those 
evil  propensities  which  are  concerned  in 
the  collecting  together  of  ill-gotten  wealth, 
and  never  left  any  feasible  plan  unat- 
tempted,  which  might  present  any  chance 
of  gratifying  the  ruling  passion  by  which 
he  was  mastered.  He  was  a  little  man, 
with  a  fl.orid  complexion,  and  the  small 
twinkling  eye  which  almost  invariably  ac- 
companies cunning.  His  walk  was  that 
of  a  man  accustomed  to  carry  under  his 
left  arm  a  web  of  huckaback,  and  in  his 
right  a  staff  ellwand ;  and  his  style  of 
speech,  conciliating  and  persuasive,  was 
derived  from  the  habit  of  wheedlino;  cus- 
tomers  into  exorbitant  terms.  He  was  a 
great  coward,  as  well  physical  as  moral — 
the  consequence,  doubtless,  of  being  a  dis- 
honest trader.  Too  contemptible  to  be 
hated,  perhaps  his  greatest  enemy  was  his 
own  conscience,  of  which  he  stood  in  such 
terrible  awe,  that  his  wife  was  often  oblig- 
ed, during  the  dark  hours  of  the  reign  of 
that  mysterious  power,  to  rise  and  light  a 
lamp  for  the  purpose  of  exorcising  the 
spirit  which,  seated  on  his  heart,  tormented 


582 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


him  with  the    gnawing  inflictions    of  its 
pain. 

This  power  of  his  conscience  had  hither- 
to, however,  been  unahle  to  prevent  him 
from  using  his  short  ellwand,  and  acting 
dishonestly.  The  moment  he  got  into 
daylight  and  active  life,  he,  like  all  other 
cowards,  despised  the  enemy  from  which 
he  thouofht  himself  at  the  time  safe.  In  a 
strong-minded  man,  conscience  produces 
resolution  ;  in  a  weak,  it  gives  rise  merely 
to  fears  and  vacillation.  It  is  not  often 
that  greedy,  cunning  men  are  given  to 
intoxication  ;  yet  we  are  obliged  to  add 
this  vice  to  the  character  of  Duncan 
Schulebred,  who  (exhibiting,  however,  the 
one  vice  in  the  other),  never  failed  to  get 
intoxicated,  if  he  could  effect  his  purpose 
at  the  expense  of  his  neighbor — a  result 
he  often  achieved,  by  leaving  the  tavern 
(after  he  had  got  enough)  on  pretence  of 
returning  in  a  few  minutes  to  the  company 
of  his  unsuspecting  victim. 

Like  many  others  of  the  peripatetic 
manufacturers  of  Dunfermline,  this  indi- 
vidual sold  through  the  country  the  cloth 
he  fabricated  at  home  :  so  that,  for  one 
half  (the  winter)  of  the  year,  he  sat,  and 
for  the  other  (the  summer)  he  travelled. 
By  the  same  means  and  ratio,  he  was  one 
half  of  the  year  sober  and  the  other  drunk  ; 
for  he  could  fleece  no  pot  companion  in 
his  native  town,  where  he  was  known  ; 
while,  throughout  the  country,  he  could 
walk  deliberately  out  of  every  ale-house 
on  the  road,  and  leave  his  travelling  com- 
panions to  pay  for  his  drink,  in  exchange 
for  that  society  which  they  had  enjoyed. 

In  the  course  of  his  journey,  this  indi- 
vidual had  occasion,  during  the  latter  end 
of  a  summer,  to  be  in  Edinburgh,  where 
he  usually  sold  a  considerable  part  of  his 
stock.  During  the  day,  he  had  been  in 
treaty  with  a  person  of  the  name  of  An- 
drew Gavin,  a  pettifogging  writer,  residing 
near  the  Luckenbooths,  for  the  sale  of  a 
web  of  linen,  which  the  latter  (like  a  trout 
with  a  bait  on  a  clear  day),  approached 
and  examined,  and  looked  at  and  felt,  and 


yet  still  seemed  irresolute  in  his  determi- 
nation to  be  caught.  The  weaver's 
twinkling  eye  saw  and  admired  the  gud- 
geon ;  the  linen  (to  a  safe  extent)  was 
unrolled,  its  texture  felt  with  a  '^  miller's 
thumb,"  its  qualities  extolled,  and  its 
price  wondered  at  by  him  who  fixed  it  and 
smiled  inwardly  at  his  profit  and  the  trick 
by  which  he  realized  it.  The  unwary 
purchaser,  though  a  man  of  the  law,  was 
at  last  caught — the  bargain  was  struck, 
the  money  paid  ;  and  all  that  remained 
was  that  the  seller  (in  addition  to  cheating 
him  in  the  manner  to  be  explained)  should, 
after  his  usual  practice,  get  drunk  at  the 
expense  of  his  customer. 

The  two  parties  accordingly  repaired  to 
a  tavern  known  by  the  name  of  the  Bar- 
leycorn, where  they  sat  down  deliberately, 
to  indulge  in  a  deep  potation — the  one 
(the  customer)  luxuriating  in  the  idea  of 
getting  "  glorious  "  at  the  cost  of  the  seller, 
who  had  generously,  and  in  consideration 
of  his  custom,  agreed  to  pay  all ;  while 
the  latter  secretly  chuckled  at  the  idea  of 
leaving  the  writer  ( who  was  known  to  the 
tavern  keeper)  to  liquidate  the  debt  in- 
curred by  his  liquidation.  Both  the  com- 
panions were  thus  happy,  though  from 
very  different  causes ;  and  their  happiness 
only  impelled  them  to  further  gratifica- 
tions, -^ith  the  view  of  augmenting  it — 
such  is  the  danger  that  attends  an  eleva- 
tion of  the  spirits  ;  and  such  is  the  insa- 
tiable thirst  for  happiness  in  man,  that^ 
after  the  physical  thirst  is  slaked,  the 
moral  appetite  must  be  ended  by  a  surfeit. 

In  the  midst  of  the  orgies  of  these  two 
worthies,  the  customer,  who  had  a  humor 
of  his  own,  took  many  ''  rises"  out  of  his 
companion,  who  submitted  to  his  fan,  in 
consideration  of  his  determination  to  leave 
him  to  pay  "the  score,"  which  would  put 
"  the  lauo-h  on  the  other  side." 

"  There's  a  great  difference  between 
our  townsmen  o'  Edinburgh,  and  yours  o' 
Dumfarlan,"  said  the  writer. 

"  Very  great,"  replied  Duncan  ;  ''  but 
I  winna  say  on  what  side  the  advantage 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED'S  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


583 


lies.  We're  at  least  a'  honest  men  on  oor 
side  o'  the  water." 

"  Ye're  mair  than  honest,''  replied  An- 
drew, touched  by  the  insinuation — "  ye're 
prudent.  Your  maxim,  I  understand,  is, 
'  Flee  laigh  and  ye '11  no  fa'  far' — a  sayin 
weel  exemplified  in  the  canny,  quiet  way 
your  weavers  mak  what  they  ca'  their  for- 
tunes, and  then  look  aboot  them  for  what 
they  denominate,  in  their  conceit,  an  es- 
tate. Everything's  dune  in  your  toun  by 
hatter.  Ye  batter  yer  claith,  ye  batter 
yersels  (wi'  oor  national  dish,  three  times 
a-day),and  the  ^  batteries ^'^  pendente  Utej 
that  come  to  our  court  prove  how  ye  bat- 
tor  the  lieges." 

"  Ye  canna  say  I  hae  either  battered  or 
buttered  you,  at  least,"  said  Duncan. 

"  The  washin  will  try  that,"  replied 
Andrew  ;  "  but  dinna  put  me  oot  o'  the 
thread  o'  my  discourse.  By  twenty  years 
shuttlin  and  shufflin,*  ye  contrive  to  scrape 
thegither  what  in  your  phrase  makes  a 
fortune — say  maybe  twa  thoosand — and, 
curious  aneugh,  there  are  scattered  round 
your  toun  sae  mony  cocklairdships  (mair 
than  ye'll  find  again  in  a'  Scotland),  and 
yer  ambition  and  the  state  o'  the  country 
in  this  way  sae  weel  agree,  that  every  in- 
dependent weaver  (manufacturer,  I  mean) 
is  just  as  sure  to  become  a  laird,  as  he  is 
sure,  in  the  coorse  o'  time,  to  dee." 

"  The  lawin  will  mak  amends  for  this," 
muttered  Duncan  to  himself.  "  And 
when  did  you  ever  hear  o'  an  Edinburgh 
merchant  buying  an  estate  ?  A'  their 
property  consists  o'  a  front  door,  and  a 
brass  plate,  which  their  servants  keep 
scrubbin  at  every  day,  till  it  shines  like 
that  they  hae  sae  little  o'  within — gowd. 
They  may  sometimes  buy  an  estate  and 
borrow  the  price  ;    but,   if  they  do,  the 


*We  are  not  ansvv^erable  for  the  statements  of 
the  interlocutors  incur  tales;  but  we  may  here 
state  that  the  tradesmen  of  Dunfermline  are  as 
honest  and  industrious  a  set  of  individuals  as  are 
to  be  found  in  the  kingdom.  But,  after  all,  we 
think  Edinburgh  comes  off  second  best. — Ed. 


'  W.  S.'  whose  plate  is  on  the  next  door, 
will  sune  hae  a  hornin  on  the  bond." 

"  It  will  at  least  be  an  es^aie,"  respond- 
ed the  Edinburgher,  ^'  an'  no  a  mailin,  fit 
only  to  yield  room  aneugh  for  its  master's 
grave.  Then  ye're  no  content  wi'  the 
denomination  o'  sic  a  man  o'  sic  a  place — 
as,  for  instance,  when  ye  buy  your  estate, 
ye  winna  be  content  wi'  Duncan  Schule- 
bred  o'  Wabha',  or  Mr.  Schulebred  o' 
Wabha',  or  even  Duncan  Schulebred,  Esq., 
o'  Wabha',  but,  like  the  Lords,  wha  carry 
the  name  o'  their  estates,  you  would  be 
'  Wabha'  itseP,  simply  and  withoot  appen- 
dage. Ha !  ha  !  '  Wabha' !'  yet,  it  is  just  as 
guid  as  Foxha',  or  Shuttleha',  or  Shuttle- 
crief,  or  Craigdookie,  or  Cockairnie,  or 
Buchlyvie,  or  Pitbauchlie,  or  ony  ither  o' 
the  cocklairdships  that  stand  on  the  Fife 
horizon,  waitin  for  the  stoppin  o'  the  Dum- 
farlan  shuttle,  the  sign  o'  a  made  fortune, 
and  o'  the  determination  o'  the  manufac- 
turer to  change  his  name  for  the  proud  de- 
signation o'  his  estate.  Ha  !  ha  !  is  it  no 
excellent,  Duncan,  to  think  o'  twa  weav- 
ers that  used  to  sit  side  by  side,  drivin  their 
shuttles  on  the  Pittencrief  road,  meetin,  ten 
years  after,  and  usin  the  salutation — '  Hoc 
do  you  do,  Pitbauchlie  P — ^  Very  well,  I 
thank  ye,  Craigdookie  !  We  never  think 
o'  ca'in  a  man  Niddry,  or  Dreghorn,  or 
Trinity,  or  the  like.  The  modesty  o'  the 
folk  on  this  side  o'  the  water  forbids  a' 
thae  absurd  fashions." 

"  An  afiront,  or  an  insult,"  muttered 
Duncan,  "  is  easily  washed  doun,  if  ye  use 
the  insolent  varlet's  ain  liquor  in  the  ope- 
ration. Now,  sir,"  said  he  out,  "  since 
ye  hae  abused  oor  guid  toun,  will  ye  tell 
me  this — Whether  is  the  driven  o'  your 
lawyers'  pens  or  oor  weavers'  shuttles, 
maist  for  the  guid  o'  this  auncient  land  ? 
The  ane  maks  a  ravelled  wab  to  catch  un- 
wary clients,  and  the  ither  maks  guid 
linen  for  the  backs  o'  the  honest  men  and 
bonny  lasses  o'  Scotland,  as  weel  as  for 
the  fat  sides  o'  the  beef-fed  yeomen  and 
braw  queans  o'  England.  Edinburgh  robs 
Scotland,    Dumfarlan   robes  it — a  pun  I 


584 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


canna  resist,  notwithstandin  o'  my  dislike 
o'  that  low  sort  o'  humor.  We  are  the 
linen.y  you  (that  is,  you  writers)  are  the 
little  blood- sucking  varlets  that  live  on't, 
and  suck  the  bluid  o'  the  wearers." 

"  There's  but  little  bluid  comes  out  o' 
batter,^^  replied  the  angry  writer,  who 
noticed  triumph  in  Duncan's  twinkling 
eye.  "  We  writers  would  starve,  if  we 
had  nae  ither  bluid  to  suck  but  that  o'  the 
white-faced  liver-lipped  propellers  o'  the 
shuttle.  A  fat  law  plea,  we  say,  never 
comes  owre  the  water.  Ye're  owre  far 
north,  and  far  beyond  the  reach  o'  the 
lang  arm  o'  justice.  If  ye  ever  fill  her 
scales  ava,  it  is  wi'  the  rump  or  fag-end  o' 
a  ten  years'  multiplepoinden,  whar  there 
are  sae  mony  claimants,  riders^  and  com- 
petitors, that  ye  fa'  oot  and  fecht  amang 
yersels,  and  then  come  to  us  to  mend  yer 
broken  heads ;  but  the  bluid  is  a'  oot  o' 
them  before  they  are  trusted  in  oor  c/taw- 

This  wordy  war  only  made  the  writer 
and  the  weaver  more  thirsty ;  every  argu- 
ment was  followed  by  a  draught,  which 
slaked  at  once  both  thirst  and  revenge — 
each  thinking  that  he  was  drinking  at  the 
expense  of  the  other.  The  more  they 
drank  the  warmer  they  grew  in  defence  of 
their  respective  towns,  till  they  came  to 
that  condition  of  topers,  when,  by  the 
mere  operation  of  their  potations,  they 
became  unable  even  to  dispute.  All  con- 
firmed drunkards  have  in  their  drunken- 
ness some  ruling  principle,  which,  how- 
ever far  gone  they  may  be,  regulates  their 
wayward  movements.  The  writer's  habit 
was  to  sit  when  he  thought  he  could  not 
stand — a  principle  which  many  sober  men 
might  do  well  to  adopt.  The  weaver's, 
again,  was  to  walk  when  he  wished  not  to 
stand  the  reckoning — a  prudent  maxim 
which  never  left  him,  even  when  all  other 
ideas  had  been  washed  from  his  brain.  It 
was  now  about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  they  had  drank  so  much  that  neither 
of  them  could  tell  (for  neither  had  any 
interest  in  a  matter  which  did  not  seem  to 


concern  his  pocket)  how  much  would  re- 
quire to  be  paid  ;  it  was  enough  for  Dun- 
can, that  he  knew  that  something  (and 
not  little)  must  be  paid — and  now  was  the 
time  for  escape. 

"  We  were  speakin  o'  the  law,"  said  he, 
winking  with  cunning,  and  hiccuping  with 
drink — "  I  fancy  they  never  refuse  siller 
at  the  bar  here  (hiccup),  ony  mair  than 
they  do  in  Dumfarlan.  There  is  only  this 
difference  atween  the  twa — that  the  folk 
wha  resort  to  your  bar  pay  when  they  en- 
ter, we  (hiccup)  pay  as  we  gae  oot.  Rest 
yersel  there  till  I  cast  up  the  bill,  and  if  I 
hae  ony  plea  wi'  the  landlord,  ye  can  come 
and  plead  it." 

"  That's  kind,  Duncan,"  said  the  writer 
— ^'  it  will  be  the  only  plea  I  ever  had 
frae  a  Dumfarlan  weaver.  If  I  gain  it, 
we  maun  hae  a — anither  gill." 

"  Twa  o'  them,"  replied  Duncan,  trying 
to  rise.  '^  We  maun,  at  ony  rate,  iiae 
(hiccup)  the  stirrup-cup,  ye  ken — laugh- 
ing and  twinkling  his  reeling  eyes. " 

"  Ou  ay,"  replied  the  writer  ;  "  but  I 
— I  fancy  I  maun  pay  for  that,  seein  ye 
are  the  traveller,  and — and  are  besides  to 
pay  a'  this  tremendous  bill,  that  lies,  doot- 
less,  on  the  bar  like  a — a  lawyer's  me- 
morial." 

"  Ye're  an  example  o'  an  honest,  ay,  a 
generous  writer,"  said  Duncan — "  wha 
could  hae  thochtye  wad  hae  offered  to  pay 
the  stirrup-cup  ?  I'll  send  yer  wife  a 
piece  o'  dornock  for  that,  as  weel  as  a 
screed  o'  huckaback  and  harn,  to  keep  up 
a  gratefu'  recollection  o'  me  after  I'm 
awa.  I'll  no  be  a  minute  at  the  bar  ;  for 
it's  a  place  (hiccup)  I  dinna  like." 

"  Hae,"  cried  the  writer,  ripping  his 
pocket — "  tak  wi'  ye  and  pay  at  the  same 
time  the  price  o'  the  stirrup-gill  — ae  set- 
tlin  will  ser  a'." 

"  Ye're  richt,  Mr.  Gavin,"  replied 
Duncan,  receiving  the  money  ;  but  that's 
a  sma  sum  (hiccup)  in  comparison  o' what 
I  hae  to  pay  ;  but  it's  pleasant  to  discharge 
the  obligations  o'  honor." 

The  wily  huckaback  manufacturer  was, 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED'S   VISION  OP  JUDGMENT. 


585 


as  he  spoke,  approaching  the  corner  where 
his  staff  ellwand  lay — an  article  he  stood 
more  in  need  of  at  that  time  (short  mea- 
sure as  it  was)  than  ever,  on  any  other 
occasion  of  taking  off^  he  had  encountered. 
The  recourse  to  it  for  the  purpose  of 
merely  going  to  the  bar,  could  not  fail  to 
raise  suspicions  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  ; 
but  then,  again,  was  he  to  lose  a  short 
measure,  which,  getting  into  the  hands  of 
a  writer  might  be  sent — in  revenge  of  the 
trick  he  had  already  played  him,  in  selling 
a  web  of  linen  damaged  in  the  heart,  and 
that  he  was  about  to  play — to  the  public 
authorities,  who  would  hunt  him  to  Dun- 
fermline, and  ruin  him  by  the  exposure  ? 
He  besides  required  it  for  his  support  ; 
for  he  could  scarcely  stand.  In  this 
dilemma,  he  had  again  recourse  to  his  wits. 

"  I'm  no  sure  aboot  thae  folk  ben  the 
hoose,"  he  said,  holding  up  the  ellwand. 
"  They  may  try  to  cheat  me,  seein  I'm  a 
simple  cratur,  besides  being  twa  sheets  i' 
the  wind — (hiccup) — dinna  ye  think  that 
I  should  tak  my  stick  i'  my  hand,  as  a 
kind  o'  lawburrows  and  protection  ?  No 
to  say  I  would  think  o'  usin't,  but  simply 
to  keep  the  publican  in  awe,  and  within 
just  and  lawfu  measure. 

"  Tak  it  wi'  ye,  tak  it  wi'  ye,  man,'' 
said  the  writer.  "  Say  it's  a — a  Dumfar- 
lan  baton,  the  sign  o'  ycr  constableship, 
and  ye'll  find  the  bill  two  inch  shorter." 

"  Ingenious  cratur  !"  ejaculated  Dun- 
can, with  a  hiccup,  and  a  drunken  leer  of 
his  grey  eyes.  "  A  law  plea  never  can 
fail,  surely,  in  the  hands  o'  a  man  wi'  sic 
a  power  o'  suggestion  as  ye  hae.  But  ye 
forget  that  Dumfarlan  batons  are  no  sae 
lang  as  Dumfarlan  ellwands — (hiccup)  — 
the  power  o'  authority  there's  short,  but 
the  reach  o'  oor  honesty's  prodigious. 
That's  a  guid  sign  :  oor  batons  are  short 
because  we're  quiet  and  civil,  and  our  ell- 
wands are  lang  because  we're  honest. 
Wad  ye  believe  it,  noo,  that  that  ellwand 
o'  mine,  in  spite  o'  the  wear  and  tear  o' 
walkin  wi't,  is  a  hail  inch  different  frae 
yer  Edinburgh  yards  .'"' 


This  fresh  attack  against  the  honesty  of 
Edinburgh  roused  the  blood  of  the  writer, 
and  another  wordy  battle  was  lik  to  com- 
mence ;  but  Duncan  saw  at  once,  that,  if 
he  put  off  more  time,  the  people  of  the 
house  might,  from  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
come  and  insist  upon  the  reckoning  on  the 
spot — a  measure  which  all  his  wits  would 
not  enable  him  to  counteract.  The  open 
mouth  of  the  writer  was  therefore  shut, 
by  a  few  conciliatory  words  from  the  ag- 
gressor : — 

"  I  didna  say,  Mr.  Gavin,"  added 
Duncan,  "  whether  the  inch  belanged  to 
Dumfarlan  or  Edinburgh.  Ye  may  tak 
the  benefit  o'  a  presumjJtion  in  yer  ain  fa- 
vor, till  I  come  back.  Mony  ane  o'  yer 
tribe  stick  langer  by  a  presumption  than 
that,  and,  till  it  grows  into  a  fact,  it  can- 
na  injure  an  honest  man  like  me.  Guid" 
— (he  was  going  to  add  "night,''  and 
leered  grotesquely  at  his  own  imprudence) 
— "  guid — (hiccup) — guid  luck  to  my 
speedy  settlement  o'  the  lawin  !" 

He  now  staggered  to  the  door,  which 
he  opened  so  gently  that  the  writer  might 
if  he  had  not  been  drunk,  have  suspected 
him  of  foul  play.  His  foot  was  scarcely 
heard  on  the  passage  ;  but  a  sound,  as  if 
from  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  indicated  that 
some  one  had  missed  a  step.  No  notice 
of  it  was  taken  by  the  writer,  who  sat  with 
his  eye  fixed  on  the  candle,  concocting, 
like  a  good  poet,  one  of  those  works  of 
imagination  called  a  preliminary  or  dilatory 
defence.  Formerly,  these  works  of  fancy 
were  very  rife  among  lawyers,  and  before 
the  judicature  act,  they  used  to  reach  a 
second  or  even  a  third  edition,  under  the 
form  of  amended  defences,"  "  re-amend- 
ed defences,"  and  so  forth.  They  are 
not  now  so  much  in  favor,  though  the 
fancy  which  produces  them  is  still  as  vivid 
as  ever.  How  long  Andrew  Gavin  sat 
dreaming  over  his  intended  work  we  can- 
not say  ;  but  never  was  poet  more  rudely, 
importunately,  and  unpleasantly  roused 
from  his  dream,  by  the  hand  of  a  messen- 
ger at  arms,  than  was  the   unsuspecting 


586 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


victim  of  Duncan's  treachery  as  he  was 
called  upon  by  the  landlord  to  pay  the  bill. 
He  had  no  money  upon  him — the  small 
sum  he  had  given  to  the  weaver  to  pay  the 
last  or  stirrup  gill,  and  which  the  varlet 
had  carried  away  with  him,  having  been  all 
his  remaining  cash,  after  paying  the  price 
of  the  linen.  He  requested  the  importu- 
nate landlord  to  wait  a  little  to  ascertain 
if  Duncan  would  return  ;  but  the  man 
wished  to  get  to  bed,  and  Andrew's  credit 
being  somewhat  worn,  like  that  of  many 
others  of  his  overdone  profession,  the  pub- 
lican insisted  upon  him  leaving  his  watch, 
as  a  pledge  for  the  payment  of  the  money. 
The  writer's  pride  (a  quality  never  awant- 
ing  in  the  race,  especially  when  they're 
in  liquor)  was  roused  ;  he  refused  to  im- 
pignorate,  as  he  called  it,  his  watch,  and 
swore  that  he  would  rather  remain  in  dur- 
ance all  night,  than  succumb  to  the  un- 
reasonable demand  of  the  publican.  The 
man  was  as  resolute  as  he,  and,  without 
saying  a  word,  turned  the  key  in  the  lock, 
and  left  the  writer  to  dream  over  his  legal 
works  of  fancy  in  the  dark. 

Meanwhile,  the  wily  Duncan  Schule- 
bred,  having  recovered  from  a  fall  on  the 
last  step  of  the  stair — produced  by  that 
impatience  of  slight  obstacles  which  seizes 
an  ambidexter  at  the  successful  termina- 
tion of  a  well  concerted  and  better  executed 
scheme — proceeded  down  the  Canongate. 
He  was  out  and  out  intoxicated  ;  but  the 
wish  to  cheat,  so  long  as  it  was  in  operation, 
kept  his  mind  from  that  confusion  which, 
his  purpose  being  effected,  immediately 
seized  him.  He  was  not  certain  of  the  di- 
rection in  which  he  was  moving,  but  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  idea  that  he  was  going//-o??i 
the  sign  of  The  Barleycorn,  and  any  desti- 
nation was  better  than  that.  A  confused 
intention  of  sleeping  all  night  in  the  town 
of  Leith,  with  the  view  of  catching  the 
Fife  boat  in  the  morning,  at  last  wrought 
its  way  through  the  cloud  which  overhung 
his  mind  ;  and  having  found  himself  as  far 
as  the  Water-gate,  he  continued  his  pro- 
gress until  he  came  to  what  is  called  the 


Easter  Road  leading  directly  down  to  the 
Links.  The  air  produced  its  usual  effect 
upon  a  man  who  was  filled  to  the  throat 
with  liquor ;  and  every  step  he  took  he 
found  himself  getting  more  and  more  un- 
steady, and  more  and  more  unfit  for  prose- 
cuting his  journey.  He  was,  however, 
still  conscious  of  his  condition,  and  felt 
great  alarm  lest  some  one  should  assail  him, 
and  take  from  him  his  money.  By  and 
by,  even  his  consciousness  left  him,  and 
he  rolled  from  side  to  side,  engrossing,  for 
his  own  particular  ambulation,  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  road.  Several  times  he 
came  down,  and,  being  unable  to  rise  with- 
out many  repeated  attempts,  lay  on  the 
ground  for  considerable  periods.  The 
necessity  of  motion  of  some  kind  is  the 
last  idea  parted  with  by  an  intoxicated 
traveller  ;  and  Duncan  still  retained  it, 
even  after  he  had  lost  his  ellwand,  his 
chief  means  of  support.  On  he  struggled , 
falling,  and  lying,  and  rising,  and  to  it 
again,  till  he  got  at  length  as  far  as  the 
green  called  the  Links  of  Leith — an  open 
space  always  as  disadvantageous  to  the 
drunken  man  as  it  is  pleasant  to  the  seaman. 
A  road  with  two  sides  may  be  got  over — 
the  dikes  keep  him  on  ;  but  an  extended 
area  of  grass  with  radiating  openings  all 
round,  is  a  kind  of  place  which  a  man  in 
Duncan  Schulebred's  position,  without 
the  rudder  or  compass  of  consciousness, 
must  always  view  with  great  uneasiness. 
Accordingly,  he  beat  about  in  this  large 
circle  for  several  hours,  and  at  last  entered 
a  street  which  leads  down  to  that  called 
Salamander  Street,  from  the  circumstance 
of  its  being  inhabited  by  those  fire-eaters, 
the  glass-blowers  of  the  Leith  glassworks, 
into  which  latter  street  he  also  got,  re- 
duced to  the  last  extremity  of  feeble  ine- 
briation. 

Having  reached  the  south  side  of  Sala- 
mander Street,  he  kept  close  by  the  walls 
and  houses,  stepping  along,  unwilling  to 
trust  himself  again  to  open  space.  He 
knew  nothing  of  whither  he  was  progress- 
ing, he  had  lost  all  recollection  of  what  he 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED'S  VISION   OF  JUDGMENT. 


587 


had  been  engaged  in,  was  unconscious  of 
what  he  was  doing,  and  utterly  ignorant 
of  all  localities.  As  he  moved  past  the 
houses,  he  came  to  an  opening,  and,  stag- 
gering to  a  side,  he  entered  the  small  ave- 
nue into  which  it  led,  and  proceeded  along 
it,  still  holding  by  the  wall,  until  he  got 
into  one  of  the  large  houses  or  cones  of 
the  glass  works.  There  he  lay  down  along- 
side of  the  furnace,  and  behind  a  large 
trough  used  by  the  artificers  in  their  work 
— a  situation  which,  yielding  him  conside- 
rable heat,  was  so  secluded  that  he  might, 
for  a  time,  escape  even  the  observation  of 
the  artificers  in  the  morning,  when  they 
resumed  their  work.  He  fell  in  an  instant 
into  a  sleep,  disturbed  by  those  frightful 
dreams  that  haunt  the  pillow  of  the  disso- 
lute and  the  wicked. 

In  the  morning  the  workman  came  to 
commence  the  labors  of  the  day.  They 
began  their  work  with  a  spirit  called  forth 
by  high  wages,  produced  by  an  increased 
demand  at  that  time  for  glass.  Through- 
out the  large  cone  they  lighted  their  lamps, 
and  proceeded  to  the  various  preliminary 
processes,  towards  the  manufacture  of 
their  brittle  commodity.  The  large  fur- 
nace was  lighted,  and  blown  up  to  a  red 
heat,  for  the  purpose  of  preparing  what  is 
called  the  fritty  being  the  substance  out  of 
which  the  glass  is  subsequently  formed. 
Large  flames  soon  shot  forth  from  the  fire, 
which  was,  from  time  to  time,  supplied 
with  great  quantities  of  fuel,  and,  at  every 
blow  of  the  bellows,  the  vivid  light  flashed 
through  the  space  around,  which  was 
comparatively  dark,  from  the  dispropor- 
tion between  the  large  area,  and  the  few 
lights  yet  lighted.  While  some  of  the 
men  were  occupied  about  the  furnace,  the 
light  striking  on  their  sallow  faces,  and 
leaving  all  again  in  an  instant  nearly  dark, 
a  number  of  the  others  were  busy  in  the 
distance,  performing  the  operation  of 
blowing  the  glass,  dipping  their  long  tubes 
in  the  prepared  substance,  and  inflating 
the  ball,  till,  red  and  glowing  like  a  fire 
globe,  it  is  expanded  to  the  size  requisite 


for  the  purpose  for  which  it  is  intended. 
In  this  operation,  the  workmen  are  obliged 
to  be  active  in  their  movements,  running 
backwards  and  forwards  between  the  fur- 
nace and  the  reservoirs,  with  the  hot,  red, 
glaring  glass  globes  at  the  end  of  the  tubes 
and  crossing  and  recrossing  each  other,  in 
the  dark  obscure,  so  as  to  present  the  ap- 
pearance of  demons  engaged  in  some  mys- 
terious operations  of  their  avenging  spirits. 
In  all  this,  the  shining  globes  are  the  only 
appearances  clearly  discernible  in  continua- 
tion ;  the  figures  and  faces  of  the  men 
being  only  at  intervals  shown  by  the  glare 
thrown  upon  them  by  the  glowing  furnace, 
as  it  responds  to  the  loud  murmuring  bel- 
low of  the  inflating  and  fire  producing 
blast. 

It  may  well  be  doubted  whether  any  of 
the  descriptions  of  the  infernal  regions,  as 
given  by  the  three  great  epic  describers  of 
that  place  of  torment,  would  give  a  better 
idea  of  Hades,  than  a  view,  during  the 
dark  hours  of  a  gloomy  morning,  of  a  great 
glass-work  in  active  operation.  Many  of 
the  appearances  are  strikingly  coincident 
with  our  ideas  of  the  place  appointed  for 
the  wicked.  The  glowing  furnace  ;  the 
roaring  bellows  ;  the  crossing  and  recross- 
ing of  the  men  with  the  fiery  globes  in 
their  hands,  which  they  continue  plunging 
into  reservoirs,  as  if  striking  victims  ;  the 
darkness,  relieved  only  by  the  rising  flame, 
which,  falling  again,  leaves  the  former 
gloom  ;  the  wide  expanse  around  the  rising 
walls  of  red  brick,  tapering  up  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  eye,  as  if  they  sought  the 
clouds  ;  and  all  the  endless  apparatus  ly- 
ing around — cannot  fail  to  suggest  the 
most  striking  resemblance  to  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  hell  of  the  poets.  The  impres- 
sion produced  on  the  mind  of  a  person 
visiting  the  works,  is  extraordinary  and 
lasting  ;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
a  nervous  individual,  introduced  secretly, 
at  a  proper  time,  and  without  any  know- 
ledge of  the  place,  would  be  apt  to  be 
thrown  into  a  state  of  gloom  and  even 
fear,  which  he  would  not  soon  forget. 


588 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


During  all  this  time,  and  while  this  ex- 
traordinary work  was  going  on  around  him, 
Duncan  Schulebred  had  been  as  much  un- 
noticed by  the  workmen  as  they  had  been 
by  him.     He  began  at  last  to  show  some 
signs  of  returning   consciousness,  rolling 
his  body  backwards   and  forwards,  as   if 
under  the   effect  of  a  night-mare  of  the 
body,  or  of  that  more  terrible  night-mare 
of  the  conscience  by   which  he  was  often 
at  home   so  relentlessly  ridden.     And  so 
he  was.     Some  frightful  dreams  had  filled 
his  mind  with  terrors ;  and,  having  pro- 
duced a  kind  of  half  waking  state,  were 
followed  as  they  usually  were  by  the  gnawing 
of  that  power  which  during  night  produced 
to  him  such  torments.     A  dim  recollec- 
tion came  on  him  of  all  the  wickedness 
he  had  committed — the  number  of  inno- 
cent individuals  he  had  cheated  by  his 
short  measure  and  his  damaged  linen  ;  the 
shirking  of  publicans,  the  duping  of  travel- 
lers, his  drunkenness,  his  lies,  and  false 
pretences — all  his  thoughts  being  accom- 
panied by  the  terrors  of  an  evil  conscience 
which  whispered  punishment  by  fire  and 
brimstone,  and  filled  his  half-sleeping  fan- 
cy with  vivid  images  of  the  place  of  pun- 
ishment.    It  is  not  unlikely  that  this  half- 
sleeping,  half- waking,  dreamy  cogitation, 
was  aided  insensibly  by  the  partial  opera- 
tion of  external  sense,  conveying  some  dim 
intelligence  of  what  was  going  on  around 
him.     But  this  condition  did  not  last  long  : 
he  awoke  to  the  full  conviction  of  being  in 
the  very  place  of  the  damned.     He  heard 
first  the  roaring  of  the  bellows ;  then  he 
saw  the  red  brick  walls  rising  to  heaven  ; 
then  his  eyes  turned  on  the  terrific  fur- 
nace, vomiting  forth  its  living  fire,   while 
the  bearers  of  the  burning  globes,  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro  past  him  and   around  him, 
and  plunging  their  fiery  weapons  into  the 
receptacles,  (doubtless  of  the  condemned 
wicked),  claimed,  on  every  side,  his  rapt 
and  terrified  gaze.     Fear  prevented  him 
from   moving  ;    his   cogitations   took  the 
form  of  a  soliloquy,  and  he  communed  with 
liimself  on  his  awful  condition. 


*'  Mercy  on  my  puir  soul !''  he  exclaim- 
ed, but  so  as  not  to  let  the  devils  hear 
him — "  am  I  here  at  last  .''  When  I  was 
in  the  body,  hoo  aften  did  I  think  and 
dream  o'  the  bottomless  pit  ? — can  it  be 
that  Pra  now  in't  .'*  Alas  !  it's  owre  true  ! 
What  hae  I,  a  wicked  cratur,  noo  to  ex- 
pect frae  thae  fiends  for  a'  the  sins  dune 
i'  the  body  }  But  when  did  I  dee  }  I  dinna 
recollect  the  circumstance  o'  my  death — 
dootless  apoplexy — ay,  ay,  I  was  aye  fear't 
for't.  Yet  did  I  no  fa'  doon  the  stair  o' 
The  Barleycorn.  I  did — that's  it — I  had 
been  killed  by  the  fa'.  Death's  a  sma' 
affair  to  this.  What  a  fiery  furnace  for  a 
puir  sinner !  See  hoo  the  devils  rin  wi' 
their  burning  brands,  forkin  them  into 
thae  pits,  whar  lie  craturs  in  the  same 
condition  wi'  mysel !  But  hoo  do  they  no 
come  to  me  }  Ah  !  the  furnace  was  for 
me.  I  see  Satan  himseP  at  the  bellows, 
and  it's  no  for  ilka  sinner  he  wad  conde- 
scend to  work.  It's  for  me  wha  cheated 
the  folk  by  my  short  ellwand  at  the  rate 
o'  thirty-six  inches  o'  claith  a-week  for 
fifteen  years — wha  drank,  and  lee'd,  and 
deceived,  and  committed  sins  redder  than 
scarlet  and  mair  numerous  than  the  mots 
i'  the  sun — ay,  and  wha  dee'd  i'  the  very 
act  o'  cheatin  Andrew  Gavin,  by  sellin 
him  a  wab  o'  damaged  linen,  and  leavin 
him  to  pay  my  bill  at  The  Barleycorn. 
Alas  !  am  I  at  last  in  this  awfu  place  !" 

This  soliloquy  was  accompanied  by  deep 
groans,  wrung  from  him  by  the  conviction 
that  he  was  truly  in  the  place  appointed 
for  the  wicked.  The  sounds  caught  the 
ear  of  one  of  the  workmen  called  David 
Leechman,  who,  looking  over,  saw,  lying 
behind  the  reservoir,  the  unhappy  Duncan. 
Listening,  he  heard  the  speech,  and  un- 
derstood in  an  instant  the  import  of  it ; 
that  some  one  had  lain  down  there  in  a 
state  of  inebriety,  and  having  fallen  asleep, 
had  wakened  to  a  conviction  that  he  was 
in  Pandemonium.  He  instantly  commu- 
nicated the  intelligence  to  some  of  his 
neighbors  ;  and  the  son  of  a  proprietor  of 
the  works,  who  was  present,  having  heard 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED'S  VISION  OF  JUDGMENT. 


589 


it,  gave  his  countenance  to  the  proposition 
of  some  of  the  men — viz.,  that  they  should 
humor  the  notion  of  the  condemned  weaver, 
and  draw  out  of  him  some  amusement. 
The  proprietor's  son — a  spirited  and  clever 
young  man — was  accordingly  deputed  to 
act  the  part  of  Prince  Beelzebub,  on  whom 
the  others  were  to  attend  as  ministerial 
and  subordinate  devils  ;  each  holding  in  his 
hand  a  glass-blowing  tube,  with  a  glowing 
ball  (kept  alive  from  time  to  time)  at  the 
end  of  it.  The  Prince  held  up  his  hand 
and  cried — ■ 

"  Where  is  the  weaver  that  cheated  the 
public  at  the  rate  of  thirty-six  inches  of 
cloth  per  week,  and  died,  flagrante  delicto, 
in  the  very  act  of  cheating  our  special 
friend,  Andrew  Gavin  the  writer,  (for 
every  writer  is  our  special  friend,  and 
must  be  protected  by  us,  so  long  as  he 
writes  lying  defences  and  long  memorials), 
by  selling  him  damaged  linen,  and  leaving 
him  to  pay  his  tavern  bill }  Where  is  the 
scarlet  rogue,  that  we  may  burn  out  the 
red  of  his  sins  by  the  red  fire  of  this  glow- 
ing furnace  .^" 

A  loud  yell,  uttered  by  the  simulated 
^devils,  was  the  reply  to  this  speech,  and 
went  to  the  very  heart  of  the  trembling 
victim.  The  Prince,  followed  by  his  de- 
mons, approached  him  ;  he  was  lying 
shaking,  trembling,  and  groaning,  upon 
his  back,  and  looked  at  the  approaching 
legion,  with  their  flaming  brands,  as  they 
approached  him,  with  an  expression  of 
countenance  transcending  anything  that 
could  be  produced  by  mere  earthly  agony, 
or  described  by  a  mere  goose  quill  of  the 
upper  world. 

"  What  is  thy  name,  sinner  .?"  asked 
the  Prince. 

"  Mercy  on  me  !"  ejaculated  Duncan, 
"  I'm  in  for't  noo  !  An'  please  your  ex- 
cellent Majesty,"  replied  he,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible,  from  the  effects  of  ter- 
ror, "  Duncan  Schulebred,  wha,  when 
in  the  upper  warld,  was  by  trade  a  puir 
weaver  in  the  toun  o'  Dumfarlan.  I  did 
yer  Honor  some  service  i'  my  sma'  way. 


and  hope  ye  winna  be  sae  ill  to  me  as  ye 
threaten.  Oh,  keep  thae  fierce  fiends,  wi' 
their  burnin  torches,  frae  me,  and  PU 
confess  to  ye  a'  my  crimes.  Be  mercifu 
to  a  puir  sinner  !" 

"  What  service  didst  thou  ever  do  to 
me .?"  said  Satan. 

"  I  made  ye  some  freens,"  replied  Dun- 
can, still  groaning.  ''  I  did  a'  that  was 
i'  my  power  to  get  the  craturs  i'  the  up- 
per warld  to  drink  wi'  me  till  they  were 
sae  drunk  that  ye  micht  hae  run  awa 
wi'  them  as  easily  as  ye  did  wi'  Doc- 
tor Faustus  or  the  exciseman.  Oh, 
think  o'  that,  and  save  me  frae  that 
awfu  furnace  !" 

"  Confess,  sinner,"  said  the  Devil, 
'^  that  thou  didst  that  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  more  easily  quit  of  the  tavern  bills. 
Thou  didst  also  cheat  the  lieges  by  a  false 
measure." 

"  Lord,  he  kens  everything,"  muttered 
Duncan — "  I  confess  I  did  cheat  the  lie- 
ges ;  but  I  assure  yer  INIajesty,  upon  my 
honor,  that  I  never  cheated  ony  o'  yer 
Majesty's  freens  ;  for  1  aye  dealt  wi'  hon- 
est folk.  That's  surely  a  reason  for  some 
mercy." 

"  Recollect  thyself,  varlet,"  said 
Satan  —  "  didst  thou  never  cheat  a 
writer  .'^" 

"  Hoo  correct  he  is  !"  muttered  Dun- 
can, with  a  groan.  "  Ou  ay — true,  true 
— a'  writers  are  yer  Majesty's  freens.  I 
forgot.  I  did  cheat  Andrew  Gavin,  by 
selliu  him  a  wab  o'  rotten  linen,  and  leavin 
him  to  pay  the  lawin  at  The  Barleycorn — 
a  name  your  Majesty,  dootless,  weel 
kens." 

"  I  think  I  should,"  replied  Satan, 
"  seeing  that  is  7iiy  grain,  wherewith  I 
work  greater  wonders  than  ever  came  out 
of  the  mustard  seed.  This  place  is  fed 
with  barley-corns — we  bait  our  hooks  with 
barleycorns — we  spread  barleycorns  under 
our  men-nets — the  very  man  who  sang  the 
praises  of  the  grain,  under  the  personifica- 
tion of  '  John  Barleycorn,' and  of  its  juice, 
under  the  sobriquet  of  '  barley-bree,'  took 


590 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


our  bait  ;  but  a  redeeming  angel  touched 
him  on  the  fore-part  of  the  stomach,  and 
made  him  throw  it,  and  Heaven  now 
boasts  that  glorious  prize." 

"  Miserable  as  1  am,  Tm  very  glad  o't," 
said  Duncan,  whose  fears  began  to  decline. 
"  I  wadna  like  to  see  oor  darling  poet  in 
sic  a  place  as  this." 

"  Impudent  varlet  !"  said  the  Devil. 
"  In  with  him  into  the  furnace  !  Yet,  stay. 
How  much  money  did  you  cheat  our  friend 
Andrew  Gavin  of  .-^'^ 

"  I  needna  try  to  conceal  it,"  said  Dun- 
can to  himself.  "  He  kens  it  as  weel  as  I 
do.  Here  it  is,"  (speaking  out)  "  and 
some  mair — ye  may  hae  it  a',  if  ye'U  no 
consign  me  to  that  red-hot  fiery  furnace. 
Fearfu,  fearfu  place  !" 

"  Count  it  out,"  said  Satan. 

Duncan  complied  with  trembling  hands, 
and  Beelzebub  took  up  the  money. 

"  That  is  a  most  precious  commodity,'' 
said  he.  "  They  say,  above,  that  our 
dominions  are  paved  with  good  intentions 
— they  should  rather  say,  that  it  is  paved 
with  gold,  a  metal  with  which  the  ancient 
infidels  said,  heaven  was  constructed. 
Never  was  there  a  greater  error.  *  The 
root  of  all  evil'  cannot  surely  be  found  in 
the  very  birth-place  of  good." 

"  I  ken,  at  least,"  said  Duncan,  "  that 
it  was  gowd  that  brought  me  here.  Cursed 
trash  !  It  is  the  gowd  and  no  the  puir 
sinners  deceived  by't  that  should  be  put 
into  the  furnace.  Weel,  weel,  has  it  been 
ca'ed  the  root  o'  a'  evil.  Oh,  cursed 
dross  !  what  am  I  to  sufier  for  ye  .'" 

"  Doth  the  creature  malign  our  staple 
commodity,"  said  Satan,  "  and  say  it 
should  be  melted  r  Away  with  him  to 
the  furnace  ! — melt  him  .'" 

Duncan  screamed  for  mercy,  while  the 
workmen  laid  hold  of  him,  and  proceeded 
to  carry  him  to  the  mouth  of  the  furnace, 
which  was  blown  up  into  a  fearful  red 
heat.  He  continued  to  roar  with  tremen- 
dous vociferation,  making  all  the  cone 
ring,  and  casting  about  his  legs  and  arms, 
like  one  distracted.      Those  of  the  work- 


men who  were  not  engaged  in  carrying 
him,  brought  within  an  inch  of  his  face, 
their  burning  globes  of  glass,  and  made 
indications  as  if  they  would  apply  them  to 
his  body ;  while  the  bearers,  turning  his 
head  to  the  fiery  volcano,  brought  it  with- 
in a  foot  of  the  burning  coal,  and  the 
whole  ceremony  was  accompanied  by  a 
chorus  of  loud  yells,  set  up  by  the  opera- 
tors, and  made  to  echo  and  reverberate 
throughout  the  area  of  the  cone.  Inde- 
pendently, altogether,  of  the  conviction  of 
being  in  the  hands  of  the  Devil  and  his 
legions,  the  situation  of  Duncan,  with  his 
head  within  a  foot  of  a  furnace,  and  sur- 
rounded by  wild-looking  howling  beings, 
intent  apparently  on  his  destruction, 
would  have  terrified  the  stoutest  heart ; 
but  he  truly  believed  himself  on  the  very 
eve  of  being  punished  for  his  crimes,  by 
being  thrust  head-foremost  into  the  burn- 
ing furnace,  from  which  no  power  could 
save  him.  And  who  could  contemplate 
that  position  without  horror  }  His  agony 
was  inexpressible,  except  by  screams  ;  and 
it  was  cruelly  prolonged  by  afiected 
manoeuvres,  such  as  blowing  the  bellows, 
and  stirring  and  restirring  the  coals,  tg 
make  them  burn  more  fiercely,  for  the 
more  adequate  reception  of  the  greatest  of 
human  sinners  that  had  ever  been  consign- 
ed to  the  pit. 

Havins;  held  him  for  some  time  in  this 
position,  Satan,  pretending  to  recollect 
himself,  cried  out — 

"  Achitophel,  get  the  red-hot  pincers. 
We  were  oblivious.  He  hath  not  con- 
fessed all  his  crimes.  We  will  pinch  him 
for  a  few  hours  before  we  consign  him  to 
the  fire,  which  is  not,  at  any  rate,  red 
enough  for  so  great  a  sinner.  Lay  him 
down  close  to  the  furnace,  and  bring  a  pair 
of  pinchers  for  each  log  and  arm." 

The  victim  was  laid  before  the  furnace, 
screaming  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  his 
eyes  rolling  about  like  fiery  balls.  The 
pincers  were  brought  and  put  into  the 
furnace,  and  the  bellows  again  sent  forth 
their  di'eadful   sound  ;   the  howling  was 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED'S  VISION  OP  JUDGMENT. 


591 


increased  ;  and  all  the  men,  as  they  utter- 
ed their  yells,  danced  round  him,  waving 
their  red  globes,  and  every  now  and  then 
bringing  them  within  a  few  inches  of  his 
face.  The  pincers  were  getting  hot 
apace,  by  the  fierce  blowing  of  the  bel- 
lows ;  and  one  of  the  legion  held  the  head 
of  the  victim  so  as  to  force  him  to  con- 
template the  instruments  of  his  torture. 
The  confusion  grew  worse  confounded — 
the  noise  of  the  blowing  forge,  the  howl- 
ing of  the  legion,  the  groaning  and  scream- 
ing of  Duncan,  the  loud  word  of  command 
of  the  Prince,  all  blending  together  to  rend 
and  distract  the  ear ;  while  the  rapid  mo- 
tions of  the  dancers,  and  the  rising  and 
falling  of  the  bellows,  made  the  eyes  of 
the  distracted  being  reel  like  those  of  a 
maniac. 

This  punishment  was  continued,  until 
it  appeared  that  the  terrified  Duncan  was 
about  to  faint.  His  cries  ceased,  and  fear 
seemed  to  lose  its  effect  over  him.  It  was 
time  to  stop,  as  even  amusement  may  be 
carried  to  the  verge  of  death — and  the 
unfortunate  Duncan  was  more  like  death 
than  life.  The  young  man  who  acted  the 
Prince  accordingly  gave  the  sign  for  his 
legion  to  stop,  and  in  an  instant  the  bel- 
lows ceased  to  blow,  and  the  men  to  dance, 
and  all  was  as  still  as  death.  Apprehen- 
sive of  having  killed  the  victim  by  pure 
fright,  the  Prince,  assisted  by  some  of  the 
legion,  lifted  him  to  a  distance  from  the 
furnace,  and  having  held  up  his  head  so 
as  to  get  him  to  sit,  some  whisky  (bought 
with  a  part  of  his  own  money)  was  brought 
from  a  neighboring  ale-house.  As  he  sat 
pale  and  trembling,  and  looking  wistfully 
about  him,  the  chief  actor  filled  up  a  glass 
of  the  spirits,  and  ofiered  it  to  him.  He 
seemed  irresolute  and  timid — looking  first 
at  the  whisky,  then  at  the  men,  and  much 
at  a  loss  what  to  think  of  his  position. 
His  grotesque  appearance  forced  the  chief 
actor  to  smile  :  the  effect  was  instantaneous 
— Duncan  caught  the  favorable  indica- 
tion, and  took  the  glass  into  his  hands. 

"  I  didna  think,"  said  he,  "  that  there 


was  ony  o'  this  kind  o'  liquor  here.  I  ex- 
pected naething  but  melted  brimstone, 
said  to  be  the  staple  drink  o'  your  domini- 
ons. But  is  it  really  whisky  }  I^'s  surely 
impossible — if  the  circumstance  got  wind 
aboon,  that  there  was  whisky  in  these 
parts,  there  wad  be  nae  keepin  folk  oot. 
Hoo,  dinna  ye  spread  the  intelligence  .'' 
surely  ye 're  no  sae  keen  for  recruits  as  ye 
were  when  ye  danced  awa  wi'  the  excise- 
man." 

"It  is  already  known  on  earth  that 
whisky  was  first  brewed  in  Pandemonium," 
said  the  actor.  "  The  nectar  belongs  to 
heaven,  the  wine  to  earth,  and  the  whisky 
to  the  infernal  regions.  A  thousand  poets 
have  sung  about  the  drink  of  the  gods, 
and  a  little  old  fellow  (a  Greek)  who  lies 
in  one  of  these  troughs,  getting  his  wine- 
heated  pate  cooled  with  brimstone  every 
five  minutes,  danced  and  sang  the  praises 
of  wine  till  1  got  hold  of  him  at  the  age  of 
eighty.  The  only  poet  who  has  let  out 
the  secret  of  whisky  being  first  brewed  in 
our  regions  was  a  person  of  the  name  of 
M'Neil,  who  sang — 

Of  a'  the  ills  puir  Caledonia 
E'er  yet  pree'd,  or  e'er  will  taste, 

Brewed  in  Hell's  black  Pandemonia, 
Whisky's  ill  has  scaithed  her  maist. 

I  tried  to  get  hold  of  the  fellow,  for  tis 
impudence  in  maligning  our  favorite  li- 
quor ;  but  he  wrote  some  sweet  poems, 
and  the  gods  took  him  under  their  wing." 

"  Ye  were  muckle  indebted,  I  think," 
replied  Duncan,  "  to  Hector,  for  tellin 
the  folk  that  whisky  was  brewed  here.  It 
will  save  your  Majesty  a  warld  o'  trouble  ; 
for  customers,  o'  their  ain  accord,  will 
come  in  millions,  '  linkin  to  the  black  pit,' 
if  they're  sure  o'  the  spark.'''' 

"  They  are  sure  of  the  sparky''''  replied 
the  Prince.  "  But  we  give  it  here  only 
as  a  medicine  whereby  we  recover  our 
patients  that  they  may  be  the  more  able 
to  feel  our  torments.  The  moment  thou 
drinkest,  the  pincers  will  be  applied." 

"  Then  I  beg  leave  to  decline  the  li- 
quor," said  Duncan.     "I  see  nae  use  for 


592 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


fire  baith  ootside  and  in  ;  besides,  I  hae 
renounced  the  practice  o'  drinkin  at  an- 
other person's  expense — a  tred  I  followed 
owre  lang  in  the  upper  regions,  to  my  sad 
cost  this  da3^" 

"  Thou  hast  paid  for  this  with  the 
money  thou  gavest  me,"  said  the  actor. 

"  That's  mair  than  I  ever  did  upon 
earth,''  said  Duncan,  with  a  leer  which  he 
could  not  restrain. 

It  will  have  been  seen  that  the  truth 
had  for  some  time  been  dawning  upon  the 
mind  of  the  condemned  culprit.  He  look- 
ed round  and  round  him,  and  every  look 
added  fresh  proof  of  the  delusion  under 
which  he  labored.  Looking  into  the  face  of 
Satan,  he  even  was  bold  enough  to  smile, 
accompanying  the  act  with  one  of  his  ini- 
mitable leers.  It  was  impossible  to  resist 
his  look  of  sly  humor ;  and  the  whole  com- 
pany broke  out  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  which 
made  all  the  cone  ring  again.  Seizing 
the  whisky,  he  looked  round  upon  all  the 
parties,  and,  bowing,  said — 

"  Gentlemen,  I'm  obleeged  to  ye  for  the 
trouble  ye  hae  taen  on  my  account.    I  see 
noo  hoo  the  land  lies ;  but  though  I  ken 
the  hail  extent  o'  this  awfu  delusion,  din- 
na  think  that  the  part  ye  hae  played  is  a 
piece  o'  mere  fun  and  humor,   to  form 
afterwards  the  foundation  o'  a  guid  story. 
Ye  hae  dune  mair  this  mornin  for  the  re- 
generation o'  a  puir   sinner,  than  was  ef- 
fected by  a'  the  sermons  I  ever  heard  frae 
the  pu'pits  o'  Scotland.      I  hae  confessed 
my  crimes  to  ye,  and  I  canna  expect  that 
this  cone  is  to  confine  for  ever  my  evil  re- 
putation.     It  maun  gae  abroad,  and  con- 
demn me,  and  ruin  me  ;  but"  (lowering 
his  voice  seriously)   "  I  will  defy  it  to  pre- 
vent me  frae  followin  the  course  I  hae  this 
day  determined   to   pursue.       Frae   this 
hour  henceforth,  to  that  moment  when  it 
may  please  Heaven  to  tak  me  frae  this 
warld,  I  shall  be  an  upright,  a  sober,  and 
a  religious  man.     The  folk  1  hae  injured, 
cheated,  and  robbed,  I  will  try  to  benefit 
to  the  utmost  extent  o'  my  puir  ability. 
And  every  day  o'  my  life  will  be  dedi- 


cated to  the  service  o'  the  Almighty,  and 
the  guid  o'  his  craturs.  My  first  step  will 
be  to  gang  to  Edinburgh,  and  pay  back  to 
Andrew  Gavin  the  price  o'  the  damaged 
linen  he  purchased  frae  me,  and  to  settle 
the  tavern  bill  at  The  Barleycorn,  to  as- 
sist me  whereunto  ye  will  dootless  gie  me 
back  my  siller.  This  resolution  I  confirm 
thus."  And  he  flung  the  whisky  into  the 
furnace,  which  blazed  up,  a  kind  of  holo- 
caust, as  a  thanksgiving  for  the  regenera- 
tion of  a  sinner. 

Duncan's  money  was  paid  back  to  him 
honestly,  and  the  actors  were  well  pleased 
that  they  had,  out  of  their  amusement, 
wrought  so  extraordinary  a  miracle.  The 
regenerated  man  departed  from  the  glass- 
works, and  proceeded,  according  to  his 
intention,  direct  to  Edinburgh.  He  called 
first  at  Andrew  Gavin's  house. 

"  Is  Mr.  Gavin  within  .^"  said  he,  to 
Mrs.  Gavin. 

"  My  husband,"  said  the  disconsolate 
wife,  "  hasna  been  at  hame  a'  nicht.  The 
last  time  I  saw  him  was  when  he  departed 
wi'  you.  What  hae  ye  dune  wi'  him  ?  I 
fear  some  sad  mischief  has  befa'en  him  ; 
for  unless  he's  at  a  prufe  or  after  a  fugy^ 
he  never  stays  oot  o'  his  ainhoose  a  nicht. 
But  what  kind  o'  linen  was  that  ye  sauld 
him  .^" 

"  It  was  a  piece  o'  rotten  linen  I  sauld 
him,"  replied  Duncan,  sternly. 

Mrs.  Gavin  looked  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Ay,  and,"  he  continued,  "  your  hus- 
band is  dootless  locked  up  in  The  Barley- 
corn, because  he  couldna — puir  man  ! — 
pay  the  lawin  that  I  should  hae  paid  and 
ran  awa  and  left  him  to  pay." 

Mrs.  Gavin's  amazement  was  increas- 
ed. 

'*  Ay,  and,"  continued  he,  "  I  hae 
cheated  thousands  besides  you  and  your 
husband — a  greater  sinner  than  I  hae  been, 
ye  wadna  find  between  the  Mull  o'  Gallo- 
way and  John  o'  Groats.  If  I  had  got  my 
due,  I  wad  hae  been  hanged,  or  at  least 
sent  to  Botany  Bay." 


DUNCAN  SCHULEBRED^  VISION  OP  JUDGMENT. 


593 


"  Bring, 


"  Are  you  mad,  or  do  you  glory  in  your 
wickedness  ?"  said  Mrs.  Gavin. 

*'  Nane  o'  the  twa,"  said  Duncan.  "  I 
am  as  wise  as  ye  are  ;  and,  in  place  o' 
gloryin  in  my  wickedness,  I  am  as  repent- 
ant as  a  deein  martyr." 

"  Repentance  is  naething  withoot 
warks,"  replied  she. 

"  Warks !"  ejaculated  Duncan 
bring  me  the  rotten  linen." 

The  astonished  woman  went  and  brought 
the  article. 

"  There's  the  &iller,"  said  Duncan,  "  I 
got  frae  yer  husband  for  that  wab.  I'll 
sell  it  noo  for  what  it  is — a  piece  o'  vile 
deception.  Need  ye  a  commodity  o-'  that 
description  .^" 

"I  think  I  could  find  use  for't,"  said 
Mrs.  Gavin.      "  It  has  ae  guid  end,  but 

ye '11  come  to  an  ill  ane  when  ye" 

"  row  it  down,"  she  would  have  said,  but 
Duncan  caug-ht  her  : — 

"  When  ye  cheat  yer  neighbor,"  added 
he.  '^  Ye 're  quite  right,  madam  ;  a  rot- 
ten-hearted wab  is  just  like  a  rotten- 
hearted  man — they  baith  come  to  an  ill 
end.  Oh,  hoo  gratefu  I  am  to  thae  glass- 
blawers,  wha  hae  blawn  awa  my  crimes, 
and  converted  and  reformed  me  !" 

"  He  is  surely  mad  after  a',"  muttered 
Mrs.  Gavin,  to  herself — "  wha  ever  heard 
o'  glass-blawers  convertin  sinners  ^  I  hae 
aye  understood  that  glass-blawers  are  free 
livers,  and  need  repentance  themselves  as 
muckle  as  ither  folk.  Hoo  could  they 
convert  ye .?" 

"  There  are  strange  mysteries  i'  the 
warld,"  said  Duncan  ;  "  but  we  ^rill 
better  let  that  subject  alane.  We  only, 
after  a',  see  ^  as  through  a  glass  darkly.' 
Stick  to  the  linen — what  is  it  worth  V 

Mrs.  Gavin  stated  a  price,  Duncan 
accepted  her  offer,  and  the  damaged  linen 
was  sold. 

"  Noo,"  said  Duncan,  '^  I'll  send  ye  yer 
husband." 

"  I  will  be  obleeged  to  ye,"  said  Mrs. 
Gavin ;  "  and  if  ye  can  get  the  glass- 
blawers  to  gie  him  a  blast,  yer  kindness 

VOL.  II  75 


far   beyond   my   pnir 


wad  be   increased 

pooers  o'  recompense 

''  Ah,  madam,"  said  Duncan,  "  writers 
are  owre  wecl  accustomed  to  blasts  o'  the 
horn^  to  care  for  ordinary  windfa's.  I  ken 
nae  better  thing  for  an  ill  husband  (no 
sayin  that  Andrew  is  liable  to  that  charge) 
than  a  blast  o'  a  wife's  tongue.  God  be 
praised,  Janet  Schulebred  will  hae  nae 
mair  cause  to  lecture  me  !  We  will  now 
live  happily  durin  the  remainin  portion  o' 
the  time  o'  oor  pilgrimage.  I  hae  aye 
taeii  something  hame  to  her.  Last  year  I 
took  some  whisky  bottles — probably  made 
at  the  glass  warks  o'  Leith ;  this  time,  I 
intend  to  tak  a  family  Bible.  Guid  day, 
madam- — I'm  awa  to  The  Barleycorn  ;  and 
frae  that  I  gang  ta  a  Bible  repository,  and 
then  hame." 

He  repaired  to  The  Barleycorn.  He 
saw  the  landlord  standing  at  the  door, 
with  a  sombre  face.  He  had  the  key  of 
the  room  in  his  hand,  and  looked  the  very 
picture  of  a  jailor.  He  knew  Duncan  in- 
stantly, and  was  proceeding  to  seize  him, 
when  the  latter  surrendered  himself  with 
so  much  good  humor,  that  the  publican 
gave  up  his  purpose  and  smiled  at  the 
prospect  of  getting  his  money. 

"  You  forgot  to  come  back  last  night," 
said  the  man.  "  Mr.  Gavin  says  that  you 
were  the  principal  debtor  to  me  for  my 
drink,  and  that  he  was  merely  surety  or 
cautioner.     Is  that  true.^" 

"  Perfectly  true,"  replied  Duncan.  "I 
promised  to  pay  the  bill,  and  should  hae 
paid  the  bill ;  but  I  was  determined  I 
wadna  pay  the  bill.  Accordingly,  I  ran 
awa  for  nae  ither  purpose  than  to  avoid 
pay  in  it." 

"  A  trick  ye'll  no  play  a  second  time," 
said  the  publican,  seizing  him. 

"  No,"  said  Duncan,  taking  out  money, 
"  seein  I  am  come  to  pay  ye  plack  and 
faithin.  Let  us  adjourn  to  Mr.  Gavin's 
prison." 

"  The  vera  place  I  intended  to  tak  ye 
to,"  said  the  man. 

They   proceeded   to   the  room   where 


594 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


Andrew  was  confined,  and  found  him 
sitting  in  a  sombre  fit  of  melancholy.  As 
they  entered,  he  looked  at  Duncan  with  an 
appearance  of  mixed  anger  and  satisfac- 
tion. The  latter  feeling  predominated,  as 
his  mind  suggested  that  the  poor  weaver 
had  been  prevented  by  drunkenness  from 
returning  immediately  to  pay  the  bill,  and 
had  now  come  to  make  amends. 

"  I  hae  been  angry  at  ye,  Duncan,"  said 
he ;  "  but  I  micht  hae  had  mair  faith  in 
yer  honor,  than  to  doot  ye  without  better 
proof  o'  dishonesty  than  no  returnin 
(when  ye  werena  able)  to  pay  yer  debts." 

"  Ye  couldna  hae  a  better  proof  o'  my 
dishonesty,"  replied  Duncan,  sternly ; 
''  for,  last  nicht,  when  I  ran  awa  withoot 
payin  the  lawin,  I  had  nae  mair  intention 
o'  comin  back  than  I  had  o'  ganging  doun 
to  the  bottomless  pit." 

Andrew  looked  at  the  speaker  with  the 
same  amazement  as  was  exhibited  by  his 
wife. 

"  How  comes  it  then,"  said  the  writer, 
"  that  ye  hae  returned  here  this  morn- 
ing .?" 

"  I  hae  got  some  new  licht^^^  replied 
Andrew.     "  Ye  ken — • 

So  long's  the  lamp  holds  on  to  burn, 
The  greatest  sinner  may  return. 

I  hae  returned,  no  only  to  this  tavern  to 
pay  my  debt,  but  to  a  proper  sense  o' 
what  is  due  to  Heaven  and  to  my  fellow- 
creatures.  I  am  a  changed  man,  sir. 
Nae  ^  vision  o'  judgment,'  penned  by 
Southey  or  Byron,  ever  transcended  that 
o'  the  bottle-blawers  o'  Leith." 

The  writer  considered  him  mad,  and 
trembled  for  the  payment  of  the  bill, 
which  could  not  be  extorted  from  a  mani- 
ac. The  tavern-keeper  took  a  calmer 
view,  and  thought  he  was  still  drunk. 

"  What  are  ye  starin  at  .^"  said  Duncan. 
*'  Did  ye  never  before  see  a  repentant 
sinner  ?  Bring  yer  bill,  sir.  And,  Mr. 
Gavin,  I  refer  ye  to  Mrs.  Gavin  for  some 
information  respectin  a  wab  o'  rotten 
linen  I  sauld  ye  yesterday,  bought  back 
again,  and  sauld  again  to  her  this  mornin." 


The  tavern-keeper  brought  the  bill, 
which  Duncan  discharged. 

"  I  cheated  ye,  Mr.  Gavin,  also  o'  the 
price  o'  the  stirrup-cup." 

''  Let  us  drink  it  noo,"  said  Mr.  Gavin 
— "  Bring  us  a  gill" — to  the  tavern-keep- 
er. 

The  whisky  was  brought,  and  the  writer 
took  cleverly  his  morning  dram,  a  practice 
which  the  craft  has  latterly  renounced, 
but  which  they  should  have  recourse  to 
again,  as  a  glass  of  whisky  is  a  good  be- 
ginning to  a  day's  roguery,  and  has, 
besides,  sometimes  the  same  effect  upon 
the  conscience  that  it  produces  on  the 
toothache — stills  the  pain.  A  glass  was 
next  filled  out  for  Duncan.  He  took  it 
up  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Your  fire's  no  sae  guid  as  the  ane  I 
saw  last  nicht,"  he  said  to  the  tavern- 
keeper. 

*'  It  is  only  newly  lighted,"  was  the 
apology  of  the  host. 

"  It  may  be  the  better  o'  that,"  said 
the  other,  throwing  the  whisky  into  the 
grate,  and  making  the  fire  blaze  up.  *'  Sae 
vshould  a'  burnin,  fiery  liquors  be  used. 
They  might  then  warm  the  outsides,  in 
place  o'  burnin  the  insides  o'  sinners. 
Ye  hae  seen  some  o'  the  first  acts  o'  my 
repentance.  This  is  ane  o'  them.  Ye 
may  hear  and  see  mair,  if  ye  consider 
Duncan  Schulebred  worthy  o'  yer  conside- 
ration, and  trace  his  conduct  through  this 
weary,  wicked,  waefa  warld,  during  the 
remainin  period  o'  an  ill-begun  but  (I 
hope),  weel-ended  life." 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  DISAPPEAR- 
ANCE. 

Having  laid  before  our  readers  a  story 
the  truth  of  which  may  be  testified  by  the 
evidence  of  living  witnesses,  we  will  now 
add  an  account  of  another  supposed  de- 
scent into  the  infernal  regions,  performed 
by  another  individual  belonging  to  the 
same  town,  equally  true  as  the  adventure 


THE    MYSTERIOUS   DISAPPEARANCE. 


595 


of  Duncan  Schulebred,  but  unfortunately 
having  a  very  different  termination. 

W 13 was  a  respectable  mer- 

cbant  in  Dunfermline,  where  he  had  car- 
ried on  business  for  a  great  many  years, 
under  the  reputation  of  being,  at  least,  in 
very  easy  circumstances,  if  not  wealthy. 
A  good  business,  a  comfortable  wife,  and 
a  fair  reputation,  were  supposed  to  have 
conspired  to  produce  in  him  as  much  hap- 
piness and  contentment  as  generally  falls 
to  the   lot   of  the    people    of  this  lower 
world  ;  nor   did   the    appearance    of  the 
man  belie  in  the  slightest  degree  the  sup- 
position   so    naturally     and    legitimately 
formed  :  ho  was  always  in   good  humor, 
active,  bustling,  cheerful,  and  loquacious  ; 
and  if  he  did  not  succeed  in  his  attempts 
to  produce  mirth  in  the  people  who  fre- 
quented his  place  of  business,  he  made  up 
the  deficiency  by  an  ever  ready  chorus  of 
his  own,  the  sound  of  which  seemed  to 
please  him  nearly  as  well  as  the  tributary 
laughter  of  others.     In  the  very  midst  of 

all  this  apparent  contentedness,  W 

B disappeared  all  at  once.     No  one 

could  tell  whither  he  had  gone  ;  and  his 
wife  was  just  as  ignorant  of  his  destina- 
tion or  fate  as  any  one  else.  That  he 
had  left  the  country-,  could  not  be  sup- 
posed, because  he  had  taken  nothing  with 
him  ;  that  he  had  made  away  with  himself, 
was  almost  as  unlikely,  seeing  that  it  is 
not  generally  in  the  midst  of  gaiety  and 
good  humor  that  people  commit  suicide. 
Every  search,  however,  was  made  for  him, 
but  all  in  vain — no  trace  could  be  found  of 
him,  except  that  a  person  who  had  been 
near  the  old  ruin  called  the  Magazine, 
part  of  the  old  castle  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  town,  reported  that,  on  the  night 
when  he  disappeared,  ho,  the  narrator, 
heard  in  that  quarter  a  very  extraordina- 
ry soliloquy  from  the  lips  of  some  one  in 
great  agony  ;  but  that  all  his  efforts  (for 
it  was  dark),  could  not  enable  him  to 
ascertain  who  or  where  he  was.  So  far 
as  he  could  recollect,  the  words  of  the 
person  were  as  follows : — 


"  The  self-destroyer  has   nae  richt  to 
expect  a  better  place.     (Groans.)     A' is 
dark  and  dismal — a  thousand  times  mair 
sae  than  what  my  fancy  ever  pictured  upon 
earth.     But  there  will  be  licht  sune,  ay, 
and  scorchin  fires,  and  a'  the  ither  terrors 
o'  the  place  whar  the  wicked  receive  the 
reward  o'  their  sins.      If  I  had  again  the 
days  to  begin,  which,  when  in  the  body,  I 
spent  sae  fruitlessly  and  sinfully,  hoo  wad 
I  be  benefited  by  this  sicht  o'  the  very 
entrance  to  the  regions  o'  the  miserable  ? 
and  yet  does  not  the  great  author  o'  guid 
strive,  wi'    a   never-wearyin   energy,   by 
dreams   and  visions,  and  revelations  and 
thoughts,  which  vain  man  tries  to  measure 
and  value  by  the  gauge  o'  his  insignificant 
reason,  to  show  him  what  1  now  see,  and 
turn  him  to  the  practice  o'  a  better  life. 
This  is  a  narrow   pit — there    is   neither 
room  for  the  voice  o'  lamentation,  nor  for 
the  struggle   o'  the  restless  limbs  o'  the 
miserable  ;  the  light,  and  the  air,  and  the 
space,  and  the  view  o'  the  blue  heavens, 
and  the  fair  earth,  which  mak  men  proud, 
as  if  they  were  proprietors  o'  the  upper 
world,  and  sinfu  as  if  its  joys  were  made 
for  them,  are  vanished,  and  a  narrow  cell, 
nae  bigger  than  my  body,  wi'  nae  air,  nae 
licht,    nae  warmth — cauld,   dark,  lonely, 
and  dismal — is  the  last  and  eternal  place 
appointed  for  the  wicked.    (Groans.)   On 
earth,  men,  though  sinners,  hae  the  com- 
panionship o'  men  ;  here  my  only  com- 
panion is   a  gnawin  conscience,  the  true 
fire  o'  the  lower  pit,  and  a  thousand  times 
waur  than  a'  the  imagined  flames  which 
haunt  the  minds  o'  the  doers  o'  evil." 

These  dreadful  words  were  spoken  at 
intervals,  and  loud  groans  bespoke  the 
agony  of  the  sufferer.  The  individual 
who  heard  them,  at  a  loss  what  to  conceive 
became  alarmed,  ran  away  to  get  assist- 
ance, and  in  a  short  time,  returned,  with 
a  companion  and  a  light,  to  search  among 
the  old  ruins  for  the  individual  who  was 
thus  apparently  suffering  under  the  imag- 
ined terrors  of  the  last  place  of  punish- 
ment.     They   looked   carefully  up    and 


596 


TALES   OF  THE   BORDERS. 


down,  throughout  the  place  called  the 
Magazine,  among  the  ruins  of  the  castle, 
and  in  every  hole  and  cranny  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, but  neither  could  they  see 
any  human  being,  nor  hear  again  any 
of  the  extraordinary  sounds  which  had 
chained  the  ear  of  the  listener,  and  roused 
his  terrors.  The  idea  of  a  supernatural 
presence,  was  the  first  that  presented 
itself ;  and  a  ghost  giving  its  hollow  utter- 
ance to  the  lamentations  of  its  suffering 
spirit,  confined,  doubtless,  in  some  of  the 
vaults  of  the  castle,  and  struggling  for 
that  liberty  which  depends  upon  the  per- 
formance of  some  penance  upon  earth, 
was  the  ready  solution  of  a  difl&culty 
which  defied  all  recourse  to  ordinary 
means  of  explanation.  Having  ascer- 
tained that  nothing  was  to  be  seen  or 
heard,  the  two  friends  returned  to  the 
town,  where  they  told  what  had  happened. 
The    disappearance    about   that   time    of 

W B suggested  to  many  a  more 

rational  explanation  of  the  mysterious 
affair;  and  a  number  of  people  adjourned 
to  the  Magazine,  for  the  purpose  of  ex- 
ploring its  dark  recesses  more  thoroughly, 
under  the  conviction  that  the  missing  indi- 
vidual might  be  concealed  in  some  part 
that  had  not  been  searched.  Every  effort 
was  employed  in  vain.  They  penetrated 
all  the  holes,  and  explored  all  the  dark 
corners — nothing  was  to  be  seen,  nothing 
heard,  and  the  conclusion  was  arrived  at 
either  that  the  narrator  was  deceiving  or 
deceived,  or  that  the  spirit  had  ceased  to 
issue  its  lamentations. 

For  many  days  and  many  years  after- 
wards, no  trace  could  be  had  of  W 

B ,  nor  was  there  ever  even  so  much 

as  whispered,  a  single  statement  of  any 
one  who  had  seen  him  either  alive  or  dead. 
The  food  for  speculation  which  the  myste- 
rious affair  afforded  to  the  minds  of  the 
inhabitants,  was  for  a  time  increased  by 
the  total  want  of  success  which  attended 
all  the  efforts  of  inquiry  ;  and,  after  the 
fancies  of  all  had  been  exhausted  by  the 


vain  work  of  endeavoring  to  discover  that 
which  seemed  to  be  hid  by  a  higher  power 
from  human  knowledge,  the  circumstance 
degenerated  into  one  of  the  wonders  of 
nature,  supplying  the  old  women  with  the 
material  of  a  fire-side  tale,  for  the  amuse- 
ment or  terror  of  children.  But  it  would 
seem  that  the  energies  of  vulgar  every- 
day life,  are  arrayed  with  inveterate  hostil- 
ity against  the  luxury  of  a  mystery  so 
greedily  grasped  at  by  all  people,  however 
thoroughly  liberated  from  the  prejudices 
of  early  education  or  of  late  sanctification ; 
and  accordingly,  one  day,  many  years  after 
the  occurrences  now  mentioned,  as  some 
boys  were  amusing  themselves  among  the 
ruins  of  the  old  castle,  they  discovered 
lying  in  a  hole — called  the  Piper's  Hole, 
from  the  circumstance  of  a  piper  having 
once  entered  it  with  a  pair  of  bagpipes, 
which  he  intended  to  play  on  till  he 
reached  the  end  of  it  but  never  returned 
— the  body  of  a  man  reduced  to  a  skele- 
ton, but  retaining  on  his  bare  bones  the 
clothes  which  he  had   worn  when  in  life. 

It  was  the  body  of  W B .       On 

searching  his  pockets,  there  was  found  in 
one  of  them  a  few  pence,  and  in  another 
a  bottle,  with  a  paper  label  marked 
"  Laudanum." 

This  discovery  cleared  up  all  mystery. 
The  unfortunate  man  had  intended  to  kill 
himself  in  such  a  way  as  would  put  his 
suicidal  act  beyond  the  knowledge  of  his 
friends,  and  had  resorted  to  the  extraor- 
dinary plan  of  creeping  up  into  the  dark 
and  narrow  passage,  where  the  action  of 
the  fatal  soporific  had  produced  the  delu- 
sion that  he  was  in  the  place  appointed  for 
the  wicked,  with  the  soliloquy  already 
detailed — and  then  death.  The  physical 
mystery  was  cleared  up  ;  but  a  mystery  of 
a  moral  nature  remains,  which  will  bid 
defiance  to  the  revealing  efforts  of  philo- 
sophers— the  strength  and  peculiaritj^  of 
feeling  which,  working  on  a  sane  mind, 
produced  a  purpose  so  extraordinary,  and 
the  resolution  to  carry  it  into  effect. 


THE  GENTLE  SHEPHERD. 


597 


THE     GENTLE     SHEPHERD. 


As  the  story  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd,  so 
beautifully  dramatized  by  Ramsay,  may 
not  be  so  well  known  to  our  readers  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Tweed  as  it  deserves  to 
be,  we  have  thought  it  would  not  be  amiss 
to  sketch  the  tale  in  prose  for  their  enter- 
tainment, while  we  hope  it  will  not  be 
unacceptable  in  this  shape  even  to  our 
Scottish  readers.     To  proceed  then  : — 

Patrick,  or  Patie,  as  he  was  familiarly 
called  by  his  compeers,  was  an  hum- 
ble shepherd  lad,  born  and  bred  in  the 
Lothians  in  Scotland,  and  within  a  few 
miles  of  Edinburgh.  Patie,  who  lived 
about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  Cen- 
tury, was  a  remarkably  handsome  young 
man,  and  surpassed  in  all  those  rustic 
accomplishments  in  which  country  swains 
usually  delight  to  excel.  He  was,  more- 
over, of  a  gay,  light-hearted,  and  joyous 
disposition ;  and,  morning,  noon,  and 
night,  made  the  woods  and  echoes  of  the 
romantic  spot  where  he  lived,  ring  with 
his  mirthful  glee.  Besides  all  this,  he 
possessed,  by  nature,  both  a  mind  and 
manner  superior  to  his  station ;  yet  in 
that  station  he  was  happy  and  although  it 
was  sufficiently  humble,  he  would  not  have 
exchanged  it  for  an  empire.  He  had  no 
unreasonable  ambition,  and  was  tormented 
with  no  longings  after  things  unattainable 
by  one  in  his  lowly  condition  in  life. 

The  person  (Symon  Scott,  a  wealthy 
and  excellent  man)  with  whom  Patie  re- 
sided, and  with  whom  he  had  lived  ever 
since  he  was  a  child,  was  a  tenant  of  Sir 
William  Preston's,  a  gentleman  of  large 
landed  property,  who,  to  save  his  head — 
he  having  taken  an  active  part  with  the 
royalists  of  the  period — had  fled  his  native 
country,  and  was  now  abroad,  no  one 
knew  where. 

Happy  in  his   situation,  and   delighted 


with  the  natural  beauties,  which  he  could 
v/ell  appreciate,  of  the  romantic  district  in 
which  he  lived,  with  its  hills  and  its  dales, 
its  woods,  and  waterfalls,  and  limpid 
streams — Patie's  felicity  was  yet  more  in- 
creased by  a  virtuous,  well  placed,  and 
fondly  requited  attachment. 

In  his  neighborhood,  there  lived  a  mo- 
dest and  beautiful  girl  of  the  name  of 
Peggy  Forsyth,  of  the  same  humble  rank 
in  life  with  himself.  This  girl  was  the 
reputed  niece  of  Glaude  Anderson,  a  re- 
spectable farmer,  and  a  tenant  also  of  Sir 
William's.  But,  though  reputed  the  niece 
of  this  person,  Peggy  was,  in  truth,  no  re- 
lation to  him  whatever. 

The  girl  was  a  foundling,  and  honest 
Glaude,  her  guardian,  was  in  reality,  as 
ignorant  of  the  circumstances  of  her  birth 
and  of  her  parentage,  as  was  the  child 
herself.  He  had  found  her,  one  summer 
morning,  carefully  wrapped  up  in  swad- 
dling clothes,  at  his  own  door  ;  and  being  a 
kind-hearted  man,  he  had  adopted  the  lit- 
tle stranger  ;  and  to  rivet,  as  it  were,  the 
affection  he  soon  formed  for  her,  he  be- 
stowed on  her  the  title  of  propinquity  al- 
luded to  ;  and  neither  the  girl  herself  nor 
the  world  ever  knew  anything  to  the  con- 
trary. And  on  this  girl  Patie's  love  was 
fixed,  to  her  his  heart  was  given,  and  to 
him  she  yielded  hers  in  return. 

Thus  stood  matters  with  Patie  and 
Peggy,  when  intelligence  arrived  that  Sir 
William,  who  had  now  been  absent  for 
many  years,  miirht  soon  be  expected  home, 
as  the  kinn;  had  been  restored  and  the 
royal  party  was  once  more  dominant. 

This  agreeable  tidings  created  the  most 
lively  sensations  of  joy  amongst  Sir  Wil- 
liam's tenantry,  by  all  of  whom  he  was 
greatly  beloved  for  his  generosity  of  charac- 
ter and  pleasing  condescension  of  manners. 


598 


TALES    OF   THE   BORDERS. 


But  to  none  of  those  who  acknowledged 
him  as  then-  lord  did  this  news  afford  such 
happiness  as  to  old  Syinon  Scott  and 
Glaude  Anderson,  who  had  always  been 
especial  favorites  of  the  good  Sir  William. 
The  moment  these  two  worthy  men  heard 
the  tidings  of  their  landlord's  expected  re- 
tm-n,  they  simultaneously  bethought  them 
of  celebrating  the  event  with  a  feast,  each 
insisting  that  he  should  be  the  giver. 
Glaude,  however,  had  been  forestalled  in 
this  particular  by  Symon,  who  had  already 
given  orders  for  a  sumptuous  banquet  to 
be  prepared,  to  which  he  invited  Glaude, 
and  all  the  old  and  young  folks  in  his  im- 
mediate neighborhood.  After  partaking 
of  a  plentiful  repast,  the  youngsters,  male 
and  female,  amongst  whom  were  Patie  and 
Peggy,  betook  themselves  to  the  green  in 
front  of  the  house,  to  conclude  the  festivi- 
ties of  the  day  by  a  dance. 

While  the  young  people  were  thus  joy- 
ously engaged  on  the  green,  an  old  man 
of  venerable  appearance,  but  whose  dress 
bespoke  him  a  mendicant,  suddenly  pre- 
sented himself  amongst  them,  and  began 
to  amuse  them  by  telling  their  fortunes ; 
a  branch  of  business  which  he  appeared  to 
have  added  to  his  regular  callino; — that 
of  soliciting  charity.  The  knowledge, 
however,  which  the  old  man  discovered 
of  many  circumstances  connected  with 
those  whose  future  destinies  he  affected  to 
foretell,  greatly  surprised  all  who  heard 
him,  and  made  such  an  impression  on 
Jenny,  Glaude 's  daughter,  that  she  rushed 
breathless  into  the  house,  where  the  old 
people  were  enjoying  themselves,  and  in- 
formed them  that  a  most  extraordinary  old 
man,  the  most  amazing  fortune-teller  that 
ever  was  seen  or  heard  of,  had  come 
amongst  them,  and  was  now  on  the  green 
in  front  of  the  house. 

Symon — all  kindness  and  hospitality, 
and  resolved  that  no  one  should  go  past 
his  door  hungry  that  day — desired  Jenny 
to  bring  the  old  man  in,  protesting,  how- 
ever, at  the  same  time,  that  he  had  no 
faith  whatever  in  the   soothsayer's    pre- 


tended gift  of  divination — a  protest  in 
which  ho  was  cordially  joined  by  Glaude. 
In  a  few  seconds,  Jenny  returned,  leading 
in  the  old  man,  who  was  cordially  wel- 
comed by  Simon,  and  immediately  offered 
entertainment  and  a  night's  lodjiins:.      In 

O  CO 

gratitude  for  this  kindness,  the  old  man 
inquired  if  his  host  had  no  children,  whose 
future  fortunes  he  desired  to  learn ;  say- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  that  he  would  exert 
his  utmost  skill  to  perform  his  task  faith- 
fully, whether  it  should  be  for  good  or 
evil.  To  humor  what  he  considered  at 
best  a  joke,  Symon  pointed  to  Patie,  who, 
with  some  of  the  other  youngsters,  had 
now  entered  the  house  ;  and  said  that  he 
was  the  only  child  he  had. 

On  this,  the  old  mendicant  took  hold  of 
Patie's  hand,  and,  to  the  great  alarm  of 
Symon's  wife,  told  his  auditors  that  there 
was  a  particular  mark  on  the  young  man's 
body,  just  below  the  armpit — an  assertion 
which  was  so  true,  that  Symon's  wife,  who 
was  the  only  person  besides  Patie  himself 
who  knew  of  such  a  mark,  immediately 
accused  the  old  fortune-teller  of  having 
dealings  with  the  Evil  One.  Paying  no 
attention  to  this  remark,  the  prophet  went 
on  to  say,  that,  if  the  young  man  was 
spared,  he  would,  in  a  very  short  time, 
become  a  great  and  wealthy  landlord. 

All,  except  Symon,  treated  this  an- 
nouncement with  mirthful  expressions  of 
distrust,  and  none  with  more  marked  dis- 
belief and  contempt  that  Patie  himself, 
who  said  that  two  whistles  and  a  couple 
of  curs  were  all  his  property,  and  likely 
ever  to  be. 

It  has  been  said  that  Symon  presented 
the  only  exception  to  the  general  incre- 
dulity on  this  occasion,  although  he  was 
first  to  express  disbelief  in  the  prophet's 
supernatural  powers ;  but  for  this  there 
was  sufficient  reason,  as  shall  afterwards 
appear. 

The  change  in  Symon's  sentiments  re- 
garding the  old  man's  gifts,  did  not 
escape  the  notice  of  his  friend,  Glaude, 
who  bantered  him  on  his  altered  tone,  and 


THE  GENTLE  SHEPHERD. 


599 


expressed  the  utmost  astonishment  that 
he  should  allow  himself  to  be  imposed 
upon  by  such  absurdities.  This  open 
contempt  of  his  fidelity  instantly  called 
down  upon  Glaude  a  rebuke  from  the 
soothsayer,  who  not  only  insisted  on  the 
soundness  of  his  prediction,  but  added 
that  they  would  see  that  all  he  had  fore- 
told regarding  Patie  would  be  fulfilled  ere 
two  short  days  should  elapse.  Seeing  the 
earnestness  of  the  fortune-teller,  Glaude 
good-humoredly  not  only  gave  up  the 
point,  but  asked  him  to  predict  the  future 
fortunes  of  his  own  two  daughters  ;  a  task, 
this,  which  the  old  man  declined,  allesfino; 
that  he  had  the  gift  of  prophecy  only  once 
a- day. 

Having  now  exhausted  his  store  of  pre- 
dictions, the  mysterious  visitor  was  invited 
to  place  himself  at  the  board,  and  to  par- 
take of  some  refreshment.  This  hospi- 
tality, however,  he  begged  his  entertainers 
to  delay  for  a  while,  saying,  he  would  ra- 
ther go  abroad  for  a  little  and  enjoy  the 
calm  air  of  the  evening,  and  requested 
that  his  host,  Symon,  would  accompany 
him ;  a  request  with  which  the  latter 
readily  complied. 

On  leaving  Symon's  house,  the  old  man 
directed  his  steps  towards  the  deserted 
and  dilapidated  mansion  of  Sir  William 
Preston,  which  was  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  ;  and,  as  they  approached  it, 
asked  his  con:jpanion  to  whom  it  belonged. 
He  was  told ;  and  was  further  informed 
that  the  ioyful  tidino-s  had  come  amono-st 
Sir  William's  tenantry,  that  he  would  soon 
be  with  them  again.  But  what  was  ho- 
nest Symon's  joy — what  his  amazement — 
to  find,  as  he  did  at  this  moment,  that  the 
event  he  announced  as  approaching,  and 
to  which  he  looked  forward  with  so  much 
pleasure  and  delight,  had  already  taken 
place  ! 

Hastily  throwing  off  the  disguise  that 
concealed  him,  the  old  mendicant — the 
wandering  fortune-teller — in  an  instant 
stood  before  the  almost  incredulous  eyes 
of  his  humble  but  faithful  friend,  Symon,  I 


Sir  William    Preston   himself,  and  none 
other. 

Astonished  and  delighted  beyond  mea- 
sure at  the  extraordinary  discovery,  honest 
Symon  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  and, 
in  a  transport  of  joy,  clasped  Sir  Wil- 
liam's knees,  and  welcomed  him  to  his 
home.  The  good  knight  kindly  raised 
the  old  man  ;  and,  embracing  him  affec- 
tionately, asked  for  his  boy. 

Here  our  story  requires  a  slight  digres- 
sion. When  Sir  William,  who  was  a 
widower,  fled  his  native  land  to  avoid  the 
vengeance  of  the  popular  party,  he  had, 
previous  to  his  departure,  secretly  con- 
signed his  only  son,  then  a  child,  to  the 
guardianship  of  his  faithful  tenant,  Symon, 
with  instructions  however,  that  neither 
the  boy  himself,  nor  any  one  else,  should 
ever  be  informed  of  his  real  descent — a 
course  which  Sir  William  was  induced  to 
pursue  at  once  to  save  his  son  unavailing 
regrets  in  after-life,  should  he  never  be 
able  to  recover  his  rights  for  him,  and  to 
reconcile  him  to  the  humble  duties  of 
the  lowly  station  to  which  it  was  more 
than  probable  he  should  be,  during  his 
lifetime,  doomed.  It  need  hardly  now  be 
told,  that  Patie,  Symon's  protege,  was 
no  other  than  the  son  and  heir  of  Sir 
William  Preston  ;  and  that  it  was  of  him 
Sir  William  now  inquired. 

To  all  the  inquiries  which  the  latter 
now  made  at  Symon  regarding  his  son,  he 
received  the  most  pleasing  and  gratifying 
replies ;  and  was  delighted  to  learn, 
amongst  other  things,  that  his  education 
had  been  carefully  attended  to. 

Satisfied  of  this,  and  with  other  particu- 
lars regarding  the  conduct,  character,  and 
acquirements  of  his  boy.  Sir  William  next 
anxiously  inquired  if  his  son  had  formed 
no  attachment  unbefitting  the  station 
which  he  was  now  about  to  assume. 

On  this  important  point,  Symon  ac- 
knowledged that  he  feared  the  worst,  as 
he  had  lately  discovered,  he  said,  that 
there  existed  a  kindlier  feeling  between 
the  young  man  and  Claude's  niece,  Peggy, 


60O 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


than  he  approved  of;  but  added,  that  he 
hoped  the  change  of  condition  which  now 
awaited  Patie,  would  induce  him  to  break 
off  the  connexion,  and  think  no  more  of 
his  lowly  lover  ;  and  in  this  hope  he  was 
very  eagerly  joined  by  Sir  William,  who 
now  desired  Symon  to  bring  his  son  to 
him,  and  to  intimate  openly,  to  all  whom 
it  concerned,  that  he  was  returned. 

There  being  now  no  longer  any  reason 
for  concealing  Patie 's  real  descent,  the 
intelligence  that  the  humble  shepherd  was 
no  other  than  the  son  and  heir  of  Sir 
William  Preston — and,  in  consequence  of 
his  father's  return,  was  now  about  to  step 
into  the  elevated  station  to  which  that  im- 
portant circumstance  entitled  him— rapid- 
ly spread  around,  and  created  a  universal 
feeling  of  surprise,  and  no  small  joy,  as 
Patie  had  been  a  general  favorite.  But 
there  was  one  on  whom  this  intelligence 
had  a  very  contrary  effect  to  that  of  in- 
spiring joy. 

This  was  Peggy.  In  the  discovery  that 
her  Patie  was  no  longer  the  humble  shep- 
herd that  had  won  her  heart,  but  a  gentle- 
man of  rank  and  fortune,  the  warm-heart- 
ed girl  saw  the  utter  annihilation  of  all 
her  fondest  and  dearest  hopes,  and  gave 
way  to  feelings  of  the  deepest  despair  ;  for 
ehe  dared  not  to  think  otherwise  than  that 
she  and  her  lover  should  now  be  sundered 
for  ever.  But,  in  coming  to  this  conclu- 
sion, she  had  not  made  sufficient  allow- 
ance for  the  strength  of  Patie 's  attach- 
ment, nor  for  the  generous  and  noble 
nature  of  his  character,  which  would  not 
permit  him  to  find,  in  a  mere  change  of 
worldly  circumstances,  an  apology  for 
broken  vows.  But,  in  truth,  it  required 
no  considerations  of  a  moral  kind  to  in- 
duce Patie  to  keep  faith  with  his  lover ; 
his  affection  for  her  alone  was  all-sufficient 
for  this  purpose,  and  determined  him  to 
remain  faithful  to  her,  whatever  might  be 
the  consequences.  Abiding  in  this  reso- 
lution, and  determined  to  act  up  to  it,  he 
flew  to  his  beloved  Peggy,  whom  he  found 
in  tears  and  despair,  to  assure  her  that  the 


change  in  his  condition  had  not,  and  never 
would  effect,  any  change  in  his  sentiments 
towards  her,  and  that,  as  the  son  and 
heir  of  Sir  William  Preston,  he  should 
remain  as  constant  to  his  love  as  if  he  had 
continued  to  be  the  humble  shepherd  who 
had  wooed  and  won  her  heart. 

On  the  day  following  these  events,  seve- 
ral persons,  and,  amongst  them,  Peggy, 
having  assembled  at  Symon's  house,  where 
Sir  William  was  sojourning  for  the  time, 
the  latter,  attracted  by  the  singular  beauty 
of  Patie's  lover,  whom  he  did  not  know  by 
sight,  and  forcibly  struck  by  a  strong  re- 
semblance which  he  fancied  she  bore  to 
his  own  sister,  eagerly  inquired  who  she 
was.     Glaude,  who  was  present,  replied 
that  she  was  his  niece  ;  but,  instantly  after, 
contradicted  himself,  by  confessedly  say- 
ing she  was  not  his  niece.  The  honest  man 
was,  in  truth,  perplexed  at  the  moment 
with  two  opposing  considerations,  and  far- 
ther led  astray  by  the  force  of  habit.     He 
had  called  Peggy  his  niece  on  this  occa- 
sion,   because   he    had   long   accustomed 
himself  to  give  her  that  title,  and,  indeed, 
to  view  her  in  the  light  of  such  a  relative; 
but  he,  at  this  moment,  felt  that  Sir  Wil- 
liam had  a  right  to  expect   the  truth  from 
him  ;  and  on  this,  indeed,  the  knight  now 
somewhat    peremptorily    insisted,    when 
Glaude  acknowledged  that  Peggy  was  a 
foundling,  and  proceeded  to  describe  the 
circumstances  connected  with  the  finding 
of  the  infant,  which   have   been  already 
told  ;  but  more  than  these,  Glaude  said  he 
could  not  tell.      The  information,   how- 
ever, in  which   Glaude  was  deficient,  was, 
to  the  astonishment  and  delight  of  all  pre- 
sent, more  especially  to  that  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam, whose  curiosity  was  greatly  excited, 
furnished  on  the  spot,  and  from  a  very 
unexpected  quarter. 

No  sooner  had  Glaude  finished  his  ac- 
count of  the  foundling,  than  an  old  woman 
of  the  name  of  Mause  Templeton,  who 
was  present,  seizing  Peggy  hy  the  hand, 
led  her  up  to  Sir  William,  and  asked  the 
,  knisiht  if  asce  had  effected  such  a  change 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


601 


on  her  countenance  that  he  did  not  recog- 
nise in  her  the  nurse  of  his  sister — the 
nurse  of  the  mother  of  the  girl  she  now 
held  in  her  hand.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  Sir  William  acknowledged  his  per- 
fect recollection  of  her  ;  and  seeking  no 
farther  testimony  than  her  assurance, 
added  to  his  own  convictions,  from  the 
likeness  he  had  discerned,  that  the  girl 
who  stood  before  him  was  indeed  his  niece, 
he  tenderly  embraced  her  and  made  her 
take  a  seat  beside  him,  until  he  should 
hear  from  Mause,  what  he  now  requested 
she  should  give,  a  detail  of  the  circum- 
stances that  had  entailed  such  a  singular 
fate  on  his  niece. 

Mause  proceeded  to  say  that,  when 
Peggy  was  an  infant,  she  was  informed, 
by  a  person  on  whom  she  had  every  re- 
liance, that  the  child's  life,  her  parents 
being  dead,  was  threatened  by  an  uncle's 
wife,  in  order  to  come  at  the  large  pro- 
perty to  which  she  was  heir,  and  between 
which  and  this  avaricious  and  unnatural 
relative  the  infant  was  the  only  obstacle. 
That,  having  a  perfect  assurance  of  this 
atrocious  design,  she  stole  away  the  child 
from  its  faithless  guardians,  Peggy's  uncle 
and  his  wife,  and  having  carried  it,  by 
easy  stages  of  a  few  miles  each  day,  at 
length  arrived  with  her  tender  charge  in 
that  part  of  the  country  where  they  now 
were.     Being  afraid  of  a  discovery,  if  she 


-«-4^»^ 


THE    VICTIM    OF   THE    STATUTE-BOOK. 


I  HAVE  prevailed  upon  the  jailor,  under 
whose  care  I  am,  to  take  off  my  heavy 
manacles,  to  allow  me  to  write  the  follow- 
ing particulars,  which  I  intend  shall  see 
the  light,  though  not  until  my  poor  mother 
is  dead  ;  for  1   cannot  bear  to  think  that 


she  should  ever  know  that  the  memoirs  of 
her  son's  misfortunes  should,  as  a  dying 
speech  and  declaration,  be  handed  about, 
to  court  the  eye  and  gratify  the  curiosity 
of  the  public.  It  is  not  that  I  have  any 
warning  to  make,  or  any  beacon  to  exhibit, 


retained  the  child,  she  then  determined 
on  the  step  which  put  the  infant  into 
Glaude's  possession.  But,  though  soon 
satisfied  that  the  child  was  in  safe  and 
good  k'eeping,  she  resolved  still  to  watch 
over  it,  and  with  this  view  took  a  small  \ 
cottage  in  the  neighborhood,  where  she 
had  lived  ever  since,  and  where,  unknown 
to  Peggy  herself,  or  to  any  one  else,  she 
had  watched  over  her  with  all  the  anxiety 
of  a  mother. 

When  Mause  concluded  her  story.  Pa- 
tie,  now  Mr.  Patrick  Preston — who  had 
been  present  during  the  whole  of  this  sin- 
gular and  interesting  scene — flew  towards 
Peggy,  and  at  once  perceiving  that  the 
discovery  which  had  just  been  made  of 
her  real  parentage  and  descent  must  re- 
move every  objection  which  his  father 
could  possibly  entertain  to  their  union,  he 
embraced  her,  when  they  both  knelt  be- 
fore Sir  William,  and  besought  his  bless- 
ing, which  the  delighted  father  and  uncle 
readily  gave  ;  intimating,  at  the  same  time, 
his  determination  to  lose  no  time  in  strip- 
ping Peggy's  unnatural  relations  of  their 
ill-got  gains,  and  restoring  them  to  their 
rightful  owner.  And  now  if  ever  unalloy- 
ed felicity  was  the  lot  of  man,  it  was  at 
this  moment  that  of  Patie,  the  Gentle 
Shepherd,  whose  union  with  Peggy,  we 
need  hardly  add,  almost  immediately  fol- 
lowed. 


602 


TALES   OF  THE  BORDERS. 


whereby  I  miglit  save  others  from  the  fate 
that,  like  a  mighty  snake,  binds  my  body, 
and  leaves  this  hand  free,  only  to  the  effect 
of  telling  the  number  of  its  scaly  folds 
with  which  I  am  entwined.  It  is  not  like- 
ly that  any  human  being  may  ever  be  in 
my  situation  again.  My  object  is  to 
arraign  the  justice  (injustice)  of  the  blood- 
written  laws  of  my  country  ;  and  to  show 
that,  while  the  statutes  remain  unaltered, 
unmodified — the  rules  of  evidence  un- 
chancred — the  hano-man  retains  his  name — 
the  rope  is  made  of  hemp — and  all  the 
black  formula  of  death  is  much  the  same 
as  it  was  centuries  ao-o — all  other  institu- 
tions  and  usages  are  undergoing  a  change, 
and  man  is  becoming  emancipated  from 
the  vslavery  of  institutions  whose  iron 
chains  were  forged  in  the  heat  of  war  and 
rapine.  Capital  punishments — applied 
upon  the  lying  evidence,  the  hurried  trials, 
the  stultified  verdicts,  the  confused  acts  of 
our  statute-book,  for  crimes  of  all  dies 
and  grades,  from  the  stealing  of  a  sheep  to 
the  taking  away  of  the  breath  of  life  from 
the  nostrils  of  God's  elect  of  all  living- 
creatures — arc  the  disgrace  of  the  nation 
of  England.  If  common  humanity  has  no 
place  in  the  breasts  of  our  legislators,  let 
my  case  speak :  it  has  a  language  of  its 
own,  such  as,  perhaps,  never  before  peal- 
ed from  a  heart  crushed  by  tyrannical  in- 
stitutions and  perverted  justice  :  it  speaks 
of  innocence  punished  by  death — a  subject 
fitted  for  the  mediation  of  angels — and 
proves  that,  when  the  conservative  princi- 
ple of  punijtion  is  carried  beyond  a  cer- 
tain point  of  severity,  the  endless  posi- 
tions of  an  ever-varying  society  may  pro- 
duce instances  of  injustice  that  cannot  be 
atoned  for  by  tears  of  blood.  I  was  born 
in  the  town  of  Ayr,  on  the  west  side  of 
Scotland,  and  brought  up,  after  the  death 
of  my  father,  which  happened  when  I  was 
very  young,  by  my  mother,  a  good  and 
godly  woman,  who  taught  her  son  to  seek 
Him  "  that  makcth  the  seven  stars  and 
Orion,  and  turneth  the  shadow  of  death 
into    the     mornins;."     There     are     few 


Scotch  mothers  that  do  not  try  to  inculcate 
on  their  children  the  principles  of  reli- 
gion ;  but  there  are  fewer  that  accomplish 
their  task  with  so  much  efficacy  as  my 
parent,  for  I  was  naturally  inclined  to  be 
pious,  and  loved  more  fervently  than  others 
do  the  harp  of  the  mountain,  that  is  tuned 
to  the  genius  of  Scottish  music,  the  melo- 
dy of  Israel's  beloved  viols.  Nor  was 
it  with  me,  as  with  many  young  people, 
that  the  flame  of  religion  was  fanned  be- 
fore the  sense  to  understand  its  principles 
had  acquired  strength ;  for,  before  I  was 
eight  years  of  age,  I  understood  the  great 
scheme  of  mediation,  while  my  tears  flow- 
ed in  gratitude  for  the  wonderful  sacrifice 
by  which  it  was  perfected.  These  thoughts 
distract  me ;  and  who  is  there  that  could 
look  back,  an  innocent  man,  from  the  dark 
cells  of  a  jail,  on  that  scene  of  youth  and 
innocence  when  the  teacher  and  parent  sat 
by  us  over  the  winter  fire,  and  opened  to 
our  young  fancies  all  the  wonders  of  a  sav- 
ing providence,  and  not  cry,  with  tears, 
What  has  come  out  of  the  light  of  that 
sun  ?  Was  I  not  taug;ht  that  "  the  inheri- 
tance  of  the  Almighty  is  destruction  to 
the  wicked,"  and  "  a  strange  punishment 
to  the  workers  of  iniquity" — strange,  in- 
deed, to  be  condemned  to  die  for  a  crime 
of  which  one  is  innocent ! 

It  was  by  the  work  of  her  hands  that  my 
poor  mother  brought  me  up  to  the  verge  of 
manhood.  "  She,"  as  the  Temanito  said, 
'^  wandered  abroad  for  bread,"  for  "  trouble 
and  anguish  made  her  afraid  ;"  but,  if  toil 
was  heavy  for  her,  the  weight  was  lighten- 
ed by  the  thought,  that  what  she  earned 
would  be  blessed  by  her  son,  with  the 
grace  of  thanks  to  Him  that  gives  what  is 
good  for  both  body  and  soul.  It  was  a 
sight  good  for  the  proud  hearts  of  the  great 
— but  they  saw  it  not — that  poor  widowed 
creature,  straining  her  weak  nerves,  and 
bathing  her  brow  with  the  sweat  of  a  pain- 
ful toil,  yet,  through  all,  sustaining  her 
spirit  by  the  hope  of  her  son,  whose  in- 
dustry would,  by  the  grace  she  taught  him, 
return  to  her  fifty-fold,  when  she  could  work 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


603 


no  lono-er,  the  seed  she  travailed  to  sow. 
She  saw  not,  and  it  was  good  for  her,  the 
darkness  that  was  coming  ;  neither  did  she 
hear  from  a  hovering  spirit  that  it  would 
have  been  better  for  both  of  us  if  I  had 
never  been  born,  or  that  I  had  been  carri- 
ed froDi  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  So  far 
m}'-  mother's  efforts  succeeded.  I  was 
comfortably  fed  and  decently  clothed,  and, 
beyond  all,  a  good  soil  was  prepared  for 
the  education  which  she  hoped  also  to  be 
able  to  procure  for  me  ;  but  the  assistance 
of  another  was  required  for  that,  and  the 
master  whom  my  father  had  served— a 
landed  proprietor  in  the  neighborhood,  of 
the  name  of  Pringle — contributed  to  that 
desirable  object ;  but  he  stopt  short  in  his 
generosity ;  and  a  distant  relation  by  my 
father's  side,  an  engraver,  of  the  name  of 
Holmes,  took  me,  when  very  young,  into 
his  shop,  where  I  remained  for  about  a 
year,  when,  my  master  having  died,  I  was 
again  thrown  back  on  my  mother.  Mr. 
Prino-le  again  came  forward,  and  prevailed 
upon  my  reluctant  parent,  who  had  cher- 
ished  higher  hopes  for  me,  to  allow  me  to 
become  a  servant  in  his  house.  This  re- 
sult of  her  long  labor  and  weary  toil  made 
my  mother  weep  "  with  the  weeping  of 
Jazer  ;"  but,  as  destiny  was  to  her  ever 
the  will  of  the  Lord,  that  tends  for  good, 
though  all  unseen  by  mortal  eye,  she  dried 
up  her  tears,  and  consented  quietly,  like 
her  who  inhabited  Debon,  to  come  down 
from  her  glory  and  "  sit  in  thirst." 

I  had  been,  I  think,  about  four  years  with 
Mr.  Pringle,  and  was  now  entrusted  with 
the  duties  of  his  valet — a  species  of  ser- 
vants exposed  to  much  contumely,  and 
prehaps  thereby  rendered  in  their  turn 
less  worthy  of  the  confidence  of  their 
masters.  Religion  has  seldom  any  place 
amono"  them  ;  and  the  principles  which  I 
professed  exposed  me  to  some  badinage, 
which  made  me  follow  the  practice  of  the 
children  of  good  men  in  the  land  of  Egypt, 
who  "  did  sacrifice  secretly."  I  was 
steadfast  in  my  covenant,  and  true  to  her 
who  bound  my  heart  to  it  in  my  younger 


days.  A  great  part  of  my  wages  I  remitted 
to  my  parent,  and  I  would  not  have  given 
the  blessing  of  her  thanks  for  the  smiles 
of  great  men,  and  judges,  and  potentates  ; 
for  who  "  among  them  is  greater  than  he 
who  honoreth  his  mother  .^"  Yet,  at  this 
time,  I   allowed  my   heart  to    be   divided 
in  affections,   and  disobeyed  the    injunc- 
tion of   Ecclesiasticus — "  gaze   not  upon 
a  maid."    But  I  would  have  been  more 
than  man  if  I  could  have  seen  the  beauti- 
ful comforter  of  my  parent,  and  not  felt 
my  love  "kindle  as  afire."  An  orphan, 
of  the  name  of  Magdalene  Dempster,  who 
was  brought  up  with  a  poor  neighbor,  was 
frequently  in  my  mother's  house  on  the 
evenings  of  Sunday,  when  I  made  it  my 
filial  duty  to  pass  there  as  much  of  my 
time  as  I  could  spare  from  my  service. 
This  young  woman's  looks  would  have  se- 
cured a  conquest  over  me,  though  she  had 
made  no  claims  on  my  heart,  by  her  atten- 
tion to  my  parent.     I  conceived  a  strong 
passion  for  her,  and  soon  learned  the  joy- 
ful tidings  that  she  loved  me.     My  mother 
observed  the  state  of  our  feelings,  and  did 
not  disapprove  of    my   choice  ;    for  she 
knew  that,  as  the  prophet  says,  "  there  is 
a  time  to  get  and  a  time  to  lose,"  and  he 
who  loses  the   opportunity  of  getting  a 
good  helpmate  in  the  pilgrimage  of  life, 
may  fall  into  the  hands  of  those  who  love 
him  only  for  what  may  be  got  from  him. 
That  period  of  my  pilgrimage  was  the  only 
one  on  which  the  sun  of  life's  happiness 
had  as  yet  cast  a  beam  to  cheer  me  on ; 
but  I  did  not  know  that  the  life  of  man  is 
only  as  the  face  of   the  heavens,  whose 
gilded  clouds  foretell  a  storm.     My  plea- 
sure made  my  heart  shake,  and  give  forth 
sweet  sounds,  as  a  timbrel  that  is  struck 
in  joy.     Magdalene  came  and  met  me  on 
the  way  as   I  went  to  my  mother's  ;  and 
when  the  sun  was  not  far  spent,  we  sat  us 
down  among  the  yellow  broom,  and  were 
happier  than  they  who  "  feed  among  the 
lilies."   In  the  evening  when  I  came  away, 
she  accompanied  me  a  short  distance  on 
the  road,  that  we  might  have  every  avail- 


604 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


able  moment  of  each  other's  company  ;  and 
when  we  parted,  it  was  to  carry  with  us  in 
our  hearts  an  affection  that  would  increase 
every  moment  till  we  met  again.     Thus 
passed  a  year,  and  I  became  impatient  of 
a  delay  to  the  gratification  of  the  object 
that,  next  to  my  mother's  happiness,  lay 
nearest  to  my  heart.     I  got  Mr.  Pringle's 
consent    to  marry.     We   were   married  ; 
and,  in  the  meantime,  Magdalene  staid 
with  my  mother,  till  a  cottage,  which  was 
expected  to  be  empty  at  the  end  of  six 
months,  should  bo  ready  for  our  residence. 
Little  more  than  four  months  had  pass- 
ed, after  my  marriage,  when  Mr.  Pringle — 
my  kind  master  and  friend — died,  and  my 
services  were  not  required  by  the  p-erson 
who  succeeded  him.     Though  an  orphan, 
I  had  not  as  yet  tasted  the  bitter  cup  of 
life.     It  was  now  to  be  placed  before  me. 
But  I   had  read   that  acceptable  men   are 
tried  in  the  furnace  of  adversity.     I  took 
up  my  residence,  for  a  short  time,  with  my 
mother,  in  the  expectation  of  being  suc- 
cessful in  getting  a   situation,  as  butler, 
with  some  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  visit- 
ed my  old  master,  and  heard  from  his  lips 
those  merits  which  came  out  of  the  bless- 
in  o-  of  a  mother.      I  tried  many  of  them  ; 
but  every  evening  brought  me  home  un- 
successful.     ^' Ye  that  fear  the   Lord," 
said  my  mother,  from  the  Prophet,  "  wait 
for  his  mercy  ;"    and    Magdalene   threw 
into  my  countenance  the  cheerful  light  of 
loving  eyes.     Between  these  comforts,  my 
I   disappointments  were  not,  for  a  time,  ill  to 
bear.     I  would  have  been  a  bold  man  to 
have  repined,  with  such  a  mother  to  pour 
into  my  bosom  the  sustaining  love  that  is 
from  beyond   Orion,  and  a  wife  who   was 
fairer  "  than  a  cluster  of  camphire  in  the 
i   vineyards  of  Engodi."     Yet    1  began   to 
suffer  by  feeling  for  my  comforters.      JMy 
'   mother   had  nothing  to  trust  to  but   my 
1  earnings,  and  my  Magdalene  had  been  a 
I   dependent  on  the  charity  of  others  since 
I   her  earliest  childhood.     My   faith  was  a 
I   rational  one  ;  and  I  knew  that  it  is  not  the 
I   way  of  God  to  feed  the  body  by  his  spirit, 


nor  the  manner  of  love — though  his  wings 
drop  with  myrrh — to  satisfy  aught  but  the 
appetite  of  the  heart.  Our  money  dwin- 
dled away ;  and  my  hopes  came  back  in 
the  evening  with  no  vine  branch  or  fig-leaf 
to  tell  that  the  waters  of  misfortune  had 
left  the  places  where  our  food  grew.  But, 
whatever  I  felt,  I  expressed  little  ;  for  I 
knew  that  my  mother  would  have  been 
pained  by  a  murmur,  more  by  its  evidenc- 
ing a  want  of  faith  than  a  want  of  food. 

The  time  came  when  all  I  had  in  the 
world  was  a  pound  note.     I  had  been  in 
the  receipt  of  some   chances  at  the  inn  ; 
but  these  did  not  prevent  the   daily   de- 
crease of  my  small  stock,  till  it  came  to 
that  low  ebb.     I  had  almost  resolved  upon 
going  to  Edinburgh,  and  trying  my  fortune 
there,  when,  as  I  stood  meditating  on  my 
dreary  prospect,  a  gentleman  of  extreme- 
ly genteel  appearance  alighted  at  the  inn 
door,  from    a  roan  gelding.     I   held  the 
bridle  as  he  descended,  and  remarked  that 
he  looked  at  me  more  intently  than  stran- 
gers are  in  the  habit  of  doing.     He  asked 
me  to  attend  to  his  horse,  and  went  into  ' 
the  inn,  where  he  had  not  been  long  when 
he  sent  for  me,  and  stated  that  he  was  on 
the  outlook  for  a  trusty  servant — he  was 
on  his  way  to  London,  and  had  been  basely 
deserted  by  his  former  valet,  who  had  de- 
camped, and  taken  with  him  a  horse  valu- 
ed at  fifty  guineas.     I  replied  that  I  would 
willingly   accept  of  a  fair   offer  ;  and  we 
soon  came  to  an  agreement.     My  wages 
were  to  be  fifty  pounds  a- year,  with  livery 
and  chances.     He  gave  me  money,  on  the 
instant,  to   get  a   suit  of  clothes,  and  re- 
quested me  to  look  out  for  another  horse, 
as  his  time  would  not  permit  of  any  search 
after  the  one  he  had  been  robbed  of.     His 
name  was  Mr.  Caleb  Winter — he  was  an 
Endishman — one   of    the     finest-lookino; 
fellows,  as  well  as  the  pleasantost,  1   had 
ever  yet  seen.     His  family,  it  appeared, 
lived   in   Ensfland.     He  had  been   on    a 
tour  to  the  Highlands,  and  was  now  on  his 
return  to  London. 

1  went  home,  and  communicated  the  in- 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE   STATUTE-BOOK. 


605 


telligence  to  my  mother  and  Magdalene. 
I  need  hardly  say  they  rejoiced  at  it,  even 
though  the  good  came  with  the  qualifica- 
tion of  the  separation,  for  a  time,  of  me 
and  my  wife.  Even  in  this  however,  there 
was  a  mixture  of  good.  She  would  con- 
tribute, in  my  absence,  to  the  comfort  of 
my  parent ;  and  the  remittances  I  would 
be  able  to  make  from  my  income  would 
support  them,  under  the  guidance  of  Him 
who  is  bountiful,  and  "  ready  to  give 
where  it  needeth."  Thus  passed  away 
a  day  of  darkness,  "  as  the  morning  spread 
upon  the  mountains."  I  bestirred  my- 
self actively  in  my  new  vocation,  got  into 
better  spirits,  dressed  myself  in  my  new 
livery,  and  bought  a  horse,  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  my  master,  for  my  own  use.  We 
were  now  to  depart  for  London.  My  good 
mother  "  gathered  the  children,  and  sancti- 
fied them ;"  and  my  Magdalene  hung 
round  my  neck,  weeping  and  sobbing  as  if 
she  had  been  a  yesterday's  bride,  of  one 
day's  joy,  preparing  for  separation.  She 
bore  up  well  againstmy  departure,  till  the 
ceremony  came,  which,  opening  as  if  by 
magic  the  floodgates  of  her  feeling,  show- 
ed the  depth  of  a  faithful  wife's  affection. 
I  was  myself  as  strongly  affected  as  she  ; 
but  I  contrived  to  make  good  use  of  that 
power  which  seems  to  be  peculiar  to  our 
sex— something  inexplicable,  but  in  which 
shame  has  no  inconsiderable  part — to  con- 
ceal the  natural  emotions  inseparable  from 
a  departure — saying,  "  Peace  !  peace  ! 
where  there  was  no  peace  ;"  and,  forcino- 
myself  from  her  arms,  I  was  soon  on  my 
way  to  London. 

i  found  in  Mr.  Winter  a  free,  affable 
man,  forming,  as  regarded  his  manners 
generally,  and  his  conduct  towards  his  ser- 
vant, a  remarkable  contrast  to  the  gentle- 
men of  the  same  grade  in  Scotland.  Like 
the  most  part  of  his  kind,  however,  he 
seemed  to  have  but  a  very  indifi'erent  feel- 
ing towards  religion.  I  could  have  for- 
given in  him  an  occasional  choleric  oath, 
which  did  not  make  free  with  Scriptural 
names  ;  but  he  was  "  as  fed  horses  in  the 


morning  that  neigh  as  they  snuff  the 
breeze" — he  seemed  to  think  that  all  pow- 
er in  this  world  was  centred  in  man,  and 
that  he  had  only  to  speak  that  what  he 
wished  might  be  performed.  This  might 
be  the  ardor  of  young  blood ;  but  he 
passed  kirks  where  the  word  was  spoken, 
and  never  entered  ;  he  prayed  not  a  word 
that  I  could  ever  hear  ;  he  turned  him 
daintily  round  on  his  saddle  to  look  at  a 
fair-faced  giglot,  as  she  passed,  with  the 
jaunty  briskness  of  pride,  on  the  way; 
and  I  even  saw  him  smile,  in  a  manner  that 
savoured  of  luxury,  on  a  pretty  baggage 
of  a  bar-maid,  whose  eye  held  the  "  stock 
of  a  doctrine  of  vanities."  Yet  I  could 
find  no  farther  evil  in  him  ;  for  he  never 
exceeded  in  the  brutish  folly  of  wine — he 
was  liberal  to  a  fault — gave  freely  to  the 
poor  whom  we  met  in  the  broad  ways — 
and  had  a  good  open  "  circumcised  ear," 
which  bore  my  freedoms  of  speech  with 
meekness  and  composure.  At  least,  how- 
ever, he  seemed  to  me  a  riddle  which  my 
Scotch  wits  could  not  solve,  for  he  ap- 
peared good  and  ill  by  turns — one  moment 
being  glad,  and  even  piping  music  like  the 
birds  that  fluttered  and  sang  in  the  hedges 
— a  minute  after,  his  throat  seeming  as 
dry  and  desolate  as  the  bed  of  Nimrim, 
and  a  word  he  would  not  speak  to  me  or 
any  one  else — then  falling  into  a  gloom 
which  lasted  for  many  hours,  when  he 
would  not  face  man,  for  fear  he  might  be 
interrupted  in  his  meditations.  These 
appeared  to  me  strange  contradictions ; 
but  a  servant  has  no  right  to  judge  harsh- 
ly of  the  master  whose  bread  he  breaks  ; 
and  I  never  loved  prying,  "  for  a  fool  will 
peep  in  at  the  door  into  the  house,  while 
he  that  is  well  nurtured  will  stand  with- 
out." 

On  arriving  in  London,  we  put  up  at 
an  inn  where  we  fared  sumptuously,  for 
Mr.  Winter  seemed  to  care  no  more  for 
money  than  if  he  had  been  master  of  his 
own  mint.  In  the  evening  he  went  out, 
and  when  he  returned,  he  told  me  that  he 
had  been  bargaining  for  a  house  ;  and,  ac- 


606 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


cordiDgly,  next  clay,  we  took  up  our  habi- 
tation in  a  dwelling  in  the  Haymarket, 
consisting  of  two  divisions,  an  upper  and 
a  lower — the  latter  of  which  he  intended 
for  me.  He  wanted  a  maid-servant,  and 
suggested  that  I  should  write  down  to  Ayr 
for  Magdalene,  who  would  serve  in  that 
capacity.  Overjoyed  at  this  intelligence,  I 
complied  upon  the  instant,  despatching  a 
letter  to  her,  and  also  one  to  my  mother,  in 
the  latter  of  which  I  enclosed  a  ten-pound 
note  which  my  master  had  generously 
given  me  for  the  purpose  of  paying  Mag- 
dalene's expenses  to  London.  1  remem- 
ber at  this  moment,  and  the  hand  trembles 
and  makes  the  chains  in  which  I  am  bound 
clank  in  my  ears,  as  1  think  of  the  joy  I 
felt  in  writing  and  despatching  these  let- 
ters, and  enclosing  "  this  oblation  of  the 
holy  portion,"  which  I  kissed  with  tears 
of  joy  over  and  over  before  I  committed  it 
to  the  envelope.  I  was  hastening  with  the 
letters  to  the  Post  Office,  when  my  master 
called  me  back  ;  and,  upon  going  up  stairs 
to  the  part  of  the  mansion  which  he  wished 
to  keep  for  his  own  purposes  of  study,  he 
told  me  that  he  wished  to  pay  the  land- 
lord of  the  house  in  advance,  to  avoid  ask- 
ing his  friends,  who  wished  him  to  go  to 
reside  with  them,  to  become  security  for 
him  ;  and,  opening  his  pocket-book,  he 
gave  me  fifteen  pounds,  requesting  me  to 
call  upon  Mr.  William  Havering  in  White- 
chapel,  to  pay  it  to  him,  and  be  sure  to 
get  a  proper  receipt. 

"  Tell  him,"  he  added,  "  that  you  are 
come  to  pay  the  rent  of  the  house  in  the 
Haymarket,  No.  12 — neither  more  nor 
less.  I  like  few  words  ;  but,  as  I  am  an 
honorable,  open-minded  man,  and  hate 
even  the  appearance  of  anything  like  se- 
crecy, I  must  tell  you,  because  otherwise 
you  may  attribute  the  way  in  which  I 
mean  to  live  for  some  time  to  something 
not  right,  that  I  intend  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  my  father,  Mr.  Alfred  Winter,  of 
Holmside,  in  Hertfordshire,  but  now,  I 
understand,  in  Loudon,  in  order  to  avoid  a 
marriage  which  he  and  the  lady's  mother 


have  planned  for  me,  to  which,  I  must  ad- 
mit, I  am  in  some  degree  committed — 
though  not  an  obligatory  honor — and 
which,  if  I  avoid  by  keeping  out  of  the 
way,  I  may  save  myself  from  much  pain, 
and  the  lady  and  her  secretly-betrothed 
lover  (a  companion  of  my  own)  from  un- 
merited misery .  I  have  already  passed  a  part 
of  my  time  in  Scotland  ;  but  I  am  wearied 
of  travelling,  and  now  intend  to  occupy 
myself  here  secretly  in  pursuing  a  favorite 
study,  till  I  ascertain  that  my  father  des- 
pairs of  ever  acquiring  my  consent,  and 
the  lady's  mother  yields  to  the  solicita- 
tions of  her  daughter,  to  allow  her  to 
marry  the  man  she  likes.  This  is  enough 
for  you,  and  will  account  for  anything  in 
my  conduct  which  may  appear  to  you  cu- 
rious or  inexplicable,  and,  by  exciting 
curiosity,  give  rise  to  surmises  and  latent 
inquiries.  Such  I  abominate.  You  will 
find  that  the  receipt  you  get  for  the  rent 
of  the  house  will  be  in  your  own  nmne, 
and  you  will  of  course  regulate  your  con- 
duct so  as  not  to  produce  any  inconsisten- 
cy between  your  real  and  assmned  cha- 
racter." 

It  was  nearly  upon  the  hour  of  the  shut- 
ting of  the  Post  Office,  and  my  thoughts 
were  more  directed  to  my  mother  and 
Magdalene  than  to  the  subject  of  my  mas- 
ter's speech,  though  I  felt  a  glow  of 
gratitude  burning  in  my  veins  for  the  con- 
fidence he  reposed  in  me,  and  while  I  saw 
that  the  slio-ht  deceit  he  was  exercisinir, 
and  wished  me  to  participate  in,  was 
for  good,  in  so  far  as  it  would  bring  two 
happy  lovers  together,  who  might  other- 
wise drink  of  the  waters  of  bitterness  unto 
death.  I  recollected  the  words  of  Solo- 
mon, that  "  a  prudent  man  concealeth 
knowledge,"  and  told  him  that  I  would  be 
faithful  to  him  in  all  thino;s  that  tended 
to  good  without  a  view  to  reward.  Re- 
ceiving the  money,  I  hastened  away,  and 
soon  got  to  the  Post  Office,  where,  with 
eyes  directed  to  heaven,  I  deposited  the 
1  pledge  of  a  son's  love  and  a  husband's 
fidelity.     I  then  went  to  Mr.  Havering's, 


THE   VICTIM  OF  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


607 


and  told  him  I  had  come  to  pay  the  rent  of 
the  house,  No.  12,  Haymarket.     He  had 
the  receipt  prepared,  and  handed  it  over 
to  me  without  saying  a  word — a  circum- 
stance that  relieved  me  of  the  apprehen- 
sion under  which  I  labored,   that  I   might 
be  forced  to  parry  his  questions,  and  be 
precipitated  unwittingly,  or  from  the   re- 
gard 1  had  to  my  master,  and  the  anxiety 
I  felt  for  the  praiseworthy  cause  in  which 
he  was  engaged,  into  some  duplicity — a 
thing,  of  all  others,  I  had  been  taught,  by 
my  incomparable   parent,   to  hate  as  the 
origin  of  all  evil — the  first  aspect  of  the 
insidious  enemy  of  man,  and  the  first  en- 
croacher  upon  the  province  of  that  grand 
entireness   of  the  virtuous  mind,  which 
says,  with  him  who  sung  to  the  chief  mu- 
sician, that  sentence,  containing  all  purity, 
"Oh,   let   me   never    be    ashamed!"    I 
glanced  at  the  receipt ;  it  was  in  favor  of 
Mr.  Joseph  Bannerman — that  name   (my 
own)  which  now  rings  in  my  ears  as  I  pro- 
nounce it,  as  something  not  belonging  to  man 
— making  me  shudder  till  my  irons  rattle 
again  through  that  dreadful  cell,  and  echo 
away  into  the  dark  recesses  of  felons,  like 
the  sounds  of  the    damned.     I   hastened 
home,  and  went  up  stairs  to   my  master's 
private  apartment.     The  door  was  locked, 
inconsequence,  doubtless,  of  his  apprehen- 
sion of  some  visit  from  his  relations  while 
I  was  out.     I  told  him  I  had   come  with 
the  receipt;    and   he   opened   the    door, 
taking  the  paper  from  me  in  the  passage, 
and  asking  me,  in  a  hurried  manner,  if 
Mr.  Havering  had  put  any  questions.     I 
answered  that  he  had  not,  and  retired  to 
my  bed  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house. 

My  mind  was  too  much  excited  to  al- 
low me  to  sleep.  An  enthusiasm  belong- 
ing to  a  mind  easily  fired  by  the  inspira- 
tion of  virtuous  feelings,  set  my  heart  in 
flame,  and  I  pictured  the  most  glowing 
images  of  my  mother  and  Magdalene 
sitting  by  the  side  of  their  little  flickering 
ingle,  looking  into  it  for  auguries,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Scotch,  or  reading  by  its 
light  some  portion  of  the  holy  book,  having 


reference  to  my  pilgrimage  in  a  compara- 
tively foreign  land,  when,  as  the  tear  start- 
ed to  my  mother's  eyes,  as  she  was  read- 
ing, "My  son,  if  sinners  -  entice  thee, 
consent  thou  not ;  cast  in  thy  lot  among 
us,  let  us  all  have  one  purse" — my  letters 
would  be  brought  to  them,  the  ofiering  of 
love  would  be  kissed,  my  Magdalene  would 
weep  for  very  joy,  and  count  how  much  of 
the  money  she  could  leave  with  my  mother, 
who,  as  she  heard  her  dutiful  step-daugh- 
ter's destination,  would  bless  her  and  me 
— "  for  this  shall  his  and  your  days  be 
multiplied,  and  the  years  of  your  lives  in- 
creased." The  train  of  images  continued  ; 
and  so  sweet  was  the  luxui-y  of  this  por- 
traying, by  the  aid  of  a  glowing  fancy,  the 
happiness  of  these  individuals  in  whom  all 
my  heart  was  garnered  up — the  husband's 
love  and  the  son's  holy  reverence  and 
sweet  hallowed  affection  mingling  together, 
and  satisfying,  by  one  engrossing  feeling  all 
the  desires  that  belong  to  heaven  and 
earth — I  could  have  renounced  the  blessino^ 
of  sleep,  and  thought  on  and  on  for  ever. 
I  heard  the  clock  strike  two,  and  was 
somewhat  surprised  to  find  that  my  mas- 
ter had  not  gone  to  bed— his  foot  sounded 
lightly  on  the  floor,  and  he  seemed  busily 
engaged  in  those  studies  to  which  he  was 
addicted,  but  the  nature  of  which  I  had 
no  opportunity  of  ascertaining.  I  never 
was  curiously  inclined,  and  I  was  satisfied 
that  a  man  who  acted  on  the  noble  princi- 
ple of  self-denial  that  now  regulated  his 
conduct,  was  "  as  the  pure  whose  work  is 
right  ;"  and  having  expended  every  bliss- 
ful energy  of  my  fancy  in  calling  up  the 
images  of  my  wife  and  mother,  1  fell  into 
a  sound  sleep,  from  which  I  did  not  awake 
till  beyond  the  proper  hour  of  a  servant's 
rising  in  the  morning. 

I  rose  hurriedly,  thinking  that  my  mas- 
ter would  be  waiting  for  his  breakfast,  and 
was  not  ill-pleased  to  find  that  he  was  still 
in  bed.  I  got  his  morning  meal  prepared 
according  to  the  instructions  I  had  re- 
ceived from  him,  and  went  up  to  tell  him 
the  hour.     I  required  to  rap  for  some  time 


608 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


before  he  heard  me  ;  aud  at  last  he  came, 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  outer  room, 
Tvhich  he  had  set  apart  as  a  species  of 
small  dining-room — the  inner  apartment, 
which  communicated  with  a  small  bedroom, 
being  that  appropriated  to  his  studies.  I 
set  the  breakfast  ;  and,  after  he  had  par- 
taken of  it,  he  called  me  up,  and  gave  nie 
further  directions,  as  to  how  I  should  con- 
duct myself,  with  a  view  to  keep  his  secret ; 
all  of  which  were  reasonable,  and  not  in- 
consistent with  the  views  of  religion  and 
morality  J  had  imbibed  from  my  mother. 
He  then  told  me  to  go  and  dispose  of  his 
horses,  as  he  would  not  require  them, 
while  he  was  thus  living  in  secret,  and  he 
could  buy  others  when  he  again  joined  so- 
ciety and  resumed  his  proper  station  in 
life.  He  cared  nothing  for  money,  his 
spirit,  as  it  appeared  to  me,  soaring  far 
above  such  mean  considerations  as  gene- 
rally occupy  the  souls  of  immortal  creatures 
in  this  world.  I  mio;ht  get  what  1  could 
for  the  horses — it  was  all  one  whether  he 
made  or  lost  by  them.  "•  Happy  is  the 
man,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  looked  on  the 
noble  figure  of  the  youth,  as  he  stood  be- 
fore me,  expressing  his  contempt  of  that 
which  opens  the  doors  of  Gehinna — 
*'  happy  is  the  man  that  findeth  wisdom  ; 
for  the  merchandise  of  it — it  is  better 
than  the  merchandise  of  silver,  and  the 
gain  thereof  than  fine  gold."  I  did  as  he 
desired,  and  in  the  afternoon  returned 
with  the  prices  of  the  horses.  I  made  £10 
upon  the  one  1  rode,  and  the  other  brought 
its  original  price.  He  scarcely  counted 
the  money,  which,  I  recollect,  was  in  five 
pound-notes.  He  laid  it  down  on  the  ta- 
ble •,  and,  in  a  short  time,  called  me  up 
again,  and  told  me  to  go  and  get  the  money 
turned  into  small  notes,  which  he  said  he 
required  for  various  little  purposes  of 
charity.  "  It  is  upon  the  wings  of  chari- 
ty," he  added,  with  a  smile  that  made  me 
love  him,  and  forget  the  former  incon- 
sistencies I  had  observed  in  him — "  It  is 
upon  the  wings  of  charity  that  a  man 
getteth  to  Heaven ;"  and  I  was  not  slow 


in  ray  answer,  that  "  he  that  giveth  to 
the  poor  shall  not  lack."  I  went  with 
increased  energy  to  obey  his  command; 
and,  though  I  had  many  shops  to  go 
through  before  I  got  all  the  notes  changed 
into  small  ones,  I  rejoiced  that  I  was  in  the 
service  of  him  who  looked  down  upon 
charity  as  the  sun  upon  the  earth  when 
his  rays  are  softened  by  the  breath  of  the 
morning.  Having  succeeded  in  getting 
all  the  notes  changed,  I  returned,  made  a 
faithful  account  to  him,  and  was  as  well 
pleased  with  my  labors  as  if  I  had  been 
occupied  in  distributing  the  money  among 
the  poor,  and  saving  my  excellent  master 
from  the  blessed  labor  of  doing  so  himself. 

I  now  felicitated  myself  on  my  enviable 
situation  ;  and  there  was  no  part  of  the 
conduct  of  my  master  towards  me  that  de- 
lighted me  more  than  the  entire  confidence 
he  placed  in  me  ;  for  I  felt  proud  to  think 
that  my  mother's  invaluable  precepts  were 
thus  made  apparent  in  their  workings,  and 
could  not  doubt  that,  "  as  the  spirit  of  a 
man  is  the  candle  of  the  Lord,"  my  virtue 
and  fidelity,  shining  through  every  part  of 
my  conduct  had  secured  for  me  the  confi- 
dence of  a  good  man.  I  was  on  the  eve 
of  experiencing  more  of  his  absolute  faith 
in  me  ;  for,  on  the  very  next  day,  I  was 
surprised  by  receiving,  through  the  two- 
penny post,  a  letter  containing  a  bank  of 
England  note  for  .£50.  There  was  no 
writing  in  the  letter  beyond  the  two  initials 
of  G.  B.  ;  and,  knowing  in  an  instant  that 
it  would  be  for  my  master,  I  took  it  up  to 
him.    I  was  right — it  was  intended  for  him. 

"  Mr.  Barrow,  my  agent,  has  been  as 
good  as  his  word,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the 
letter  from  me  ;  '^  and  in  this  I  have 
another  instance  of  your  fidelity.  From 
the  first  word  you  spoke  I  saw  you  had 
been  properly  tutored — probably  by  some 
excellent  parent ;  and,  indeed,  with  the 
exception  of  his  wishing  me  to  marry 
against  my  will,  my  father  has  been  to  me 
an  excellent  counsellor.  But  fidelity 
ought  to  be  rewarded  with  more  than 
words.'' 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE   STATUTE-BOOK. 


609 


And,  as  he  spoke  he  made  me  a  hand- 
some present,  which  I  received  with  tears 
of  gratitude  ;  yet,  the  gift  was  not  half  so 
dear  to  me  as  the  words  by  which  it  was 
accompanied  ;  and  I  could  have  hugged 
him  to  my  bosom  for  his   allusion  to   one 
who  had  '^  given  me  the  inheritance   of 
Israel,"  and  '^  smote  the  first  born"  of  a 
sinful  heart,  that  all  that  came  thereafter 
might  be  good.     Every  day  showed  me 
more  and  more  how  happy  I  would  be 
when  my  Magdalene  arrived  ;  and,  after 
several  days,  during  which   I  felt  myself 
more  a  master  who  commands  than  a  ser- 
vant who  breaks  the  bread  of  his  lord,  I 
looked  anxiously  for  her  arrival.     I  set 
about  preparing  everything,  in  the  part  of 
the  house   appropriated  to  us,   in  such  a 
manner  as  would  show,  at  the  first  glance, 
that  I  had  not  sent  for  her  in  vain  ;  and, 
though  I  could  not  say  "  I  had  perfumed 
our  bed  with  myrrh,  and  olives,  and  cin- 
namon," I  could  exhibit  to  her  a  habita- 
tion   of  peace,    where  (by   my   master's 
kindness)   there  was  every  comfort  that 
could  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  vir- 
tuous affection.     How  strangely  does  love 
exhibit   itself!     I  fixed  on  the  warmest 
corner  of  the  ingle  where  her  chair  should 
stand — it  was  already  occupied  by  the  eye 
of  my  fancy — I  saw  her  sitting  there,  dis- 
coursing to  me  of  Broad  Albin,  and  happy 
Coll,  and  of  her  she  had  left  in  it  dearer 
to  me  than  all.     The  tear   that  glistened 
in  her  eye  as  she  delivered  to  me  my  mo- 
ther's blessing,  I  saw  dry  up  as  she  turned 
to  view  the  new   gown  I  had  bought  for 
her  ;  and  I  felt  the  glow  of  the  kiss  of  her 
thanks  as  she  threw  herself  on  my  bosom, 
and  yielded  to   the  hysterical  expression 
of  nature's  softest  emotions,  in  her  own 
impressive  and  heart-touching  languao-e. 
Oh,  why  do  I  dwell  on  these   soul- intoxi- 
cating fancies,  when  they  were  realized, 
ay,  enjoyed,  as  those  elaborately  contrived 
enjoyments  which  glide  over  the  earth  as 
the  avant-couriers  of  the  destroyer  !     My 
Magdalene  arrived.     I  was  looking  out  at 
the  window  at  the  time,  thinking  of  her, 


VOL.  ir. 


76 


when  I  saw  her  coming  along,  looking 
anxiously  at  the  numbers  of  the  houses.  I 
needed  but  one  glance  of  an  eye,  whose 
light  was  to  me  as  that  of  "  the  moon 
walking  in  brightness,"  and  in  an  instant 
she  was  in  my  arms.  My  warmest  dreams 
were  changed  into  realities.  We  had  both 
Elihu's  zeal  to  speak,  and  Elihu's  silence, 
till  the  first  emotions  died  "  by  their  own 
strength;"  and  then  I  got  my  parent's 
renewed  blessing — the  pledge  of  undimin- 
ished love — the  pretty  gossip  of  woman's 
lips,  sweeter  than  the  inspiration  of  poets, 
till,  hour  by  hour,  the  realities  of  our  new 
situation  broke  gradually  in  upon  '^  our 
love's  young  dream  ;"  and  I  recounted  to 
her  the  enviable  situation  I  held  ;  showed 
the  house  of  which  she  was,  as  it  were, 
mistress ;  the  excellent  character  of  my 
master ;  the  secret  of  his  position  ;  the 
confidence  he  trusted  in  me  ;  the  presents 
I  had  got  from  him  ;  till  her  eyes  glisten- 
ed again  as  brightly  as  they  had  done  in 
the  fire  of  love  ;  and  we  were  so  happy, 
that  we  were  like  to  have  made  an  image 
like  that  of  Horeb,  and  fallen  before  the 
golden  idol. 

A  very  few  days  soon  discovered  to 
Magdalene  greater  than  she  had  yet  seen, 
and  everything  seemed  to  prosper  with  us. 
In  about  a  month  afterwards,  I  sent  my 
mother  another  five-pound  note,  which  I 
got  from  my  master,  in  whose  praises 
Magdalene  was  higher  than  even  myself. 
She  attended  him  often  when  I  was  en- 
gaged in  going  his  messages  ;  and  every 
new  phase  of  his  character  seemed  to 
charm  her  the  more.  His  carelessness  of 
money  absolutely  dazzled  her  simple,  fru- 
gal mind;  and  those  noble  qualities  he 
exhibited  to  her,  were  not  dimmed  by  the 
discovery  that  he  had,  as  she  thought,  a 
religious  inclination  of  the  heart  "  to 
God's  testimonies."  One  day  she  came  in 
to  our  room  with  a  beautiful  Bible  in  her 
hand. 

''  What  do  you  think  of  my  present  ?" 
she  said,  smiling,  as  she  laid  it  before  me, 
and  counted  out   the  balance  of  a  five- 


610 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


pound  note,  which   our  master  had  given 
her  to  buy  the  holy  book. 

I  looked  at  the  Bible  ;  but  my  mind 
•was  dwelling  on  another  subject. 

"  Did  he  allow  you  to  give  your  own 
price  for  it,  Magdalene .'"  replied  I. 

"  There  lies  the  merit  of  the  gift,"  said 
she,  smiling.  '^  He  had  a  one  pound-note 
in  his  pocket-book ;  but  he  disdained  to 
limit  my  taste,  and  gave  a  five-pound  one, 
that  I  might  gratify  myself  at  any  extent 
of  price." 

'•''  Another  trait  of  his  generosity,"  said 
I ;  "  but  it  will  not  be  lost.  Take  up  to 
him  the  balance  of  the  money,  and  show, 
by  the  moderate  sum  you  have  paid  for 
the  book,  that  the  good  never  abuse  the 
confidence  of  the  generous  hearted." 

With  a  light  step  Magdalene  went  up 
to  him,  and  returned  soon  again  with  a 
heightened  fading  of  pleasure  ;  as  she 
told  me — what  perhaps  would  not  have 
surprised  one  farther  removed  from  the 
sphere  of  simple  rusticity  in  which  she  had 
been  trained — that  he  chided  her  good- 
naturedly  for  not  buying  a  dearer  gift  for 
herself,  and  threw  the  money  into  his 
pocket  without  counting  it  —  a  circum- 
stance so  unusual,  and  so  unlike  the  scru- 
pulous arithmetical  processes  of  the  small 
grocers  of  Ayr,  mth  whom  she  had  dealt, 
that  she  was  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  think 
of  it.  Our  peace  and  comfort  continued, 
several  months  passed,  and  we  grew  every 
day  more  sensible  of  his  kindness.  He 
required  to  get  the  fifty-pound  note,  re- 
ceived from  Mr.  Barrow,  changed,  to  en- 
able him  to  pay  his  tailor,  whose  account, 
must,  as  I  thought,  have  been  a  large  one, 
or  his  charities  must  have  borne  heavy 
upon  his  purse  in  the  meantime  ;  and,  the 
latter  reason  I  was  inclined,  from  my 
knowledge  of  his  extreme  generosity,  to 
deem  the  true  one  ;  but  inquiry  was  out 
of  ray  province,  and  I  went  to  a  private 
banking-house,  got  the  note  turned  into 
smaller  notes,  of  five  pounds  each,  two  of 
which  he  afterwards  gave  me  as  another 
advance  of  my  wages,  and  with  a  view,  as 


he  said,  to  send  another  remittance  to  my 
mother,  ivlagdalene  had  been  able  to 
give  her  only  three  pounds  of  the  ten 
pounds  I  sent ;  thus  she  had  got  eight 
pounds  from  me  ;  and  the  power  now  giv- 
en me  of  again  relieving  my  aged  parent 
filled  my  heart  with  a  new-born  joy  that 
threw  its  influence  over  the  minutest  trait 
of  our  domestic  concerns.  That  very 
night  I  sent  ofi"  one  of  the  notes,  and  ]Mag- 
dalene  wrote  her  letter  on  the  third  page 
of  the  sheet  that  contained  mine.  He 
alone  who  has  sent  the  tribute  of  a  son's 
love  to  his  parent  can  appreciate  the  en- 
joyment of  that  night.  If  a  "  gift,"  as 
the  prophet  says,  "  has  a  grace  to  every 
man  living,"  what  is  the  virtue,  the  beau- 
ty, the  soul-entrancing  influence  of  that 
which  fills  the  heart  of  a  mother  with 
gladness! — and  how  true  is  it  that  the 
grace  and  working  efiects  of  it  are  not 
limited  to  the  time  or  the  occasion,  but, 
like  a  sweet  medicament  that  is  pleasant  at 
the  taking,  is  yet  more  delightful  in  its 
regenerative  operation  on  the  whole  heart, 
being  the  life  and  conversation  of  him  who 
rejoices  in  the  blessing  }  That  night  was 
another  of  the  happiest  I  ever  witnessed. 
Magdalene  and  I  sat  by  ourselves  and  en- 
joyed the  good  things  of  this  life  in  peace  ; 
for  our  master  always  kept  his  study,  and 
every  pleasure  we  experienced  seemed  to 
be  sanctified  by  the  recollection  that  she 
who  was  my  parent  and  her  benefactress 
would  enjoy  her  portion.  I  watched  my 
wife's  face  as  she  drank  her  health — the 
tear  stood  in  her  eye  ;  and  it  was  that 
(the  most  beautiful  of  all)  which  comes 
from  the  heart,  which  ofi"ers  love  and  pity 
as  sacrifices  to  Him  who  cherishes  them  as 
the  fairest  gift  of  his  creatures.  I  could 
have  said,  with  the  servants  of  Holofernes 
— "  There  is  not  such  a  woman  from  one 
end  of  the  earth  to  the  other,  both  for 
beauty  of  countenance  and  wisdom  of 
words." 

While  thus  sitting  over  the  fire,  our  at- 
tention was  directed  to  a  carriage  that 
stopped  at  the  door.     We  heard  the  door 


THE  VICTIM  OP  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


611 


of  it  open,  then  a  pattering  of  feet,  and 
low  broken  words  of  converse  passing  be- 
tween several  people  about  the  front  part 
of  the  house.  The  door  opened  suddenly, 
and  two  men  entered,  leading  between 
them  an  aged  female.  We  heard  at  the 
same  time  several  feet  upon  the  stair  lead- 
ing to  our  master's  room,  and  a  sudden 
beating  and  tramping  upon  the  floor,  as  if 
people  were  rushing  backwards  and  for- 
wards ;  then,  subdued  voices,  in  broken, 
impassioned  snatches  ;  then  the  sound  of 
a  loud  crash,  as  if  the  door  of  his  apart- 
ment had  been  forced ;  again  rushing 
backwards,  a  sudden  and  headlong  descent 
down  the  stair,  and  in  a  moment,  three 
other  men  precipitated  themselves  into  the 
room,  calling  out, — 

"  Oh,  he's  here  !  he's  here  !  All's 
well!  all's  well !"  I  stood  in  a  trance. 
Magdalene  was  by  my  side,  staring  wildly 
first  at  one,  and  then  at  another  ;  when, 
in  an  instant,  the  aged  female,  who  was 
muffled  up  in  the  old-fashioned  Scotch 
plaid,  ran  forward,  and  threw  herself  round 
my  neck. 

"  My  son  !  my  son  !"  she  cried,  and 
lay  sobbing  on  my  bosom. 

'*  Enoucjh — enough,"  cried  one  of  the 
men,  in  a  rough  voice.  "  She  calls  him 
her  son — he  is  our  man.  Jem,  get  your 
handcuffs  prepared.  Take  the  wife,  too. 
Search  the  house,  Whittaker  and  Jones." 
Two  men  again  went  up  stairs,  and  we 
heard  their  feet  overhead,  as  if  they  were 
in  our  master's  room  ;  but  not  one  word 
of  the  latter  reached  our  ears,  though  we 
were  satisfied  that  he  was  there  when  the 
men  entered.  The  man  called  Jem  seized 
my  mother  roughly  by  the  waist,  and  pull- 
ed her  away  ;  but  it  was  only  to  precipi- 
tate her  to  the  ground,  for  her  energies 
were  gone,  and  she  had  been  supported 
alone  by  my  bosom.  The  sight  of  my  pa- 
rent, stretched  out  upon  the  floor,  pale  as 
a  corpse,  and  presenting  none  of  the  ap- 
pearances of  life,  rendered  me  frantic — I 
lifted  my  arm  and  struck  the  man  to  the 
earth.      Magdalene  rushed  between  us. 


uttering  frightful   screams ;  but   was  in- 
stantly seized  by  another  of  the  men,  who 
proceeded  to  force  upon  her  arms  a  pair 
of   strong  handcuffs.      Regardless  of  my 
mother,  who  still  lay  among  our  feet,  ap- 
parently lifeless,  the  two  other  men  (the 
one  I  had  felled  to  the  ground  having  re- 
covered)  rushed  upon  me,  and,  overcom- 
ing all   my  struggles,  soon  bound  me  so 
effectually  that  I  could  not  move  an  arm. 
One  of  the  men  then  whispered  something 
into  the  ear  of  the  one  who  had  bound 
Magdalene,  and  he  immediately  went  out. 
My  mind,  during  aU  this  extraordinary 
scene,  seemed  to  be  locked  up  by  some 
freezing  power,  which  laid  a  restriction 
upon  every  thought.  I  had  never  yet  asked 
the  reason  of  all  this  sudden  violence  ;  the 
drama  had  moved  before  me  like  one  of 
those  horrible  pageants  that  flit  before  the 
mind  of  a  victim  of  ephialtes,  when   one 
has  the  power  only  to  see   and  shudder. 
The  screams  of  Magdalene  rang  in  my 
ears,  and  the  extended  form  of  my  aged 
parent  glared  on  my  eyes  like  the  presid- 
ing genius  of  nightmare,  yet  without  the 
power  to  remove  the  charm  by  which  my 
mind  was  bound  up.     All  again  was  si- 
lence.     The  men,  who  waited  for  some 
one,  stood  and  gazed  or  whispered  to  each 
other  ;  and    one  of  those  who  had  been 
searching  up  stairs,  came  down,  holding 
in  his  hands  a  number  of  steel  instru- 
ments, like  those  used  by  engravers,  which 
my  early  occupation  rendered  familiar  to 
me,  but  which  I  had  never  seen  in  my 
master's  apartment,  with  a  great  number 
of  papers,  having  the  appearance  of  Eng- 
lish  bank  notes.     They  continued  their 
whispers,  but  I  could  make  nothing   of 
what  they  said ;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  I 
saw  my  mother's  head  move  as  she  reco- 
vered from  her  swoon. 

''  Josey,  Josey,  my  bairn — my  last,  my 
only  hope  !"  she  cried,  as  she  looked 
wildly  round  her,  and  struggled  to  rise. 
^'  What's  this  ?  Thae  men  said  they  were 
sent  by  you  to  bring  me  to  live  and  end 
my  days  wi'  you.    O  God !  is  this  the  rest 


612 


TALES  OP  THE  BORDERS. 


wherewith  je  may  cause  the  weary  to  rest  ? 
Thae  messengers  have  fed  me,  by  the  way, 
wi'  wine  and  strong  meats  ;  and  what  hae 
they  brought  me  to  see  ?  My  bairn  in 
irons  !    Speak,  Josey,  are  ye  dumb  man  ?" 

My  senses  were  gradually  returning  to 
me,  but  my  mind  was  still  shrouded  in 
ignorance  and  mystery. 

^'  You  have  brought  these  men  with 
you,  mother,"  said  I,  "  as  I  held  out  to 
them  my  manacled  hands.  What  mean 
they  ?" 

The  question  acted  like  a  charm  on  the 
grief  of  Magdalene,  whose  agonies,  ex- 
pressed by  loud  lamentation,  seemed  to 
scorn  the  articulated  question  of  a  reason, 
where  reason  there  could  be  none. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  she  now  cried,  as  if  sudden- 
ly recurring  to  what  her  grief  had  made 
her  forget,  "  what  is  the  reason  of  this 
violence  to  those  who  have  walked  in  the 
commandments  of  Him  who  will  judge  ye 
as  well  as  us.  Speak,  ye  hardened  men  ! 
Why  do  ye  scowl  thus  on  us  who  have 
never  wronged  any  of  God's  creatures,  or 
broken  the  laws  of  our  country  ?" 

And  she  ran  forward,  holding  out  her 
hands  to  the  men,  who  stood  like  iron 
statues  ;  while  my  mother  trailed  her  legs 
along  on  the  ground,  and  clasped  the  knees 
of  him  who  held  the  bunch  of  notes  and 
the  instruments  of  steel. 

"  Mr.  Jones  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  if  she 
knew  him  intimately,  "  for  God's  sake 
explain  this  mystery  !  You  brought  me 
from  Scotland  to  see  my  son,  and  used 
fair  words  to  induce  me  to  leave  my 
peaceful  home.  '  The  hoary  head  is  a 
crown'  that's  no  usually  despised  ;  there's 
already  grey  hairs  on  your  own  head,  and 
maybe  ye've  a  son  whose  affection  kept 
off  the  first  traces  o'  the  snaws  o'  eild,  and 
wha  has  comforted  ye  as  mine  has  com- 
forted me.  Look  there,  and  think  what  it  is 
to  be  a  father  ;  and,  oh  !  forget  not  what 
it  is  to  be  a  mother,  if  you  ever  saw  the  wife 
o'  yer  bosom  sorrowing  for  her  first  born !" 
"  Hush,  woman,"  replied  the  man, 
sternly  ;  "  your  son  is  charged  with  forg- 


ing notes  on  the  Bank  of  England,  and 
uttering  them  knowing  them  to  be  forged.'' 

"  Oh,  these  notes  I  got  frae  him !"  she 
cried,  turning  a  terror-struck  eye  upon 
me;  ''but  it  canna  be,  it  canna  be;  he 
was  only  a  year  wi'  Holmes,  wha  never 
graved  notes." 

"  So  he  was  an  engraver !"  said  one  of 
the  men,  laughing  ironically. 

I  now  saw  some  glimmerings  of  what  I 
conceived  to  be  the  truth,  and  my  mind 
ran  back  and  collected  instantaneously 
some  of  the  remarkable  circumstances  of 
the  conduct  of  my  master.  A  dreadful 
array  of  damning  evidence  flashed  upon 
me  ;  the  fearful  reminiscences  started  up 
successively  like  spectres,  each  more  ter- 
rible than  another ;  and  the  confusion ' 
around  me — the  moans  of  my  mother,  the 
wailings  of  Magdalene,  the  grim  aspects 
and  ominous  under-breathed  communings 
of  the  men — all  combined  to  confuse  me, 
till  the  consciousness  of  innocence  came 
upon  me  like  the  whisperings  of  a  good 
angel,  and  I  cried  out — 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Winter  ?  He  can  ex- 
plain all  this.  Haste  up  stairs  and  bring 
him  here." 

"  There  is  no  one  up  stairs,"  replied 
the  officer,  who  had  been  searching  the 
house;  "  and  why  should  there?  —  the 
house  is  your  own— the  receipt  for  the 
rent  is  in  your  own  name,  and  in  my 
hands." 

The  noise  of  another  carriage  was 
now  heard,  which  was  the  signal  for 
our  removal.  Magdalene  was  dragged  to 
the  door  in  spite  of  her  struggles  and 
screams,  and  I  did  not  see  her  again,  for 
their  object  was  to  keep  us  separate  ;  and, 
for  that  purpose,  the  second  coach  had 
been  sent  for.  I  was  next  laid  hold  of ; 
and,  the  moment  the  men  put  a  hand  on 
me,  I  was  fast  locked  in  the  arms  of  my 
mother,  who,  having  been  roused  again 
from  the  state  of  despair-born  dream  that 
succeeded  her  swoon,  struggled  forward, 
sinking  at  every  step,  and  seized  me  so 
forcibly,  sobbing  and  ejaculating  broken 


!i 


THE  VICTIM   OF  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


613 


words,  that  force  was  resorted  to,  to  free 
me  fr.cjm  her  grasp.  I  saw  her  again  fall, 
and  heard  her  cries,  as  I  was  hurried  pre- 
cipitously from  the  room,  and  thrown  into 
the  other  coach,  which  went  off  at  a  rapid 
rate  in  the  wake  of  the  other  ;  the  sound 
of  the  wheels  of  which  came  on  my  ears 
as  my  mother's  cries  died  away. 

We  were  conveyed  to  the  police  office, 
and  placed  in  separate  rooms.  I  was  still 
comparatively  in  a  state  of  stupor  ;  but 
could  too  well  hear  that  a  number  of  peo- 
ple were  arriving  at  intervals,  and  that 
an  examination  was  in  progress.  Having 
been  locked  up,  I  listened  at  the  door, 
and  heard  Magdalene  sobbing  loud,  as 
she  was  hurried  along,  to  be,  as  I  suppos- 
ed, examined.  The  door  opened,  some 
time  afterwards  ;  a  number  of  people  were 
introduced  into  the  room  where  I  was ; 
and.  I  could  recognize  among  them  many 
of  the  individuals  whom  I  had  had  recourse 
to  when  getting  exchanged  the  notes  which 
Mr.  Winter  had  requested  me  to  get  dis- 
posed of.  They  all  fixed  their  eyes  on 
me,  and,  doubtless,  recognized  me  ;  and, 
in  particular,  I  saw  Mr.  Havering  busy  in 
conversation  with  one  of  the  individuals 
present,  who  seemed  to  take  a  lead  in  the 
investigation.  They  kept  whispering  to 
one  another,  until  all  the  identifiers  seem- 
ed satisfied.  I  shook  at  all  this  dread  ar- 
ray of  mystery  ;  my  confidence  forsook 
me.  "  The  diviners  had  seen  a  lie," 
doubtless,  and  had  "  told  false  dreams  ;" 
but  1  had  no  power  to  show  the  truth,  for 
at  this  moment,  the  thought  rushed  into 
ray  mind,  like  the  blue  light  of  a  spectral 
vision,  that  I  could  not  even  prove  that 
any  one,  had  ever  seen  my  master,  after  we 
came  to  London.  The  thou2;ht  was  strik- 
ing,  nay,  wonderful  ;  and  as  my  mind 
wandered  in  the  inane  void  of  this  dread- 
ful negative,  I  thought  I  would  have  gone 
mad.  I  believe  there  was  a  temporary 
insanity  on  me  ;  for,  as  I  shook  my  hand- 
cuffs and  rolled  my  eyes  about,  the  people 
gazed  at  me,  and  I  heard  some  one  whis- 
per— "  He  is  personating  madness."  This 


calmed  me  a  little.  I  again  rested  upon 
my  innocence,  and  turned  my  face  to 
heaven,  as  the  words  of  Darius  rose  in  my 
mind — "  Thy  God  whom  thou  servest  con- 
tinually, he  will  deliver  thee."  The  peo- 
ple now  went  out,  and  1  was  again  left  by 
myself.  I  now  thought  of  my  examina- 
tion ;  but  every  effort  I  made  to  think  of 
proving  that  I  had  a  master  in  London  at 
ally  let  alone  the  establishing  that  the 
graving  implements  were  his — that  he 
forged  the  notes — (if  they  were  forged) — 
that  he  sent  me  with  them — that  he  gave 
me  those  to  send  to  my  mother — fell  back 
upon  me  with  a  death-weight,  and  crush- 
ed my  spirit,  till  I  sank  down  in  a  state  of 
exhaustion  and  despair. 

I  was  lying  groaning  on  the  ground, 
when  the  officers  again  entered,  to  take 
me  before  the  judge.  I  could  scarcely 
walk ;  and,  though  I  muttered,  *'  he  de- 
livereth  and  rescueth,  and  he  worketh 
signs  and  wonders  in  heaven,"  the  words 
had  no  effect  upon  my  heart — they  were 
mere  breath,  and  I  shook  against  the  ter- 
rible sign  that  God  seemed  to  have  for- 
saken me.  When  placed  before  the  judge, 
I  was  flurried,  and  presented  every  appear- 
ance of  guilt  ;  for,  still  the  horrid  weight 
was  upon  my  mind  that  I  could  not  make 
even  a  feasible  story  of  God's  truth.  The 
examination  began  ;  and  1  answered,  ac- 
cording lo  the  things  that  had  been  swerv- 
ing, neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  I 
began  at  Ayr,  and  traced  all  my  progress 
to  London  ;  stated  what  had  happened 
there  ;  my  master's  secret ;  my  duties  as 
a  servant ;  the  reason  why  I  took  the  re- 
ceipt for  the  house  in  my  own  name  ;  the 
selling  of  the  horses  ;  the  exchange  of  the 
notes — (all  of  which  had  been  replaced, 
as  I  now  suspected,  by  false  ones,  when 
my  back  was  tm-ned)  ;  the  receipt  of  Mr. 
Barrow's  remittance  ;  and  the  exchange 
of  that  with  the  presents  to  my  mother  ; 
everything,  in  short,  truly  and  faithfully, 
yet  timidly  and  nervelessly  as  ever.  The 
doubting  and  incredulous  eye  of  the  judge 
shook  me  by  its  cruel  expression.  He  ap- 


614 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


peared  to  me  to  think  that  the  answer  to 
all  I  had  said,  lay  in  one  damning  ques- 
tion— 

"  Were  you  ever  an  engraver  r"  said 

he. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  (for  I  abhorred  a 
lie,  though  it  possessed  the  charm  of  my 
salvation  from  the  rope)  ;  "but  I  was 
only  a  year  with  Mr.  Holmes." 

"  One  of  quick  parts  may  learn  much 
in  a  year,"  was  his  answer,  accompanied 
by  a  look  that  showed  he  believed  me 
guilty. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  we  have  heard  a 
great  deal  from  your  wife  and  from  your- 
self about  some  one  you  call  Mr.  Winter, 
on  whom  it  pleases  you  to  lay  all  the  crime 
of  which  you  are  charged.  Can  you  tell 
me  anything  of  him — where  he  came  from, 
who  are  his  relations,  with  whom  he  was 
acquainted  ?" 

"  His  father  was  stated  by  himself  to  be 
Mr.  Winter  of  Holmside,in  Hertfordshire  ; 
and  the  name  of  his  agent  is  Mr.  Barrow," 
"  Since  your  wife  was  examined,"  re- 
plied he,  "  inquiries  have  been  made  about 
these  names,  and  no  such  individuals  are 
supposed  to  exist.  Can  you  not  give  me 
the  name  of  any  one  individual  who  ever 
saw  your  master  in  London  .?" 

I  stood  silent.     The  fact  was  undoubt- 
ed.    I  could  not  condescend  on  a  single 
person  who  had  ever  seen  him  since  he 
came  to  London.     It   would   have   been 
better  for  me  if  I  had  continued  silent, 
for  my  answer,  when  it  came,  was  a  wild 
rhapsody  of  incoherent  efforts  to  express 
my  own  wonder  that  I  could  tell  nothing 
I  of  him,  and  could  condescend  on  no  one 
1  in  the  city  who  had  ever  seen  him.     And 
I  could  plainly  perceive  that,  by  this,  I 
sealed  the  fate  of  my  testimony.     It  was 
evidently  considered   as  a   piece    of  ill- 
executed  invention,  bungled,  besides,  by 
my  own   imputed  sense   of  guilt,   which 
dried  up  my  throat,  till  my  tongue,  that 
rattled  in  my  parched  mouth,  could  not 
obey  the  behest  of  my  concerted  ingenuity. 
Ere  I  was  removed,  however,  I  recollected 


myself  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  say  that  the 
people  of  the  inn  at  Ayr,  and  in  the  inns 
alonfi;  the  road  from  thence  to  London, 
would  swear,  if  called  upon,  that  I,  at 
least,  served  and  journeyed  with  a  master, 
whose  name,  as  stated  by  me,  some  of 
them  would,  in  all  probability,  recollect. 
My  letters  to  my  mother,  too,  made  refer- 
ence to  Mr.  Winter ;  and  if  these  were 
got,  they  would  go  far  to  prove  the  truth 
of  my  story. 

"  Was  he  not  an  accomplice  .^"  said  the 
examinator  ;  "  and,  as  for  your  letters,  it 
is  not  likely  you  would  divulge  the  true 
mode  by  which  you  got  the  money  to  send 
to  your  parent.  Yet  these  things  shall  be 
inquired  into,  and  you  will  receive  the 
benefit  of  the  inquiry. — There  is  a  strange 
simplicity  in  the  art  of  these  rogues,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  an  individual  who 
sat  by  him. 

The  examination  finished  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  prosecutors.     I  was  sent  to 
Newgate.     I  knew  nothing  of  the  fate  of 
Magdalene  ;  but  bad  reason  to  think  she 
was  also  confined  there  as  an  accomplice. 
My  mother  was  kept  away  from  me,  as  she 
was  a  strono;  witness  arrainst  me.     I  was 
heavily  loaded  with  irons,  and  lay  upon 
the  floor  groaning  bitterly,  till  a  disturbed 
sleep    overtook   me   about   three   in   the 
morning,  when  the  most  frightful  visions 
rose  before  me,   assuming  all  shapes  and 
forms,   but   draining   the  foundations    of 
those  types  from  the  book  which  I   had 
made  the  rule  of  my  life.     "  The  Ancient 
of  Days  I  thought  did  sit,  whose  garment 
was  white  as  snow,  and  the  hair  of  his 
head  like  the  pure  wool ;  his  throne  was 
like   the  fiery  flame,  and  his  wheels  as 
burning  fire.     A  fiery  stream  issued,  and 
came   forth  from   before   him,   thousand 
thousands    ministered   to   him,    and   ten 
thousand  times  ten  thousand  stood  before 
him  ;  the  judgment  was  set,  and  the  book 
was  opened."     I  was  uttering  these  words 
of  Daniel,  which    I  had   by  heart ;    the 
vision  was  inspired  by  them,  and  glowing 
vividly    and   more   vividly,    inspired,    in 


THE   VICTIM  OF  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


615 


turn,  my  voice  which,  rising  higher  and 
higher  till  it  reached  the  dissonance  of  a 
scream,  I  woke  in  the  dark,  and,  tossing 
about  my  limbs,  made  the  chains  rattle 
forth  the  dreadful  evidence  of  my  situa- 
tion. I  thouijht  I  heard  the  fjroans  of 
Magdalene  in  the  next  cell ;  but,  ail  my 
efforts  to  make  myself  certain  of  the  cir- 
cumstance, were  counteracted  by  loud 
gusts  of  wind,  that  whistled  through  the 
gratings  of  the  windows  ;  and  several  loud 
peals  of  thunder  shook  the  fabric  of  the 
jail,  and  wound  up  my  accumulated  hor- 
rors. I  slept  no  more  that  night  ;  but, 
my  waking  visions  were  as  frightful  as  my 
dreams  ;  for,  in  spite  of  all  the  assurances 
I  drew  from  my  knowledge  of  Scripture, 
there  arose  a  sickenino;  feelino;  of  utter 
helplessness — the  birth  of  the  conscious- 
ness of  my  want  of  the  evidence  of  man  to 
speak  for  mo — that  seemed  to  "  strike 
down  the  truth  to  the  ground,"  and  left 
me  a  hostage  for  the  sins  of  man,  in  the 
hands  of  that  God  whose  ways  no  man  can 
find  out. 

I  can  scarcely  tell  how  I  passed  the  fol- 
lowing two  days  and  nights  ;  the  time  was 
composed  of  alternated  periods  of  hope 
and  despair  ;  and  all  I  heard  was  the  turn- 
key's heavy  step,  the  rattling  of  his  keys, 
and,  occasionally,  the  hollow  moanings  of 
the  individual  I  took  for  Magdalene,  in 
the  adjoining  cell.  On  the  third  day,  1 
got  the  assistance  of  an  attorney,  through 
what  means  I  know  not.  I  told  him  my 
extraordinary  case.  He  seemed  to  believe 
my  story,  but  stared  in  amazement  at  the 
array  of  evidence  against  me,  and  the 
small  gleam  of  established  truth  that  ap- 
peared to  lighten  the  darkness  of  that 
mystery  that  invests  appearances  with 
magnified  proportions.  He  was  a  quick 
man,  and  hurried  away  instantly  to  ex- 
amine the  window,  from  which  my  master 
must  have  escaped  on  the  night  of  the 
apprehension  ;  to  inquire  into  the  circum- 
stances of  his  meeting  with  Havering, 
when  he  agreed  to  take  the  house  ;  to  get 
my  letter  to  Magdalene  when  I  mentioned 


his  name  ;  and  to  ascertain  if  any  of  the 
people  in  Ayr  could  speak  to  my  having 
been  employed  by  him  as  his  servant. 
Ten  days  of  anguish  passed,  and  the  result 
of  his  inquiries  was  communicated  to  me. 
Winter  had  taken  care  to  pull  down  the 
sash  of  the  window  by  which  he  escaped, 
so  that,  when  the  officers  forced  the  door, 
they  saw  no  trace  of  any  one  having  been 
there.  Mr.  Havering  admitted  that  a  man 
called  and  made  an  agreement  for  the  house 
in  my  name  ;  but  the  account  he  gave  of 
him  differed  so  much  from  the  description 
of  Winter's  person,  that  there  seemed 
reason  for  supposing  that  he  had  deputed 
some  accomplice  to  execute  this  part  of 
his  scheme.  Magdalene's  letter  had  been 
destroyed,  and  those  to  my  mother  showed 
nothing  in  my  favor  ;  while  no  one  in  Ayr 
could  say  more  than  that  I  left  that  place 
in  the  employment  of  a  person  who  was 
never  seen  there  before,  and  whose  name 
was  unknown  to  them.  It  even  came  out 
against  me,  that  I  had,  while  living  in  the 
house,  parried  questions  put  to  me  by 
some  who  inquired  if  any  one  lived  in  the 
house  besides  me  and  my  wife  ;  and  she 
too  had  observed  the  same  care  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  Winter  was  living  there  in 
secret.  How  little  was  it  known,  that  we 
conceived  we  were  doing  good,  and  saving 
a  young  woman  from  a  forced  marriage  by 
thus  concealing  our  master.  "  Do  not 
evil  that  good  may  come  of  it."  How 
was  this  truth  made  manifest  to  us  ?  If 
we  had  not  committed  this  departure  from 
the  plain  and  open  way  of  truth,  we  might 
have  been  saved ;  for  Winter  might  have 
been  seized  by  the  officers  as  a  suspected 
character,  in  consequence  of  his  habits  of 
going  out  at  night ;  but,  having  thus  con- 
cealed the  man  whom  we  now  endeavored 
to  inculpate,  ail  the  endeavors  of  our  legal 
advisers  to  account  for  our  conduct,  by 
what  was  indeed  the  real  truth,  rather 
tended  to  bind  the  chain  of  circumstances 
closer  and  closer,  and  make  our  guilt  the 
more  manifest. 

The  evidence  for  me  thus  dwindled  into 


616 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


nothing  ;  while  the  mass  that  was  procured 
against  me  was,  from  the  very  nature  of 
the  case,  greater  than  was  ever  known  to 
be  produced  against  any  forger  that  ever 
was  hanged  at  Tyburn.  The  house  was 
mine  ;  the  engraving  instruments  were 
found  there  ;  I  had  been  an  engraver  at  an 
early  period  of  my  life  ;  a  great  number 
of  notes  were  found  in  the  house  ;  a  great 
number  had  been  circulated ;  every  good 
note  I  had  given  to  Winter  had  been  re- 
placed by  him,  when  I  was  in  the  low  part 
of  the  house,  by  a  bad  one,  which  it  fell 
to  me  or  my  wife  to  get  changed  ;  and, 
during  all  these  proceedings,  no  one  ever 
saw  any  person  under  whose  authority  I 
acted — I  being  householder,  engraver,  and 
utterer.  How  was  it  possible  to  conceive 
a  stronger  case  of  forgery  ? 

As  the  day  of  my  trial  approached,  and 
no  trace  had  been  got  of  Winter,  I  saw  the 
full  extent  of  my  danger — I  could   not 
avoid  a  conviction — and  Magdalene,  who 
was  indicted  also,  might  be  fortunate  in 
escaping  with  transportation.     I  had  not 
seen  her ;  my  mother  was  kept  from  me, 
and  none  of  my  relations  in  Scotland  would 
own  me.    The  day  came  ;  I  met  my  Mag- 
dalene in  the  dock ;  we  looked  at  each 
other  in  silence  through  bloodshot  eyes, 
that  were  past  the  stage  of  weeping  ;  I 
perceived  that  she  trusted  implicitly  in 
heaven ;  for  she  turned  her  face  upwards 
when  she  met  my  gaze  ;  but,  for  myself, 
I  was  lost  in  the  workings  of  a  mind  that 
adhered  to  the  dictates  of  my  revered  faith, 
and  could  only  wonder  why  it  was  His 
pleasure  that   I  should  fall  an  innocent 
victim  to  bloodthirsty  laws  which  I  had 
never  broken.    The  trial  proceeded.   Why 
should  I,  even  if  I  could,  detail  the  evi- 
dence that  was  led  against  me  }     I  have 
already,    in  effect,    given  it.      Any  man 
who  has  read  my  narrative,  may  see  it  too 
well.     My  judges  shall  read  it,  and  feel 
it,  as  if  the  characters  were  traced  in  fire, 
and  burned  the  orbs  that  glanced  over  it. 
There  was  no  evidence  worth  mentioning 
for  us.     The  story  of  Winter  was  a  phan- 


tom or  an  invention  of  guilt,  to  lay  crime 
on  the  back  of  another.     I  sickened  as  the   , 
evidence  proceeded,  and  lost  my  power  of  i 
following   it,     during    hours    of    a   wild,   ! 
dreamy,  unconsciousness  of  everything  but   '. 
the  horrors  of  the  gallows  ;  the  rope  of  i 
which  I  felt  round  my  throat,  as  my  im-   j 
peded    respiration    prevented   the   blood 
from  circulating  in  the  cervical  veins,  and, 
stopping  it  in  my  head,  produced  a  fire  as 
if  scathing  irons  had  been  trailed  along 
my  brain.     The    yell  of  my  wife,  when 
sentence  of  death  was  pronounced  against 
me  (her  own  fate  being  transportation  for 
life),  roused  me  to  a  more  living  sense  of 
my  condition. 

We  were  hurried  back  to  prison.     I  am 
to  die  to-morrow  ;  and  I  write  this  nar- 
rative by  the  side  of  the  jailor,  who  has 
unloosed  my  hand  for  that  purpose.     I  am 
now  past  all  complaint :  there  is  some  se- 
cret purpose  in  heaven  to  be  served  by  my 
death.     I  am  not  told  "  to  put  forth  a 
riddle"  like  Ezekiel ;  but  let  these  poor 
conceited  wretches,  who  lie  at  ease  in  the 
sunbeams  of  legislation,  and  think  that  the 
law   erreth   not,   but   is   ever  bright,  to 
lighten  good  and  show  forth  evil,  read  my 
narrative,  and  tremble  as  they  think  (what 
is  true)  that  many  have  died  as   I  am  to 
die — sacrifices  to  the  bloody  Moloch  of 
their  statute-book.     I  have  heard  of  some 
philosopher  who  wrote,  that  it  were  better 
that  one  innocent  man  should  die,  than 
that   twenty   guilty  ones  should  escape. 
Oh,  that  that  man  had  felt  one  moment — 
one  single  moment  of  this  fire  that  burns 
in  my  brain.    Were  he  to  live  for  ever,  he 
would  not  find  space  for  a  sufficient  repen- 
tance of  his  maniac-thought.     Were  my 
mother   dead  ere   to-morrow,  one-half  of 
my  agony  would  be  abetted  ;  but  that  is 
not   decreed.     Farewell,    my    too    dear 
Magdalene  ! — my  mother,  whose  name  I 
can   scarcely  write    for  trembling  ! — and 
farewell,  thou  world,  which  would  be  fair, 
were  it  not  for  the  devices  of  men  !  Truth 
shall  not  ever  be  quenched  :  there  is  a 
light  in  the  sky,  which  shines,  and  will  ever 


THE  VICTIM  OF  THE  STATUTE-BOOK. 


617 


sliine,  thou2:h  man  shall  rear  against  it  the 
vapors  of  his  wisdom  ;  and  there  is  a  mer- 
cy there  that  his  bloody  laws  shall  never 
diminish.  To-morrow,  by  this  hour,  1 
shall  sea  that  light  and  feel  that  mercy ! 
Adieu  !  J.  B. 

I  have  read  the  preceding  over,  and  the 
paper  is  wet  with  my  tears — jMagdalene 
and  my  mother,  now  by  my  side,  have 
listened  to  every  word.  About  two  hours 
since,  they  were  introduced  to  me  by  an 
officer  who  held  a  paper  in  his  hand.  It 
was  a  reprieve.  Winter  had  been  caught 
by  the  officer  Jones  ;  and  the  innkeeper  at 
Ayr,  who  had  remained  in  town  after  the 
trial,  identified  him.  It  turned  out  that 
he  was  an  old  offender  with  a  new  name, 
and  thus  it  is  made  clear  to  me,  that  if  I 
had  not  concealed  him,  I  never  would  have 
fallen  into  the  niisfortune  from  which  I 
have  been  so  wonderfully  saved  by  an  all- 
seeing  Providence.  The  moment  that 
Winter  was  seized,  the  circumstance  of  our 
ready  confessions  struck,  with  proper 
force,  the  minds  of  the  authorities.  Every 
effort  was  made  to  get  at  the  truth  ;  and, 
if  1  have  arraigned  the  laws,  1  am  bound 
to  laud  the  men  who  dispense  them.  Oh, 
the  joy  of  that  moment,  when  I  again 
clasped  to  my  bosom  my  wife,  and  hung 


on  the  neck  of  my  parent  !  There  was 
not  one  word  spoken.  The  chaplain,  who 
was  attending  some  of  the  criminals,  en- 
tered ;  and,  having  taken  up  the  narrative 
I  had  written,  read  it  to  a  number  of 
individuals  whom  curiosity  had  drawn  in 
to  see  the  effect  of  a  reprieve  workino-  on 
the  minds  of  the  innocent.  Many  of  them 
wept  as  he  proceeded,  and  as  they  cast 
their  eyes  on  us,  who  sat  with  the  "  bur- 
den of  unspeakable  joy"  still  on  our  hearts. 
Our  first  words  were  to  God.  I  have  re- 
tained the  manuscript  through  many 
years  of  prosperity,  and  have  read  it  to 
my  children.  Jt  has  been  a  good  chastener 
of  our  thoughts  of  this  world,  and  has 
proved,  in  its  effects,  that  heaven  has  its 
own  ways  of  claiming  and  retaining  those 
who  otherwise  might  have  fallen  before  the 
Baal  of  earth  ;  for  my  success  in  life  has 
been  nearly  unexampled,  and  in  the  midst 
of  riches  I  might  have  set  up  another 
image  than  that  of  Him  who  snatched  us 
from  destruction.  Let  no  one  look  with  a 
sullen  eye  on  the  misfortunes  that  come 
not  of  himself.  Prosperity  has  ruined 
more  souls  than  ever  did  misfortune  or 
the  pleasures  of  the  body.  I  have  seen 
and  drunk  the  light  of  the  jewel  in  the 
toad's  head,  J.  B. 


\ 


618 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


PAYING    OF    DEBTS 


As  there  are  many  ways  of  contracting 
debts,  so  there  are  many  ways  of  liquidat- 
ing tliem.  Good  honest  people  know  only 
of  the  true  legitimate  mode  of  "  coming 
down  with  the  dust,"  and  getting  a  re- 
ceipt upon  a  proper  stamp.  Simple- 
hearted  beings  !  how  little  do  they  know 
of  the  ways  of  the  world  or  the  subtleties 
of  man !  The  scheme  of  the  cessioj 
whereby,  as  by  a  well-filled  sponge,  thou- 
sands of  pounds  may  be  liquidated  in  a 
day,  or  the  exquisite  device  of  the  nega- 
tive oath,  by  which  a  debt  may  be  paid  in 
a  few  minutes — both  beautiful  expedients 
— are  equally  unknown  to  them  ;  but  there 
are  other  modes  of  discharging  debts  not 
so  well  known  or  so  much  resorted  to  as 
those  we  have  now  mentioned — and  one 
of  these  we  will  now  lay  before  our  readers, 
with  the  assurance  that  the  facts  are  ab- 
solutely true. 

In  the  town  of — -  (if  the  cap  does 

not  fit,  do  not  put  it  on),  a  poor  woman, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Finlayson,  and 
who   had  a   daughter  married  to   an  in- 
dustrious tradesman,  named  Gibb,  died 
of  a   putrescent  fever.      Her-son-in-law 
had  been  for  some  time  out  of  employ- 
ment, and  all  his  earnings  had  been  con- 
sumed during  that  unproductive  period. 
He  had  no  money,  and  his  mother-in-law 
had  left  not  a  farthing.    Who  then  was  to 
bury  her  .^     The  parish  would  not  inter- 
fere, because  the  deceased's  brother,  an 
undertaker  in  the  same  town,  and  a  very 
rich  man,  was  the  very  person  apparently 
pointed  out,  by  nature  and  circumstances, 
to  do  the  last  offices  to  his   dead  sister. 
I   But  the  brother  was  not  bound  by  law  to 
I   bury  his  sister,  and  natural  affection  had 
\   no  influence  with  him,  as  well  from  an 
i   original   hardness   of  heart,  as  from  the 
'    citadel  of  the  passions  having  been  laid 
j   hold  of  and  occupied  by  the  love  of  filthy 


lucre.  He  would  not  undertake  the  fu- 
neral of  his  sister.  It  is  a  fact — we  pledge 
ourselves  for  it — he  would  not  furnish  a 
coffin  to  her,  except  upon  one  condition, 
and  that  was  that  the  poor  industrious 
daughter's  husbafid  should  become  bound 
to  pay  her  uncle  the  price  of  the  "  dead- 
kist "  for  his  own  sister.  Much  time  was 
occupied  in  the  negotiation,  and  poor 
Gibb  was  subjected  to  the  heart-rending 
condition  of  seeing  his  wife's  mother  lying, 
beyond  "nature's  time,"  a  corpse  in  his 
house,  while  he  was  wrangling  with  her 
miserabl-e  wretch  of  a  brother  about  the 
conditions  on  which  he  would  furnish  the 
coffin.  It  was  at  last  arranged.  Gibb 
granted  his  obligation — i^he  coffin  came — 
the  old  woman  was  put  into  her  "  fir- 
fecket"  and  buried,  and  the  i£3 :  los., 
as  the  price  of  the  box,  became  a  debt. 
Thus,  poor  Gibb  must  pay  or  go  to  jail. 
In  the  first  place,  he  collected,  from  all 
quarters,  three  thousand  sis  hundred 
pieces  of  the  current  coin  of  Great  Bri- 
tain, called  farthings.  These  he  carefully 
tied  up  in  a  leather-bag,  and,  taking 
with  him  two  trusty  sooth-fast  witnesses, 
away  he  went,  like  a  bold  and  independent 
man,  to  pay  his  debt.  He  chose  a  very 
particular  time  for  his  visit,  the  hour  of 
lifting  of  a  very  rich  burgher,  whose  fu- 
neral, conducted  by  the  creditor,  was  to 
take  place  that  day. 

"  I'm  come  to  pay  my  debt,  Mr.  Fin- 
layson," said  Gibb,  stepping  forward  to 
the  undertaker,  who  was  dressing  himself 
for  the  funeral. 

"  I'm  glad  o'  that,  John,"  replied  the 
other,  "  as  weel  for  yer  ain  sake  as  mine, 
for  nae  man  can  baud  up  his  head  in  so- 
ciety, if  he's  awin  a  single  farthing." 

''  An'  far  less  if  he  is  awin  three  thou- 
sand six  hundred,"  said  John,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a  shake  of  the  ba.s;. 


PAYING  OF  DEBTS. 


CIO 


"  Feth,  an'  ye're  a  perfect  Cocker, 
John,"  rejoined  tlie  undertaker.  "  I  dare- 
say that  is  just  the  number  in  £3  :  15s.; 
but  come  away,  man — ye  see  I've  ae 
stockinor  on  and  anither  aff.  It  wants 
twenty  minutes  o'  the  hour,  and  Bailie 
A  damson  maunna  lie  a  minute  after  the 
liftin  time." 

*'  Your  sister  lay  a  week  after  nature's 
time,"  responded  Gibb.  "  I  am  here  to 
pay  my  debt,  and  have  nae  concern  wi'  the 
funeral  o'  Bailie  Adamson,  wha  wouldna 
hae  paid  a  single  farthing  for  me,  let  alane 
three  thousand  six  hundred,  if  he  had 
been  leevin  and  I  had  been  starvin." 

*'  Weel,  weel,"  cried  Finlayson,  impa- 
tiently, "  come  awa,  come  awa.  Here's  a 
stamp,  and  I'll  write  the  receipt.  We'll 
sune  knock  it  aff.  Ane's  figers  are  nim- 
bler at  writing  receipts  than  signing  bills." 

And  he  set  about  getting  pen  and  ink 
in  a  great  hurry,  with  one  leg  still  bare, 
and  the  stocking  on  the  other  half  rolled 
down.  The  receipt  was  written  and  lay 
unsigned  on  the  table,  till  the  money  was 
counted. 

"  Noo,  noo,  John — down  wi'  the  dust, 
lad,  as  quick  as  ye  like,"  said  the  old 
hunks. 

Gibb  obeyed.  The  bag  was  thrown 
with  a  loud  noise  upon  the  table.  The 
undertaker  started  at  the  extraordinary 
sound. 

"  What's  this,  man  .?"  said  he. 

"  My  debt,"  calmly  replied  John,  pro- 
ceeding at  the  same  gravely  to  open  the 
bag,  and  pour  the  three  thousand  six 
hundred  farthings  upon  the  table,  to  the 
great  surprise  of  the  creditor,  who  could 
not  at  first  comprehend  the  nature  of  the 
transaction. 

"  There's  ane,"  said  John,  taking  up  a 
farthing,  and  laying  it  carefully  on  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  table,  as  if  he  in- 
tended to  cover  the  entire  board  in  the 
progress  of  his  laborious  enumeration. 

"  There's  twa,"  he  was  proceeding, 
when  the  creditor,  on  recovering  himself 
stopped  him. 


"What's  this  o't.?"  said  he,  getting 
angry,  as  the  truth  became  more  apparent 
— "  what  do  you  mean,  sir .?" 

"  To  pay  my  debt,  in  the  current  coin 
o'  the  realm,"  was  the  answer. 

"  It's  no  a  lawfu  tender,"  cried  the  un- 
dertaker. "  Besides,  I  hae  nae  time  to 
stand  and  see  you  count  that  bagfa'  o' 
bodies.  I  canna  wait.  Tak  them  awa, 
and  bring  me  the  usual  respectable  cir- 
culating medium  o'  the  country,  and  ye'U 
get  yer  receipt." 

"  I  hereby  offer  ye,  in  the  presence  o' 
these  witnesses,  payment  o'  my  debt,  in 
the  king's  coin,"  rejoined  the  determined 
debtor.  "  I  am  ready  to  proceed  with  my 
enumeration.     There's  three." 

"  I  canna  submit  to  this  now,"  cried 
the  under-taker,  in  an  impatient  tone. 
"  The  hour  o'  Bailie  Adamson's  funeral 
is  at  hand.  They're  waiting  for  me. 
Come  back  in  the  afternoon,  and  we'll  no 
cast  out  about  the  kind  o'  coin.  I'll  gic 
ye  a  discount  for  respectable  looking 
cash." 

"  I  want  nae  discount,"  rejoined  John. 

"  But  I  canna  even  speak  about  it  at 
present,  man,"  replied  the  other.  "  See, 
there's  a  message  frae  the  widow.  Come, 
come — tak  awa  the  bag,  and  come  again 
in  the  afternoon." 

And  he  breathlessly  proceeded  in  his 
operation  of  dressing ;  muttering  deep 
curses  as  he  drew  on  the  reluctant  clothes, 
and  stamping  about  the  floor  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement.  John  remained  im- 
moveable, with  the  fourth  farthing  between 
his  finger  and  thumb. 

"  Do  you  refuse  payment  o'  yer  debt, 
sir  .^"  said  he,  with  a  provoking  gravity. 

"  Curse  your  farthings  !"  cried  the  un- 
dertaker, now  getting  to  the  height  of  fury, 
as  he  looked  for  articles  of  dress  he  had, 
in  his  confusion  and  anger,  mislaid,  and 
went  raging  through  the  room  like  one 
demented. 

"  Mrs.  Adamson  has  sent  for  ye,  Mr. 
Finlayson,"  said  the  servant,  now  enter- 
ing. 


G20 


TALES  OF  THE  BORDERS. 


"  Will  ye  no  tak  payment  o'  yer  debt, 
sir  ?"  rejoined  Gibb,  in  a  softer  tone. 

"  May  the  big-horned  Mahoun  tak 
you  and  your  debt  thegither  !"  vociferated 
the  now  completely  roused  undertaker. 
"  I'll  hae  nanc  o't.  Awa  wi'  ye  !"  And, 
twisting  his  oravat  round  his  throat,  he 
hurried  out  of  the  house. 

The  witnesses  heard  the  declaration. 
John  gathered  up  his  coins  and  proceeded 
home.  In  a  week  after,  he  was  cited  be- 
fore the  bailies  for  payment  of  the  debt. 
He  appeared  with  his  witnesses.  The 
nature  of  the  debt  was  set  forth,  and,  in- 
deed, the  bailie  had  heard  of  the  infamous 
transaction  previously,  and  was  predis- 
posed to  favor  the  defender. 

'*  Are  you  due  the  pursuer  the  price  of 
this  coffin  .^"  said  the  judge,  to  Gibb. 

^' In  order  to  get  my  mother-in-law 
buried,"  replied  Gibb,  "  I  did  become 
bound  to  pay  to  her  brother,  the  pursuer, 
the  price  of  the  coffin.  I  offered  him 
payment,  and  I  am  ready  to  prove  that 
he  refused  it." 

"Is  this  true,  Mr.  Finlaysonr"  asked 
the  judge. 

"  Partly,  and  partly  no,"  replied   the 


creditor.  "  He  insulted  me  by  offering 
me  a  bagfu  o'  farthings — no  a  legal  tender 
for  sic  a  sum." 

"  And  you  refused  the  king's  coin .?" 
rejoined  the  judge.  "  What  say  the  wit- 
nesses ?" 

The  witnesses  were  examined,  and  swore 
that  Finlayson  not  only  refused  the  far- 
things, but  the  debt  itself. 

"  1  am  bound  to  receive  the  evidence 
of  these  men,"  said  the  judge  addressing 
the  pursuer.  "  it  is  indeed  partly  corro- 
borated by  your  own  statement.  I  say 
nothing  of  the  extraordinary  nature  of 
the  debt  itself — that  lies  between  you  and 
your  conscience ;  but  you  have  refused 
the  king's  coin  in  payment  of  your  claim  ; 
and  this  would  be  enough,  although  it 
were  unsupported  by  the  fact  that  (per- 
haps in  anger — I  care  not)  you  refused 
the  debt  altogether.  No  man  is  bound  to 
offer  payment  of  a  debt  twice,  and  I  there- 
fore discharge  the  defender,  and  declare 
that  this  coffin  debt  no  longer  exists." 

A  clap  of  hands  from  the  people  in  the 
court  followed  this  sentence,  and  John 
Gibb  was  congratulated  by  many  on  the 
result  of  his  ingenuity. 


V-,     '^:      -       ^^7        -if 


UNIVERSmr  OF  ILLIN0I8-URBANA 


3  0112  056544643 


i<  x»     i  J 


.        :V^^ 


/  .  ; 


A  ..  -- 


